#he keeps watch for creeps and other less than legal activities

[sleepy-writes-stuff]

DP X DC WRITING PROMPT #22

✦

Bring on the Night

What if Danny's white hair and green eyes showed up under blacklight? No nightclubs for him... of course, knowing him, he'd definitely still go.

Imagine someone from the DC universe gaining a crush on the mysterious alt looking dude but he's impossible to find outside of nightlife parties.

To make it more interesting, what if the nightclub he frequents is actually owned by him? Even more interesting if the nightclub is used as a sort of no man's land where ghosts and humans knowingly/unknowingly peacefully mingle with each other? Some of the more ghostly individuals are also Danny's employees and humans just see them as enthusiastically trying to fit the theme of the club. What exactly is that theme? You decide.

I feel like Danny would just make a really good host and it would easily fit in with his obsession to protect. Like a side project/hussle, but for ghostly core health.

Also think of it as kinda like vacation time for his rogues from trying to throttle him. They get a nice, safe space to freely feed into their individual obsessions without wrecking anything/anyone.

✦

List of roles are in the tags but can changed around however anyone pleases. Just thought this would be a fun idea for anyone to pick up and run with.

[more-than-a-princess]

He'd figured it out before Sonia had a chance to explain. Just as well: considering Wylan's line of work, he probably had more experience slipping in and out undetected than her security staff did. That, in the grand scheme of things, was simple: combing through all of Wylan's belongings to retrieve what was likely needed and discard anything that could be used as a weapon against the Royal Family. Her choice of partners had always been controversial, though an assassin was a bit out of the ordinary, even for her.

"As long as Her Royal Highness keeps her tracking software active," Cecily replied crisply, shooting Sonia a withering look. She was a combination of personal secretary, older sister, and guard dog most of the time, with a coffee dependency and little patience for jokes that got in the way of her work. She and Wylan would get along swimmingly, if just for his preference of glitter bombs alone. "We are able to keep an eye on her after the Las Vegas Incident. And the legalities..." She gave a dismissive wave of her hand: the Novoselic Royal Family had diplomatic immunity in France, as they did in many other countries around the world. It took a single phone call to gain access to the hotel room.

"But more to the point," Cecily continued with a sigh. Sonia could only assume she was awake most of the night once it was discovered that she'd disappeared, a triple espresso barely getting her through the morning if the neat stack of demitasse cups was any indication. "If you are to remain in close contact with The Royal Family, it must be deemed that you are not a threat, and that anyone you are associated with will not pose a threat to them either. I imagine your background checks will be rather spotty, so any information you may be able to provide on that front will only aid your case, Mr. Rectur. The last thing any of us want is some international terrorist organization brought to Boudry House's front steps, and I will be far more pleasant to deal with than our Head of Security."

"My home in Novoselic," Sonia filled in for him. "I moved out of the Castle when I turned eighteen, and will move back once I am queen. It is a townhome but it is quite comfortable."

"Terrorists showing up at Boudry would make it more interesting at least," Liam quipped, setting down his teacup. "You don't do anything fun over there. No parties, unless it's an 'official' event!"

"Because diplomatic relations aren't going to be solved over a round of Mario Kart," Sam shot back. "Still can't believe you're going to be a Duke one day, with your habits."

There was no point in explaining that horror movie marathons and a library did, in fact, constitute Sonia's idea of fun. She'd been persuaded a handful of times to venture out for recreational purposes over the past year, but she'd purposely kept her schedule of duties full. It helped her think about Wylan less, or at least contain it to the few moments she had to herself: when she tried to fall asleep. When she woke in the morning, often groggy and guilty for letting him occupy her dreams again.

She swallowed, feeling the warmth creep over her cheeks again: for once, she'd slept well, and it was entirely due to waking up with him in her embrace. And her flush didn't go unnoticed: while Wylan brought a new fascination to their family, her cousins and Cecily alike kept Sonia at the forefront of their concerns. She hardly ever fell apart, she wasn't allowed to do so. So watching her retreat into a shell of her former self had, Sonia guessed, been rather jarring. Yet, all three now wore similar expressions: Are you okay?

It wasn't a question she could answer, at least not openly in front of everyone. Sonia had a role to uphold: a confident one, in the face of her family's questions and Wylan's wellbeing. It couldn't have been an easy choice to stay and not make a run for it. And this part of the family would likely be the easiest to win over.

"We will go clean up now, and then we shall decide what to do next," Sonia announced, using the authoritative voice she employed only when she felt necessary. Both cousins nodded, not questioning her, but Cecily piped up as she always did: probably for the best that her private secretary wasn't intimidated by her.

"Clean clothes will be left outside the bedroom," She told her, giving Wylan a wary look, a 'don't take too long' expression. Even if there was no glitter bombs, there were walls without soundproofing. "And please try to consider what should be done about the gala in London tomorrow, before you are due back to Novoselic. I will do my best to assist you through all of this, but Their Majesties...this may not be the best surprise to give them upon returning."

"Then perhaps my mother should've thought it through before insisting I be a part of the Little Black Book this year," Sonia replied,, turning on her heel and proceeding to the master bed and bath of the suite. "I have someone I love in my life now, and I didn't need a society party to make that happen." Even if such a relationship wasn't marketable for The Royal Family. Frankly, she preferred it that way, wanting to keep as much of her private life private. Easier said than done.

Once she'd ushered them both into the bedroom, Sonia closed the door and, with a heavy sigh, didn't hesitate to ignore the attached, spacious bathroom in favor of flopping right onto the plush, king-sized bed. Between the barrage of questions and decisions they needed to face and the realization they'd stayed up for a good part of the night, the mid-morning exhaustion seemed inescapable. "I feel like I should apologize for all of that," She admitted, looking up at the ceiling. "My behavior for the past months worried them all, it shouldn't be a surprise that they're all concerned. But they'll come round, at least I think they will, and more easily than my parents. But more to the point..." She groaned, tired muscles protesting as she propped herself up onto her elbows in order to look at him. "Are you all right, Wylan? This has to be a lot to take in, and a large adjustment. Going from what your life has been to all of this. But I will be here for you, no matter what happens." No matter what her parents had to say about it, or what Novoselic's Intelligence teams uncovered.

She wondered if he was ready for it all, but couldn't bring herself to ask: if she did, she'd give him cause to doubt it, and her. And Sonia, if she was going to be selfish about something, she'd be selfish about this. About him, and having him in her life as much as she could, as much as he'd let her.

"Say what you will about the strip, I think the hotels have a lot to offer. There's space, amenities, and the view in the mornings something to gamble for. Not that I needed to. I think I handled her pretty nicely, conclusion aside." Wylan defends himself only half-heartedly, as the retorts come about Sonia's suffering, a reminder of what that conclusion had brought.

A reminder he would not live down for some time. Given it had spurred a national spectacle and scandal for her. Which was really why he felt bad. Her emotions aside.. she went through everything else because of him, didn't she? The toils. The coverups. All of those lies because of him lying himself.

"Tch. I came back. At least. Just took me awhile." Is all he cares to say there, withdrawing somewhat as the foreign royals bickered between one another at his expense and Sonia's. Chatter about background checks. Digging into his history. Would they actually be able to find his birth name, Zachary Reis, and make the connection to his sister as a result? He'd like to doubt such, spare her the controversy. If Kat knew that he was here she'd already be putting up a two-sided fuss.

Wasn't it enough that her brother was a career killer working for world crime organizations? Did he really need to get involved with paparazzi-ridden monarchies? Apparently, yes. Yes he very much did. Because of course. It's Wylan. Why wouldn't Wylan become smitten not only with the crown princess but everything around that sort of life?

A disaster. And only part of which he'd be inevitably putting behind him as had been suggested to Sonia before... hm. Hm? Oh, they're talking to him again. Sam, the younger one and more manner-possessed. Wylan can't help but smirk at the question, and as the kid goes on about wishes he lets out a laugh.

"Haha! Putting myself in with a three letter organization? Are you kidding me? Gag. Like I want to spend time in dismal foreign countries taking out corrupt officials to help install new ones with a beeper in the pocket. There was the one time I thought about turning to work for the government, but I actually stayed affiliated with--"

Sonia interrupts and- Wow. This was a good reminder. Really. Why he came back. Why he stayed. And why he fell so helplessly for the woman who seemed fit to break every mold she could. While everyone else present was taken aback by her suggestion of a shared shower, Wylan was... aroused! Absolutely! Won't deny that! But lets look past his nethers (proud as they may be) and up to her face. What a woman to suggest that to a group gathered like this. Sure, this wasn't going to be the kind of language to continue to expect when in the presence of her parents but it lit a certain devious spark back into Wylan's own soul. One that had shuttered itself somewhat in hopes of placating future family.

"Well..."

A notion that Sonia did not see fit to share or indulge. Good!

Maybe, just maybe, moving to a life with royalty wouldn't be as stuffy as he thought?

"Actually, right now is probably the best time to keep me under supervision, I think. And who better than you?" Wylan cheerfully replies, clapping his hands at what was sure to be a first signal to another fantastic train wreck. "The person who can't keep their eyes off me. Oh. Come to think of it. I didn't bring anything back from the room though, so I'm lacking a change of clothes. Unless... your people already cleared it out soon as they knew where we were?"

Wylan spares a look towards Cecily, a scrutinizing lift of his brow.

"I wouldn't be upset if you did. I know how you people work, otherwise I wouldn't be so good at getting around it when I want to. Seeing as this is a time where I'm on the same side as your group-" Almost suggesting a different level of antagonization prior. "I hadn't locked or rigged the place before we left. So there won't be any glitter bombs this time." He smiles. Wondering if she knew what he was talking about, a time he'd intentionally left some evidence of a prior visit. Truthfully, it was less... Wylan had been clever and more in his lovestruck daze to be with Sonia he simply. Forgot. Whatever their team saw fit to do was probably done either way. Like he was with this room of unsettled strangers, soon as Sonia saw fit to drag him out.

[chudleycanonficfest]

Vino

Day 25, Post #1 by @thedistantdusk

Title: Vino Author/Artist: TheDistantDusk Pairing: Harry/Ginny Prompt: In Vino Veritas Rating: E (to be safe) for smutty references.    Trigger Warning(s) (if any): Drinking (everyone of legal age). Frank discussion of sex acts. 

They started drinking at 1 PM. 

It seemed the best way to spend the day together before the Hogsmeade day — not weekend, much to Harry’s disappointment— reached its untimely conclusion. He had to cancel the upstairs room he rented for them, too, which he’s still not chuffed about, and not just because they’d definitely have shagged.

Because with Ginny, It’s more than just physical. It’s always been more than just physical. He misses her… deeply, hollowly misses her. It’s a constant ache in the pit of his stomach, like there’s always part of him that’s somewhere else. They had to settle for a heated snog behind the Three Broomsticks before heading in to escape the cold, but that hadn’t been enough. For either of them.

Of course, on the surface he pretended to understand the sudden change of events. It’s a particularly cold February, so cold that McGonagall was close to canceling the Hogsmeade visit altogether. According to Ginny, she only settled for an early dismissal instead when the student body threatened to mutiny. So Ginny’s due back at 6 now, which truly is shit, but anything is better than not seeing her at all.

Harry blinks at his beautiful girlfriend across the table and wonders why she’s been withdrawn today. Distant. At first, he chalked this up to school stress. After all, she is quidditch captain. He knows firsthand how stressful that can be— and while he’d held the captaincy, NEWTS hadn’t even been on the horizon yet. He also hadn’t dealt with a castle full of ghosts and sadness and distorted memories. 

After the drinks started flowing, though, it became clear that school stress wasn’t the issue. Or at least not the biggest one. When she finished her first pint, she started sending him these fleeting looks of puzzlement in between updating him on the Hogwarts gossip. Her second and third pints brought even greater looks of scrutiny.  Now that she’s midway through her fourth pint, she’s full-on staring at him. For the past twenty minutes, he’s felt a bit like an animal in a zoo. Harry hasn’t known what to do about that, really. As much as he loves her, Ginny���s not known for her subtlety. Or patience. She’s always come outright with any concerns or problems, always addressed them head-on. So this constant look of confusion has been… well, confusing. Harry handled the last twenty minutes the best way he knows how: drinking more, holding her hand across the table, and waiting for her to take the lead. He offers a tiny smile and reaches for his pint. He’s content to wait as long as she needs, for whatever she needs.  As it turns out, though, he decides to take a drink at the worst possible moment. Had he been looking, he would’ve seen her cock her head and open her mouth as she reached some sort of internal breaking point. Unfortunately, he just brings his pint glass to his lips instead. So for better or worse, all he hears is the question itself.  “Why do you go down on me so much?” Harry immediately chokes on his beer. It splatters down his front, coating the table in amber specks. He apologizes through a cough and grapples with a napkin, but Ginny remains unfazed. “I… erm.” He coughs again, shaking his head. “Sorry. Wasn't expecting—” “And I’m not complaining,” she says quickly, resting her chin on her palm. “I mean, obviously.”  Oh? He relishes the blush that creeps up her neck. “Then what are—” “It’s just…” She sighs, peering down at her pint glass. “I’ve spoken to Luna about it, and as much as she—"

“You’ve… you’ve spoken to Luna about this?” he asks weakly, head spinning. “Who else—?”

  Ginny plows on as if she hasn’t heard him. “I just figured, I guess, that when we properly started shagging you’d do it less. But you erm… haven’t. So.”

  There’s a pause as the blush from before creeps over her entire face. 

  Harry takes another cautious sip of his pint as a raucous peal of laughter erupts behind him. A firm reminder that they’re very much in public. He squints at the woodgrain on the table. Why is that turning him on even more?

  “Erm… what exactly do you want to know?” he asks after a minute, surprised at how graveled his voice sounds. 

  Ginny sighs, still holding her face in her hands. “Just that, really,” she murmurs, tongue coming out to wet her lips. Fuck. He grips his glass even tighter. “I just… I want to know. Why do you do it so much?” 

  “Erm…” Harry winces. He realizes he’s been saying that a lot.

Ginny’s hand comes up to rest on his, and it’s only when she speaks again that he realizes how drunk she truly is. “Take as long as you need,” she slurs sagely, peering into his eyes. “I’ve been waiting to hear these words for a long time, Harry.” 

And he’d laugh, probably, if this entire concept didn’t terrify him a bit to explain. 

  Bloody words. 

  He twists his pint glass, watching as foam overlaps its white-capped ring. Words have never been his strong suit. How, exactly, is he meant to convert this string of images and feelings into something resembling an explanation? 

  But it’s clearly something she wants answered. Something that’s probably bothered her for longer than she wants to admit. So Harry shuts his eyes, trying to remember, trying to think. 

  He honestly hadn’t given the concept much thought until sixth year. He knew that… general activity… happened before they started dating— obviously. The twins (perhaps deliberately) left enough moving magazines around the Burrow to leave little to the imagination. So he’d seen wizards doing it. They seemed to enjoy it almost as much as the witches splayed out in front of them. Harry just hadn’t considered, really, that he’d ever do it for any reason other than paying his dues. It seemed a simple act of reciprocity. Something one did out of expectation rather than genuine interest. 

  A wry smile creeps across his lips when he thinks about that particular misconception. Because that’s the furthest from the truth, isn’t it? Their relationship flashes through his mind like a film reel. The first time his thigh slipped between her legs as they snogged on the lawn. The pride that swelled in his chest as she wrapped her thighs around it, clutching it as close to her center as she could as she rocked, rocked, rocked. 

  Fuck, how he’d cherished the trousers he wore that day, too. For over a year, they were the closest thing he had to her knickers— and even then, he stole that first pair of knickers right off her. Though perhaps “stole” was the wrong word, because that implied some degree of secrecy… and there was nothing secret about it. He just winked at her as he pulled those blue knickers down her thighs and stuffed them in his trouser pocket. Ginny stared down at him, her chest flushed and heaving. He felt like the most powerful person alive before he even started, and when he actually did… 

  Fuck.

  He returns to the present and adjusts himself beneath the table. 

  “I… erm,” he starts, clearing his throat. “I guess I’m… well, I’ve never been good at….” He makes a broad gesture. “Touch. Yeah?”

  Ginny blinks. “Touch?”

  Harry nods, biting inside his cheek. “Erm. When I kissed you in the common room in sixth year, that was the first time I really understood I could, you know, touch you. To make you happy. To…” He huffs out a sigh, his thoughts growing more sluggish. He sifts through them for a few seconds before reaching the answer he’s searched for all along. 

  “I erm. I figured out pretty quickly that I could use touch to turn you on,” he admits to the woodgrain. “And erm… for someone who wasn’t used to touching, that was pretty… nice. To learn I had that power.” 

  His whole face feels red-hot, like it might combust at any second, but he takes her silence as a cue to continue. 

  “Anyway. As soon as we started snogging, I really wanted to do it, but obviously we didn’t get the chance at school. So instead I thought about it. Wanked about it. For months.” He lets out a slow breath through his nose and focuses on a wood beam above their heads. 

  Has he ever admitted to a specific wanking fantasy before? He doesn’t think so. 

  “Continue.” Ginny’s voice warbles through his thoughts. 

  He swallows and tilts his head down to face her again, pleased to see that confusion has evaporated from her face entirely. Now she’s looking… uncomfortable… for entirely different reasons. 

  Harry smirks; he’s liking this whole opening-up thing more than he thought. But what else to tell her… hmm.

  “Well, we both know I wasn’t great at first, of course,” he says, shrugging. “But you were erm. A good teacher.” He bites his lip again and remembers those early, awkward days when she still needed to shift against his face, to direct him where he needed to go.

Even back then, she lost all sense of decorum pretty fast; that was always his favorite part, really… when she started in with the deep moans, commanding him to add more fingers, to keep them in place, to crook them against her. There was no sense of accomplishment greater than the way she gripped his ears, his hair, his shoulders, her thighs clenching around his entire face as she choked out his name. Being surrounded by her— pressing his tongue against the final pulses of her clit as she rhythmically clenched against his fingers— made him feel more complete than anything else. It left her dazed and gasping; it left him feeling not only useful, but powerful. Necessary. 

  The whole ordeal's made him come in his trousers, actually. More than once. And speaking of trousers…

  Harry clears his throat. “You could’ve asked a while ago, you know,” he says as casually as he can with a raging hard-on. “Back when I took your knickers, even. I want you to tell me if you have a question about anything. Ok?” He swallows, finally blinking up at her.

  Shit. 

  If she looked distracted before, it’s nothing compared to now. She’s just peering at him with lips parted, chest heaving, eyes unfocused. One hand is balled into a fist on the table top, the other gripping on her thigh.

  Ginny eventually rips her eyes away with an annoyed whimper. “Fucking fuck,” she mutters, rubbing her temples. “I’m so fucking turned on.” 

  Harry laughs and finishes his pint, his chest bubbling with pride. “I guess that’s a yes.” 

[darlingandmreames]

Here I am once again enabling your writing and being as selfish about it as every other time because is it really enabling if it’s done out or self indulgence??? ANYWAYS— dream husbands + (not so) fake marriage:

I have almost definitely said it before but by god I will say it again: the funniest possible way to do the whole “fake marriage” trope would be like two people getting married so they can invoke the spousal privilege that lets them refuse to testify against one another in court. a couple of mobsters sweating bullets in a vegas wedding chapel so they aren’t compelled to rat on each other when the next heist inevitably goes sour

I am absolutely in love with this concept and it’s 100% A Thing now asjdsfks You’re the best enabler a local trash goblin could ever dream of ^-^ so this 100% deserves a long fic full of mutual pining and the two of them being idiots and it’s definitely going to get one because I have zero self control, but here’s a short snippet about how it all started.......

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Arthur leaned his head back against the cinder block wall with a frustrated sigh. This was bad. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d ended up in police custody, but it was the first time he’d ended up in custody with actual decent evidence against him. Maybe even a prosecutable case. If he could get out he could maybe disappear- he’d gotten very good at that over the years- but he couldn’t make bail without accessing…less than legal funds, which would be more than enough for them to remand him. But if he couldn’t make bail, he’d be stuck in custody until court, and that would complicate things. And if this went to court, he wasn’t getting out of it. Not easily at least. He just hoped Eames had managed to get away without being caught; he knew Cobb had but he wasn’t so sure about Eames. Things would get even more complicated if they were both in custody. The sort of complicated that could get them both put away for a couple of decades if they weren’t careful.

He and Cobb hadn’t even supposed to end up in the states to begin with. Cobb was still very much a wanted man here, so it simply wasn’t an option. Canada was certainly a risk- the physical proximity and ease of extradition made Arthur nervous- but it had been a good sounding job. Easy sounding, with a good payout. It’d gone south though, both figuratively and literally, and when they’d found themselves in Chicago Arthur had scrambled for a way to get Cobb back out of the country undetected. Eames had thankfully been finishing up a job in the area and offered to help with documentation, but not before the authorities had caught wind of the situation. Cobb had thankfully managed to get out before the raid, but Arthur hadn’t quite been so lucky. The charges he’d been arrested on certainly hadn’t been the worst they could’ve been- mainly aiding and abetting, accessory, and fraud- but they weren’t great either. And unless he managed to somehow get out of this cell, he’d likely be facing time for them.

He was, quite simply, fucked.

“Come on.” The sound of the cell door being unlocked pulled Arthur from his thoughts. “You’ve made bail.”

He looked over, surprised. “I…did?”

“Yep. Your husband put it up.” The officer stared at him with a bored expression. “Now come on. Unless you’d rather stay.”

Husband? Arthur couldn’t fathom who the officer could’ve possibly been referring to, but he kept his expression neutral as he stood up and walked out of the cell into the hallway. He was certainly confused but he wasn’t an idiot; this wasn’t the time to look a gift horse in the mouth by asking questions. If it got him out of jail for the moment, he could work with it. He’d figure out the details later.

He stopped dead in his tracks as he walked into the jail lobby. Of all the people he thought he might’ve seen waiting for him, he certainly hadn’t expected it to be fucking Eames. There he was though, leaning against the lockers as casually as could be. He flashed a warm smile as he caught sight of Arthur and Arthur nodded slowly in return, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Bailing Arthur out put Eames at significant risk; Arthur knew full well he had several active warrants in the states. Unless he’d already been caught as well. But if that was the case, the most sensible thing for him to do was disappear, not get Arthur out of jail by pretending to be his fucking husband, which brought up a whole other set of questions on its own.

The officer behind the window slid him a bag filled with the belongings he’d had on him when he was arrested: wallet, keys, belt, notebook, three pens. No passport though. He frowned slightly at that; it wasn’t surprising, but it was annoying. He was going to have to use a different one to get out of the country anyways, but it would’ve been far easier if he’d had the original one as well. He sighed and collected his belongings, only half listening as the officer ran through the expectations for him while he was out on bail before walking over to where Eames was waiting by the door.

Eames leaned in and pulled Arthur into a quick hug, startling him. “Good to see you, darling. Glad I was able to get you out.”

“Right. Yes.” Arthur tried not to let his rapidly growing confusion show as Eames slipped his arm around his waist. “Good to…good to see you too.” He followed Eames out of the building, blinking in the sudden sunlight. They walked like that for several blocks, keeping up the appearance of whatever the fuck sort of cover Eames had gone with. It wasn’t until Arthur was confident that they were far enough away from the jail that they were likely only being watched from afar that he stopped, pulling away and finally letting his internal bewilderment creep into his expression. “Eames, what the fuck was that?”

“That was me getting you out of jail, darling, try to be at least a little appreciative. Though I’m sure I could return you if that’s what you’d prefer.”

Arthur stared at him. “What are you even still doing here?”

Eames grimaced, running a hand through his hair. “I got picked up too. They didn’t have quite enough to keep me in custody, but they managed to freeze most of my accounts and I’m pretty sure they have me under pretty close surveillance, so getting out of town is a tad difficult at the moment. Besides,” he shrugged, “I figured someone had to get you out of jail. And with Cobb jumping ship, that left me.”

“So you claimed to be my fucking husband?”

“Listen, I was just thinking ahead. We’re both stuck in this, at least for now, so I figured I’d get us some protection in case this got to court before we could get out of it.” He quirked an eyebrow. “They can’t make us testify against each other if we’re married. Spousal privilege and all. One of the few things you Americans do right.”

“Yes, thank you Eames, wonderful idea.” Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to wrap his mind around what Eames was telling him. He could already feel a migraine starting from the stress. This had already been an absolute fucking mess and Eames’ little ploy had just made it ten times worse. “Except for the fact that are aren’t actually married, which I’m sure will make us look great once the investigators find-”

“Yes we are.”

Arthur’s thoughts screeched to a halt and he looked up in confusion. “We’re what?”

“We’re married.”

He stared at Eames, dumbfounded. Was this what having a stroke felt like? Because that was clearly what he was having right now. “Eames, we’re not married.”

“Well, not technically, no. But I have all the necessary paperwork to argue to the contrary.” Eames shrugged. “I mean, it’s all forged of course, but as far as the US government is aware, you and I were legally married three years ago in England.” He gave Arthur an unimpressed look. “I know you don’t think highly of me, love, but you should at least give me enough credit to know I wouldn’t try pulling something like this off without the necessary paperwork backing it up.”

“Eames, we’re not married.”

“You and I know that but according to the authorities we are, so let’s try to keep it that way, yes? It’ll be better for both of us if we do.” Arthur continued to stare at Eames, trying desperately to think of something, anything, to say but drawing a blank instead. After a moment, Eames’ expression shifted to amusement. “Close your mouth, darling, or you’ll catch flies.”

Arthur snapped his mouth shut, pinching the bridge of his nose again. The beginnings of his headache came rushing back full force and he groaned. “I really hate you sometimes, you know that?”

Eames frowned. “Well that’s not a very nice way to talk to your very loving husband who just bailed you out of jail.”

“Eames, I swear to god…”

“Alright, alright, calm down, don’t have an aneurysm. Hopefully we’ll be able to get out of all of this before we really have to play that up. In the meantime, though,” Eames gave Arthur a somewhat sheepish smile, “I’m hoping you have a place here in Chicago, because I don’t and it might look a bit odd if we’re staying in separate hotels.”

Arthur sighed. “Yeah, I know a place.” It was technically one of Cobb’s apartments, but it would work well enough for them. It certainly wasn’t like Cobb was currently using it. He set off down the sidewalk. “I can’t believe you got us into this.”

“Technically it was Cobb who got us both into this lovely situation, darling, not me. I’m just trying to keep us both out of prison.”

Arthur groaned again. Christ, this was going to be a fucking mess.

[phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess]

31 Days of Apex Legends

Little bit behind, but I combined Days 1 & 2 (Pride & Friendship)

Chapter 1 of an upcoming fic I am still writing.

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Title: Pride & Assumed Prejudice

Chapter 1: Masks

Something sour lingered on the tip of his tongue, on the razor’s edge of every thought; like a granule of poison sinking slowly into a beverage, unseen as the hapless victim takes a sip. Unnecessary, unnerving, and oddly enough, inducing a curiously debilitating sensation of anxiety for the first time in well over a decade. An emotion long-ago thought cordoned off, and utterly aggravating in its resurgence.

One could theoretically shut it out with enough mental fortitude and regimented distraction, but this tended to only provide short-term relief, for it always returned; faster, stronger, more pervasive than the last time. A creeping sense of wrongness that seemed to seep through every vein, clutching tightly to each breath as it worked to enter his lungs, twisting his stomach at random intervals, and reigniting old memories best left buried in unmarked graves. Unmourned and unwelcome.

At least, that is what Caustic tells himself.

There seems to be some level of psychological impairment at work, he rationalises in the depths of the night when he can barely think for the voiceless fears that make his heart race and air withdraw from ravaged lungs before it can fully impart its gift. The only hypothesis that makes even the vaguest sense is that there is likely a chemical agent of some kind, a poison, being introduced into some facet of his daily routine that is affecting his mental faculties?

Caustic is perplexed to find that his bloodwork runs clean each time, as do random samples of his food stores, lab equipment, clothing, cleaning products, furniture, air filtration units, plants and even toothpaste. Though he runs them often, at random, in hopes of locating the culprit for these uncomfortable sensations, these distractions from his research. Randomising events on his mental schedule each day in order to avoid any other human or non-organic being from identifying his routine again; if they ever even had. And yet, it persists.

Denial is perhaps the only shield that he will not admit to using, in this instance. Though for all his great logic, his knowledge and emphatic belief in the fundamental laws of science… there is still a strange feeling that persists in coursing through his veins. If he would allow himself but a moment to acknowledge it, to let it in and experience the sensation then it may lead to a breakthrough… but at what cost? If the facade falls, then who would he be?

Yet still his whole body feels electrified from within; as if sensing a change coming, like the increased atmospheric pressure before a thunderstorm. Everything that had been built was starting to decay, and it was not clear why now, why this year… why this ridiculous event was the catalyst. Even though such an obvious connection between this heightened emotional state and the particular time of year never actually occurred to the unnaturally overwrought man.

As the days between the present and the event grew shorter, and the other Legends began to ramp up their ridiculous displays of personal expression, the odd physiological effects increased exponentially, until simply existing in the same dwelling had become almost unbearable. It was merely because the others were younger, more prone to ludicrous displays of ebullience, constantly impeding his research with their tomfoolery… yes, that must be it. The reassurances ring hollow, even to his own mind.

Yet still the simple fact remained… that the year previous, as a new Legend, this whole event had been laughably easy to ignore. So why did it bring such distress, such melancholy? What variable had changed between these two points in time that was bringing this insidious juggernaut of disruption to his mind, body and experiment schedule?

Despite what he, at the time, perceived as his best efforts to provide a front of general indifference and borderline contempt for the ‘nonsensical festivities’ of the majority of the other Legends; it became apparent that these actions were not nearly enough to stave off the eyes of the irritating coworkers. Without even realising, Caustic was shrinking away, becoming distant once more and this, in turn, naturally raised a few eyebrows.

Certainly, he was not the most extroverted or beloved amongst their ranks, but at the insistence of Miss Pacquette, that damnable Gibraltar, and the unerringly difficult to evade Salvonian he had been making small forays into socialising in the name of increasing battle compatibility with the others. In the name of increasing battle efficiency, of course.

Caustic’s sudden detraction from even the few low-key communal activities he had begrudgingly begun to attend on a generally regular basis in their shared lodgings, such as the occasional movie night or weekly shared meal, was a blatant signal to the more empathetic and suspicious of the Legends that something was not right here. Some moved immediately to paranoid delusions, others queried if the scientist was unwell or had been caught up in work and forgot; Caustic could always feel Miss Pacquette’s eyes on him these days. Waiting for him to do something she could no longer forgive.

The sting of her derision only made matters worse, silencing all explanations he might give to the others when they arrived at his assigned room; so that all any who arrived saw was a brief silhouette before the door slammed shut in their faces. Assuming hostility, when the words were simply trapped inside; not wanting to admit this disgusting weakness that clawed, bit and screamed every moment of every day.

However, it was the unintended actions that gave rise to what came next; and he could blame none other than himself. For, as the foolish often do, a handful of those in the complex began to conjecture… rumour, if you will, and they spread like an unchecked wildfire. Caustic was not able to tell if they had been an errant thought turned unintentionally malicious or the deliberate attempt of one of his detractors like Loba or Crypto; and as much as he wished to close off the side of himself that felt anguish at these new beliefs swirling between his coworkers… he could not.

To say the rumours were incorrect would be an understatement, but even he could see how the gossip-mongers amongst their ranks had extrapolated a tenuous but alluring hypothesis that slandered his character, from such limited data points as were available. Especially after their foray to… the planet of his youth, most recently.

It seemed wherever he went, that blasted Crypto seemed to be hovering nearby with a smug look on his face; as if waiting for the opportune moment to mention a few inconvenient truths. Did the younger man realise what was happening to him? Could he use that drone of his to deliver a toxic compound into Caustic’s chambers when the scientist was absent? No, no of course not. Mystik would never forgive him… unless he could provide a plausible alibi. Even that particular train of thought was beginning to wear on him, feeling more tangible each time his brain brought the concept up. Actual poison was not the hacker’s style; but social poison, the slow and cruel kind that seeped from mouth to mouth, assassinating without a blade… that might be plausible.

These days, Caustic found his pulse always quickened when he caught sight of the hacker in the living complex, the anxiety making his mind rush through the worst possible scenarios of his secret being openly divulged to the masses without warning; even though some seemed utterly ridiculous. What would happen, after all? The worst case scenario? Repulsion from the others would be one thing, a natural consequence of their newfound awareness of his misdeeds and discovering the depths of his past, somewhat less than legal, activities. A strong possibility that perhaps the Legends would take the rash step of immediately contacting authorities to attend the Legend dwellings; something even Caustic would understand as rational.

Yet still, with his normally formidable intellect being absolutely and utterly subsumed under false assumptions and fallacies; the kind only a mind shuddering on the verge of collapse could generate… far worse fates arose like apparitions behind his eyelids. Such as the bizarre and somewhat infuriating insistence of his anxiety-ridden mind that the other Legends could hear of his past and simply decide to take matters into their own hands; pretending all is well until an opportunity arose to publicly execute Caustic themselves, mid-match with his beacon deactivated, for all the world to see. To denounce him in such a way that none could ever assume they had kept his secret; the disgust on their faces as they would wipe his blood from their skin would be proof enough.

Often in the depths of night Caustic muses on this highly improbable outcome. Yet, he finds that the variable of the scenario that keeps him awake is simply that, in this outcome there was the uncomfortably very real possibility of his Mother inadvertently bearing witness to the second death of her son; a thought that makes his chest constrict with a nameless horror. She loved to watch the games, according to that brat she favoured so much… and he could not put her through that grief again.

No matter how nonsensical, the idea and an uncountable number of similarly impossible scenarios would repeat over and over again every waking moment of the day. And again throughout every second of sleep he managed to wrest from this endless void of uncertainty, until it felt like the only true outcome. Caustic was aware he was not thinking logically, or even assessing all the variables… but his mind clouded it all out with whispered worries to distract, to isolate and distress.

These imagined ends and their outcomes added an almost unfathomable heaviness to his existence; adding unearned gravitas to the myriad of little concerns, worries and secret guilts until they felt like a thick fog that obscured all rational thought. Every little concern, so often hidden from his own conscious mind by a never-ending series of experiments and day-to-day tasks he employed to quiet the thoughts he did not wish to entertain, was now screaming inside. Some days he felt not unlike a speaker, reverberating from the harsh beating of his heart, and almost surprised none other than himself could hear.

No, this was ridiculous. He could not allow this to continue, not if he wished to remain Caustic. As a Legend, as a researcher with endless funding as long as he gave the right results in battle, as a scientist seeking additional data, and… as reluctant as Caustic was to admit it, as a member of the rag-tag team that shared the Apex-funded lodgings. A collective, almost like a-...

The thought always shut off there, twisting to a rapid mental analysis of the other Legends for the sake of anything else to focus on. Certainly some of the other ‘champions’ were irritating and he found it difficult to deal with them for long; but others he had to concede were fascinating, and startlingly brilliant in their fields, many of whom were willing to engage in discussions about their expertise and experiences. Even with mild distrust guarding their words to begin with, until passion for the subject overtook their misgivings.

But, as loathe as he was to admit this to even himself; to Caustic... the legends themselves were something he was starting to feel part of. Somewhat like they were a-... the word lodged in his chest like a blunt knife, something that could cause harm if he ever admitted how far he had fallen into the illogical void of social intelligence. He railed against the term, but logically it was the only apt one available to describe this group of strange people; and that was… family.

Bile scorched the back of his throat as he allowed the thought to flow through him like a soundwave, the sentiment of it far more distressing than the physical sensations; as Caustic been under the strong impression of having successfully managed to cut off all sense of sentimentality, along with his fingers, on Gaea. This feeling, this potential vulnerability, was therefore repulsive.

However… it could not be denied that recently the increased socialisation had brought out some surprising connections and insights with the others. Even simple interactions such as providing a gruff thank you to a teammate for pinging a weapon component whilst looting was noted by the others; and the way that Caustic made certain to inoculate his squadmates before a match. Inconsequential activities, but seen… apparently. He had never noticed their eyes on him during these moments before… and now he felt as if they never ceased their burning gazes on his every breath, every twitch and thought.

As it stood, he was closer to some Legends than others; and had forged several, somewhat tenuous but holding, connections he was not wholly ashamed to admit.

For example, Caustic found Horizon’s expertise on astrological matters an excellent way to pass sleepless nights, when both found themselves in the kitchen for coffee at 2am. Minds full of half formed ideas, or regrets, and unable to speak them aloud to anyone; there was an odd companionship between the Legends, so close in age and so vastly apart in lived experiences. Or, at the least, the experiences of their alibis.

Even through the distress he felt, Caustic could not help but smile as he recalled that their first two meetings at such a location and hour had not gone quite so well as in recent times. For the good Dr Somers had been blissfully unaware that a rather prominent side effect of Caustic’s initial and continued toxin exposure often expressed itself as a bright green glow about his irises; therefore the first time they had met in the pitch-black kitchen at an ungodly hour, the astrophysicist had said some truly profane things and thrown a mug of hot coffee in his direction. Lifeline had not been pleased to deal with burns at that time, no matter how Horizon had insisted they needed a proper assessment of the damage, but the young woman seemed to have found the whole situation quite humorous in hindsight. Often making smart ‘Be careful, Doctor, that’s hot!’ quips when she caught either of them holding coffee.

Ah, but their second meeting of this nature had been different. Caustic had merely been resting his eyes at the kitchen island when Horizon had carefully crept inside the darkened room, footsteps barely audible, and proceeded to make herself coffee on the quietest setting possible. It was, in fact, the sound of her sipping the beverage that had roused Caustic, and Horizon had promptly performed an almost perfect spit take in shock at his ‘sudden appearance’. The stain in the wall had never quite come out and neither of the older Legends had bothered to inform the younger Legends how it had manifested. Though some had their suspicions...

There was a calming energy to Dr Somers, and she seemed to have a distance in her eyes that he could relate to without ever broaching the subject. When they spoke of stars, of technology to traverse the time and space between the worlds, there was a communion of unspoken camaraderie there that soothed in an inexplicable manner.

Of the others, Caustic had occasionally found himself ensconced in fascinating discussions and discourse with Mirage when the pair had found themselves trapped in a social setting, such as lunch in the common area, fumbling for topics. Or more accurately, Mirage visibly sifting for a safe topic to be polite, and Caustic pointing at whatever the man was tinkering with at that moment, in silent question. It was rather intriguing how the younger man’s stutter settled when he was intensely focused on a subject he enjoyed. Although it must be said that now the scientist knew entirely far too much about holographic projection technology, and he was hard pressed to find an application for just such knowledge in his research.

On a more irritating note, was Gibraltar’s continued attempts to convince Caustic that attending events such as karaoke night or some roleplaying adventure evening with the rest of the Legends would be fun, positive, and a good bonding experience; and not at all humiliating, bizarre or definitely subjecting himself to the mortifying ordeal of being known by the other champions. Disgustingly, Makoa Gibraltar was a weapons-grade optimist with a sharp mind behind that disarming smile of his.

Recognising that the current stratagem was not working as it allowed the subject too much free will, Gibraltar had added additional variables to his socialisation experiments with Caustic. Even since, Gibraltar had been occasionally dropping by with a small portion of some homemade meal or other; often with one of the other Legends as an unspoken form of backup. More often than not, in recent times, Fuse would be the person of choice.

The rescue specialist was a very large, very polite man who had gracefully accepted the times Caustic would shut the door in his face to avoid allowing anyone to breach his inner sanctum of isolation and research. Walter Fitzroy was decidedly not.

Fuse was a very charming man, but he genuinely believed that any closed door was an invitation to trial his knuckle clusters on it, ‘in the name of friendship’. The pair would then invite themselves inside, and somehow a conversation would occur about the most randomised of topics, amidst the hidden garden-like interior of Caustic’s quarters. After weathering the scientist’s myriad of multisyllabic protestations about property damage and right to privacy, with mildly amused expressions on their faces, of course. Now that he thought about the subject in detail, the visits had been increasing in duration rapidly in the past two months or so; detracting from his research, yes, but at the same time… Caustic had begun to find himself not wanting to reduce this contact in the slightest.

Rampart had recently asked Caustic, in a quiet moment, if he wanted something strong enough to withstand a knuckle cluster barrage whipped up, because he was more often without a door than with one these days. Caustic had found himself smiling under the mask as he declined; not catching her sly grin of understanding in response. “It’s your funeral mate…” she teased as she left. He still had not had a chance to analyse her meaning or motives in relation to that interaction.

Still skeptical of his motives, but warming, was Lifeline. On the odd occasion, the healer would simply come into the common area to ‘hang out’ with whomsoever was present, and initially this had been a frustrating strain on his limited social endurance. Especially if the runner joined in, or she decided that the volume was far too low for her chosen programs at the time. They had engaged in arguments, which tended to resolve when he left, seeking solitude and silence in his own quarters.

Although, to review the past month or so in subjective data; Caustic was intrigued to find himself less irritated by Lifeline’s choice of audible and visual entertainment than previously.

However, the woman’s unerringly pleasant but smug grin as she would turn and catch Caustic’s fingers tapping the datafile laden table in subconscious adherence to the rhythm of the background music, was still a nuisance. At present, if he attempted to tell her so, Lifeline would laugh or roll her eyes and throw a quick, ‘Whatever yuh say, Doctor…’ in his direction.

Caustic believed that the newfound camaraderie between Lifline and himself was either in relation to a number of recent matches wherein he had had to shield her bodily from a hail of incoming fire while she revived a teammate; or pertaining to his begrudging assistance in formulating an altered version of stim for Octane, with lower health impacts. While it seemed counterintuitive to his stated goal of wiping out humanity; the challenge of forcing a volatile substance into a different composition to improve health on use rather than detract from it, had been exhilarating. While the current formula, Stim 2.3, was by no means perfect, it could always be improved in future testing. In fact, Caustic had been surprised to find himself looking forwards to improving upon the newly created formula with Miss Che in future. Her mind was agile, quick and experienced around medical, political and Octane-related matters. Verbal sparring with Miss Che was akin to mainlining caffeine, and possibly her persuasive arguments may have something to do with how thin his facade was feeling at present. How he was starting to regret his actions, when previously they were buried deep, untouchable, as Lifeline skillfully pointed out fallacies in his logic and ideologies.

Of all the Legends, the hunter Bloodhound, he hunter, was a mystery that continued to intrigue and distract from his research. Caustic had honestly been certain that there it would be highly improbable for the pair to have anything in common; given they were from a world that despised the very technology that his homeworld had embraced with open arms.

He had also felt that perhaps the hunter would avoid him, given Gaea’s reputation around such things as diversity in attraction and gender identification; he knew what was said and not all of it undeserved.

Somewhat surprisingly, it was a shared interest in plants that began their interactions; as the hunter had peered from their room at the right moment to catch Caustic returning home with a new specimen of unknown origin. The GAVN 1.2 bot stationed at the nearby Solace City plant nursery had no knowledge of what species it may be of, but the important matter was that the machine had recalled Caustic’s request to contact him if anything ‘interesting’ came through. Bloodhound had stopped him to ask how a Crentular Vynth bush had made its way to this planet; and Caustic had been so distracted by the conversation that followed that he did not realise they had moved to Bloodhound’s room until his second cup of herbal tea.

That had been the oddly auspicious beginning of… whatever this was. Whether they were now coworkers, or something slightly below comrades in arms, their companionship had been cemented nearly a full three months later on Olympus, when a bullet shattered Caustic’s mask mid-match.

Things had not been going optimally at the time. Their third squadmate was dead; some nameless human who had dreamt of glory and fame, and was now likely in a respawn pod beyond the arena commiserating their loss with the other failures.

Bloodhound was in the process of scouting for activity within and without the building they were currently camping inside; at the far end, if the faintest of footsteps could be believed. Skirting carefully about Caustic’s traps despite the pre-match inoculation provided that assured temporary immunity for the other two.

He had been calculating the potential ring trajectory of the next round, and automatically reloading the mozambique in his hands mechanically, when a careless step had placed him directly before one of the many damnable slatted windows of the building. The first he became aware was a crack, and a split-second realisation that made him jerk back just in time for the kraber shot to hurl his mask clean off and away.

Ducking automatically, not risking a second looking for the person who was definitely chambering a new round in anticipation of taking him out, Caustic had snatched the shattered mask up and slid through the rails to the floor below. Landing with a jarring impact that raised dust, forced air from his lungs, and inspired a violent coughing fit. Panic began to stir, as the reality of his vulnerability became apparent.

To counter this, Caustic set off a nearby gastrap deliberately, obscuring himself amidst the swirling green smog; allowing a moment to focus purely on the issue at hand, and forestall the intense anxiety that the cameras could be observing his features or condition too closely. He could already see the mask was beyond repair, the hoses hissing upon his shoulders as his filtered supply fed into nothing; despair was starting to claw at his chest, tightening it until it burned...

And then Bloodhound was there. Without a word, those impassive goggles took in the scene in its entirety as they crouched down by his side; pulling a small spare mask from one of the many pouches on their belt, without the slightest hesitation, and pressing it to Caustic’s face. “Here, breathe easy felagi fighter.” they said, nothing more, nothing less.

The filtration hoses hissed a moment more before the hunter had them shut off at the valve, so as not to waste more of the carefully balanced components. The mask adhering quickly and filtering the more violent components out of the air automatically; as Bloodhound needed, given their own damaged airways. Caustic may not believe in their All-Father, but he could almost admit to himself that it was very fortuitous they had been there that day.

When the smog cleared, vanishing as it dispersed to a minimal level, the crisis was over and his panic subsumed. Bloodhound clapped a hand to his shoulder and rose, making a statement of thanks in relation to receiving ammunition. A weak cover, but one they hoped viewers would be satisfied with; feel no great desire to dig for more information on this brief ‘green-out’.

“Come, there are three squads remaining, we have foes to slatra.” they offer, and he rises quickly to follow. Win or Lose, Caustic had felt confusingly like he had already received some small victory that day; though to put it in words was beyond even his skill.

Unfortunately, the downside of increased awareness of other human beings was that they tended to request opportunities to strengthen the bond. Of all things, the Hunter and the Salvonian now wished Caustic to go camping with them; in Kings Canyon or some equally feral locale, where they may all die of undercooked food or rabid wildlife. As disagreeable as he found the idea, Caustic found himself rapidly running out of excuses as to barriers that would forestall his presence on such an experience. And just the other day, before this intense sensation of dread descended, he found himself considering purchasing a prowler-proof sleeping bag… which had been a definite call for self-reflection at the time.

Indeed, when he thought back over the past few months… Caustic found that he had had at least one small interaction of moderate-to-positive success with all of the other Legends. Even with that know-it-all Crypto. Though Caustic strictly maintained that the whole scenario had been pure happenstance; and not any display of coworkerly or implied sibling affection.

If the young brat had just so happened to be tinkering with his little drone at the kitchen island and required a tool that Caustic, also present and working on his own project, had just so happened to have on him at the time… so be it. Truly, Caustic was not even certain if Park had realised who had supplied the multitool that had readily slipped into his grip on request; although, the fact that it had been returned nonetheless to his quarters, possibly by drone through a window he had forgotten to close overnight, gave a different impression.

Ironically, whenever Caustic finds himself thinking about the other Legends recently, shades of distress, distrust and uncertainty began to fill his limbs with lead and his mind with a million illogical questions. Did Loba’s smile at breakfast mean she was intending to out him to the others? Was it normal for Revenant to ask to view his research on gases with compounds that could corrode organic metals? Was the laughter between Wattson and Wraith about him? What made Bangalore watch him instead of the screen during the movie night two weeks before? Why did so many whispers stop when he moved closer? When was the last time Gibraltar had used the phrase ‘hey buddy, you doin’ okay?’ with any other Legend?

Who. When. Why. How. What. An endless merry-go-round in a carnival of horrors, all of his own devising… and there was no way to signal to the ride operator that he wished to exit. What was wrong with him?

Or, was there something wrong with him, at all?

Perhaps this was normal, for someone whose life was close to its ending. Didn’t people feel distress over regrets and mistakes in their life?

Desperate for a concrete reason, Caustic ran diagnostics on his blood and biometrics at least twice a day, and yet felt disappointed to find no significant progression in the disease. For if not the disease… then what was this?

Days wore on as he remained confined to his quarters for all but the most necessary outings. He did not see or hear how the household was becoming more and more colourful and the Legends pre-celebrating. Glancing out his window at the billboards in the city beyond, his lip curled derisively; ah, the corporations became more sycophantic as time wore on, disgusting. But all he could focus on was the manner in which this swelling sensation of anxiety was drowning him; Caustic was awash in a sea of tumultuous negative emotions with no sign of rescue. Quietly hoping that none would come.

It felt, constantly, as if he had an anchor bound to his ankles; the chain a cruel twisting thing, cold and rattling in the currents, always just long enough so he could bob above the despair for short periods of time before another wave crashed down. Caustic was beginning to wonder if it was worth trying not to drown at all...

Unbeknownst to the scientist, his absence was noted, and some were more concerned than others. The sudden withdrawal from household life drew attention from concerned parties with irritating accuracy; and he found himself subject to gentle half-questions that sent his blood pressure skyrocketing, his hands balling into fists to hide their shaking, and his mind racing to decode the hidden trap within the questions. Overwhelmed, Caustic responded by pulling back from the internal life of the Legends with greater fervour, trying to handle this situation himself; hating that it had come to such a ludicrous turn of events as this.

It was only when he was in the depths of despair and fighting to hide this from himself, that Caustic himself began to hear the rumours swirling about. Abhorrent, pervasive, and inaccurate… but easily believable if you lacked critical thinking skills. They made him feel more vile and misrepresented than the original advertisement campaigns for his arrival as a legend ever had. All that fabricated nonsense about being a verified and diagnosed sociopath; when it was only partially true, mixed with showman’s flare for the sake of selling him as the villain to the public. But these rumours… gossip rag conjecture, utter debasement and filth. Easy to believe… and in the mouths, hearts and minds of the people he had somewhat began to trust.

~)0(~

“It ain’t his fault, he’s from Gaea, yuh know?” whispers one legend to another, in a tone so casual that the sentence was doubly alarming to have come from seemingly out of nowhere. Caustic nearly drops the mug he is holding, mind shocked into momentary pause, at the statement. At the implication behind it.

The other sighs, “I know they’re, uh, different about things… but I thought that being in Solace City this whole time might have…” There’s a pause. “Well, you know, shown him a different reality… he’s already made progress in being an okay human, or something like it. Thought things were going okay, caught him smiling at one of Rampart’s jokes the other day… ”

“Yuh best keep it quiet though, don’t want the media gettin’ wind of this or it’ll be a problem.” hisses the first, acutely aware of how the media at large takes any vague hint of something, right or wrong, and runs with it. For the last six months magazines had been declaring that she was ‘going to propose to Wraith anyday now’ because they’d been snapped shared a sandwich at a Legend event a while back. The online forums were a constant minefield, even if some of the fanart was well-done.

“Oh yeah, I’m not going to put anyone through that deliberately, my dearest fiance-to-be…” the other laughed back. “You think surprise-portalling him into the middle of the parade would help? Or do Gaeans drop dead if confronted with new ideas without any warning?”

Just as despair was filling his heart like a lead weight, the rumours like tiny knives in his heart, filleting the memories he held about someone now lost… another combatant enters the ring. So to speak.

“Enough!” snaps a third, highly unexpected but nonetheless welcome, voice. The word hissing between what can only be clenched teeth, in a normally serene face.

Caustic finds himself holding his breath as he presses close to the kitchen wall nearest the common room entrance; desperate to hear more, despite his stomach churning, wanting him to flee this whole situation. It boggled the mind, after all he had done… Miss Pacquette, coming to his defence? How could she find it in herself to speak on the behalf of such as him?

“Listen to me, and hear me when I say that not all of Gaea’s citizens think in such a backwards manner… you cannot assume because people are poor, from a small place on their world, or work on farms that they all perceive things so narrow-mindedly. There is acceptance on Gaea, in much the same way that there are pockets of intolerant people on Psamanthe and Salvo who believe that robots are not sentient, or people of different races cannot be allowed to love one another. There are good people there too...” Wattson says, voice rising with the internal fervour of righteous anger. She was so very like her father, unable to allow someone she cared about to go undefended when people brought slander to their doorsteps. If someone raised a knife to his back, she would put up a fence to bar their way, and then continue to tell him off for his inappropriate actions from the months before.

In the brief silence following her statement, shuffling is heard, and it is clear something is happening though he dare not attempt to see in. He would be sighted for certain.

In a calmer tone, almost too soft, Wattson continues. “I once knew a man from Gaea when I was very small. He was… very important to my Papa, and to me. They worked together for many years, and I believe that they loved each other just as deeply as Papa and Mama did. He was always very kind to me, like a father you could say, even on his darkest days he was always ready to make me feel happy.” She took in a shaky breath. “Many of my youngest memories involve him, from my first baking soda volcano, to my recovery from the ‘ghost’ incident; not to mention the first attempt to create my sparks… and then the hour or so we spent resetting the powergrid for the whole map due to the short we made. He was a good man, if very obsessed with his work; as Papa was. Driven, you could say.” She sighed sadly, in a way that made even Caustic’s shaking arms want to wrap around the younger woman in comfort. “But he was forced to go home many years ago because he was having a disagreement with the company overseers about a new project they assigned to his research team. He was so angry when he left, and I wish I could have had a happier memory to keep of him. I only discovered later why he was so… you see, Papa mentioned that his team was assigned the goal of manufacturing a way of purging unwanted biological urges through aerosolised disbursement in the general population, and, well… he did not agree.”

There’s a sharp inhalation of breath from a few too many voices for simply two other people to be present in the common room. Given what the ruling bodies of Gaea were known to stand against, it did not take much guesswork around the applications of such a project.

Caustic had always liked to break accepted ethical conduct on the odd occasion to get breakthroughs that pushed science to the edge of a new frontier, but even he had been abhorred by the very concept. Caustic closed his eyes, recalling the very arguments he had had with his then-superiors about the situation; and how he had even held out the ‘impeding human rights’ card as a final way to thwart the project. The cold smirk on thin lipped faces as he was informed that none who would be affected could be counted as a true human until they were cured of their odd notions… it was a miracle he had restrained from using his fists there and then.

His ‘compliance’ was bought with a simple reminder of how very important the company’s healthcare policy was to Caustic’s mother, at the time, and how it would be a shame to have it terminated alongside his employment. Feigning defeat, and hating himself, he had made a show of deferring to their wishes. Those pompous, self-inflated fools had taken him at his word. That was their first mistake.

Caustic jerks slightly, as if he has fallen out of his own memories and back to the present, bodily. Finding Miss Pacquette still speaking, her voice growing ragged with emotion.

“He… he died shortly after leaving us. I was devastated that he was gone, but even more so for the way it had happened. I could not imagine the fear and sadness he must have felt as the lab burned around him, with his entire research team. All they ever found was a charred corpse and two fingers that had enough DNA remaining to confirm his identity.” A soft sob shocked out, before she masterfully pushed it back. “U-Unfortunately for the company it seemed that all of his research and specimens on the topic burned with him; and some kind of alternate chemical residue coating the lab after the fire made the building unusable. Sometimes… I wonder if it was deliberate, for him to have taken it all with him. To be honest it would not surprise me in the least, he was as stubborn as Papa…” Natalie trailed off, clearly upset by the recollections. “Oh mon dieu, I do not mean to be so silly… I just miss him and Papa so much! And now you are all being so awful about the only person who… who reminds me of them, and I know he is difficult but there is good there, somewhere.”

Caustic’s teeth grind until it is agony. He longs to comfort her, even now as a full fledged adult and not the doe-eyed little girl who always wanted his attention... but how would that look to their comrades? Would she accept it after what he had tried to do? The anxiety wrings his stomach out like a wet rag, and locks both legs firmly in place. The scientist is disgusted with his weakness, debasing himself internally even as he countered with the simple truth of not being able to fight your own brain when it had decided on a Freeze response to distress.

He can clearly hear Lifeline and Wraith providing quiet soothing statements to Miss Pacquette, and it lessens his own distress over hers. Until he hears the one voice he would prefer never have been party to the conversation, speak up. “What was his name?” A general query, curiosity and a hint of foreboding there, as if the puzzle pieces were sliding together in the younger man’s mind.

Caustic’s heart freezes in his chest. Of all the Legends, why must Park be the one to overhear this tale? He who knows too much already...

There’s a soft muffled sniffle, muted most likely by Wraith’s shoulder, before Wattson replies; utterly unaware of how she was putting the final nail in his aliases’ coffin. “Oh, did I not say? His name was Alex… or I suppose Alexander. Dr Alexander Nox…”

The sound of Crypto’s drone clattering to the floor almost swallows the high pitched shattering of the ceramic mug meeting the kitchen floor. Almost, being the operative word.

By the time anyone has a chance to check the kitchen, Caustic has long since made a tactical retreat to his room. The racing thoughts feel like they are wrapped about his throat, constricting his chest until he can barely breathe. Hoping that none saw his frantic flight back to the safety of familiar walls.

~)0(~

[vs-redemption]

Crime is Common. Logic is Rare. (Ch 12)

Chapter Twelve: Lab Work (HawksxGN!Reader)

Plot summary: You thought your hands were full as a regular quirk geneticist, but then you meet Hawks and things get even more exciting!

Warnings:

⚠️This story contains spoilers from the manga.

⚠️Some events and plot points have been altered from the original manga

Next Chapter : Chapter Guide

“Thanks for coming out to meet with me again,” Dr. Garaki smiles pleasantly at you as you take a seat across from him in his office. His chair was much taller than yours to make up for his short stature. The expensive microscope and box of blood samples from your previous visit were nowhere in sight. The only thing on top of the desk was a copy of the proposal you had emailed him a few days before. The doctor puts a hand on top of the papers. “I’d like to talk about this.” You nod your head, trying to read the man’s face to predict how the conversation might go. You had to be ready for anything.

“I’ve never read a proposal quite like this before,” Dr. Garaki taps a finger on top of the document. “You made a lot of bold assumptions.”

You keep a look of confidence on your face as you reply. He still hadn’t made any indication about how he felt about the wild hypotheses you’d written for him. He just had the same cheerful smile on his face. "What you showed me the last time I was here was several steps ahead of any of the current research I could find,” you explain calmly. “Without knowing what was in that mystery fluid you used, I had to fill in some blanks.”

The doctor stayed silent for a moment and you hoped that he wasn’t about to throw you out for ignoring basic scientific standards and stepping into the realm of mad science. Never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d ever submit such an absurd proposal, but Dr. Garaki seemed like an odd enough man to actually appreciate it.

“You believe I have access to samples of All For One’s DNA.” The doctor finally speaks.

“No,” you still manage to keep your voice level. “Well, I honestly don’t know. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about for a while. All For One is the only true example of a person possessing multiple quirks. Because of that, it stands to reason that his ability to give and receive quirks, and therefore his actual DNA, could be the key to creating Nomus.”

The doctor continues to stare you down. “And if I DID have access to All For One’s DNA, you think the next logical step…”

“…is to try and create a Nomu ourselves, yes.” You finish the sentence for him, praying that it would make the statement sound less insane if you were the one to say it. The doctor raises his eyebrows, the unreadable smile still on his face.

“I obviously made a lot of assumptions about how to accomplish that task too. Plus, it would definitely be unethical to do human trials,” you press on. “But besides the most recent attack in Kyushu, the Nomus themselves hardly seem human anyway. Perhaps the human component is small enough that simply using All For One’s quirk to splice human DNA samples together is enough. We would just need to create some sort of vessel to hold all that power”

“And the applications for such research?” The doctor continues to question you even though you must sound like you’re out of your mind by now.

“Limitless,” you declare. “If we can understand the way in which quirks mutate or combine over time, we can eliminate the weaknesses and drawbacks of certain quirks. Take the number one hero for example. Endeavor’s body clearly has a heat threshold. I noticed it in his fight with that high-end Nomu. He’d be unstoppable if he also had a quirk of heat-resistance or something. And the way things are going now, quirks are getting stronger and more complicated. The number of people born with quirks that cause damage to their body or affect their quality of life is increasing. We could solve that problem completely if we understood quirk inheritance on a microscopic level.”

“You sound like a true advocate of science,” the doctor nods. “Some people might question the morality of genetically modifying, enhancing, or manipulating quirks though.”

“I’m just saying what would be possible,” you shrug, “What people are able to legally do with that information would be up for debate when the time comes, but that’s nothing new in the field of science”

“True, true!” The doctor nods his head in agreement. “And like you mentioned, there are a lot of assumptions we need to address before actually going through with a proposal like this.” He slaps his hand on top of the document again before hopping out of his chair. “I’ve been thinking of how we can utilize YOUR quirk in my lab,” he beckons for you to get up and follow him. “I understand you can observe information about your surroundings in extreme detail.”

“Yeah,” you confirm the information while following him out of his office and through the halls of his hospital. He stops at what appears to be a supply closet and unlocks the door with a key he pulls from his pocket. You were surprised to see the small room contained a hidden elevator.

“This is for employees only,” the doctor explains once you’re both inside. He pushes the single unmarked button and the doors slide close. You assumed the elevator went down because when the doors opened back up, you were in a dimly lit basement laboratory. It was set up like most of the other labs you’d been in before, but there was just something a little creepier about it that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“Nobody else is down here?” You ask as you continue to look around.

“This is actually a secondary lab,” Dr. Garaki tells you. “My main lab is in a different location.” The strangeness of the situation continued to build, but you kept your feelings to yourself. There’d been something off about the doctor since the first time you’d met him, and now you were committed to figuring out what it was.

“I don’t mind using my quirk,” you tell him, “but the length of time I’m able to use it is pretty limited.”

“Limitations can be overcome,” the doctor chuckles before hurrying over to one of the work stations where a microscope was set up next to a giant monitor. “A lot of people don’t realize their quirks can work harder and longer with a certain type of fuel to keep them going.”

“What like Popeye and his spinach?” you joke.

“Exactly like that!” the doctor nods enthusiastically, his large glasses making his eyes look bigger than they actually are. “If we monitor your brain activity while you use your quirk, and take blood samples before and after, we could learn a lot. You should also try to use your quirk every day. Make a note if there’s a difference when you use your quirk in the morning or in the evening, or if anything changes depending on what you eat or the type of weather.” You can’t help but laugh.

“You actually want me to do that?” you ask.

“Just a suggestion,” he shrugs. “I would like to try a couple things today though, if you’re up to it.”

“Depends on the couple things, I guess,” you say hesitantly. He explained that he wanted you to use your quirk to watch videos on one of the computer monitors in one minute intervals. Each minute long session would be under a different condition and there would be a short test between each condition to record how much information you’d observed with your quirk. As your quirk only lasted about 5 minutes, he decided to do four tests in order to have the best results. The first test would be the control. The second test would be taken with noise canceling headphones in order to see if the number of visual details increased if sound was taken away. The third test would be taken while standing between two heaters to see if temperature made a difference. The fourth test would be taken while jogging on a treadmill to see if physical exertion effected the results. The doctor sat you in a chair in front of the monitor for the first test and pressed play. Next thing you knew you were being shaken awake by the doctor. You open your eyes and realize that you’re on the ground.

“Oh thank goodness! You’re awake!” The doctor sighs in relief. “You must’ve overexerted yourself. You had a dizzy spell and passed out after the last test.” You blink a few times and glance around the lab, trying to remember what happened, but of course you couldn’t. You’d just lost consciousness after using your quirk, so all the information you’d gathered had been wiped from your mind. You’d always been a bit apprehensive of the doctor, but now you were honestly feeling scared. Never in your life had something like this happened, so why would it happen now?

“Are you feeling better now?” the doctor asks, “Can you stand up?” You take a deep breath and nod your head. You felt perfectly fine aside from the memory loss which you were used to.

“Well, I guess I hit my limit for today,” you laugh even though you were still creeped out. “Was there at least any interesting results from the tests?”

“You observed a lot more than I imagined!” The doctor nods his head enthusiastically. “Although the amount of information you recalled from each test was about the same.”

“Would you mind if I look at the notes?” you ask as casually as you can. The doctor frowns.

“Unfortunately I didn’t take notes,” he tells you. “I used a timer to record how long it took you to describe everything you observed.”

“I see,” you say calmly before shrugging. “Oh well. Was there anything else you wanted to do with me today?”

“No, no!” The doctor waves his hands, “Of course not. You should get some rest. Are you going to be all right getting all the way home? Perhaps one of the doctors upstairs can take a look at you.”

“That’s okay,” you smile appreciatively. “I’m actually staying at a friend’s place in the city today. I can rest there and go home in the morning.” The doctor nods in understanding as you both head to the elevator and go back up to the main hospital. He walks you to the door and waves goodbye, promising to keep in touch so that you can make plans to meet again soon. As soon as you’re outside, you reach into your bag to get your phone only to find that it wasn’t in the pocket you normally kept it in. Where you just being paranoid now? You open up your messages and type one to Hawks that asked “Where are you?” Once he answers, you hail a taxi, not caring that a bus or train would be cheaper. You wanted to get to your boyfriend as fast as possible.

[demaury]

defying gravity (5.5k)

“I’ve lied. To you.” 

He turns his head to Eliott, who suddenly seems far too interested by the tobacco packet he exhumes from his pocket to look at him straight in the eye. Lucas watches as he tucks a filter tip between his lips and goes on to fill the roll.

“If that’s the moment you admit you’re a psycho who followed me all the way from Paris, it couldn’t have come at a better time, I’m ready to die.”

OR. Lucas hates everything, but perhaps not everyone. 

You know, it’s almost funny, when you think about it.

Three days ago, he’d never have guessed that there’s a single thing in the world that could be worse than the idea of his dad’s remarriage. And yet here he is. Hiding from the crowd of family friends and family members behind a grey Audi, dressed as a fucking penguin, constantly trying to loosen the knot of the shitty tie everyone has insisted for him to wear — all the while riding a spectacular hangover on what’s probably the warmest spring day ever.

It shouldn’t be this hot already. Not in fucking April.

His hand shoots up to wipe away a drop of sweat rolling down the back of his neck, just above the collar of his dress-shirt.

It’s a nightmare.

Everything is just so noisy and so- so peopley. He adjusts his sunglasses on his nose, and reaches for the water bottle he managed to score from a disbelieved waiter at the bar to take a sip. Wherever his gaze lands, it’s like someone is looking back and is ready to make conversation — hence why he sought refuge behind a fucking car, far, far away from the tent, because that’s just how much he needs to avoid people at the moment. They’re all so cheerful, chatting eagerly around a glass of champagne, and between the town hall ceremony and the huge-ass country house his dad has ranted for the occasion, he’s lost count of how many ‘Lucas honey you’ve changed so much!’ have been shot his way. Nice of them all to collectively ignore that although he’s not exactly tall, he still got taller since the last time he saw any of these people.

A few kids are scattered around, playing football, and he recognizes one of the ten-year-old girls as his now-stepmother’s daughter. Which probably makes her his stepsister, now that he thinks about it. Fuck. Call him slow, but it’s never really sunk in up until now. They are all playing like there’s no tomorrow, running and screeching and yelling and screaming some more, and he grits his teeth in a wince as a hammer pounds against his frontal lobe with every single glass-shattering sound they manage to produce. It’s probably for the best he doesn’t have a car here, otherwise he would have hopped in and driven back to Paris before his dad would even think about searching for him — although to be fair it’d surely take a while before that happens.

His eyes dart to the side when he hears footsteps approaching, already ready to tell whoever it is to go fuck themselves, when his stomach clenches brutally and his eyes widen behind his sunglasses. He has to do a double-take because it is not fucking happening, right?

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he hears himself mutter.

Problem is, he’s not the only one to hear it. The gorgeous-looking dude walking in fucking slow-motion on the gravel path near-by hears it too, and soon there’s a pair of grey eyes landing on him. Lucas mentally thanks the sunglasses on his nose ��� how else would he be able to handle that look, now that he’s sober? The guy’s pace falters about a meter away from the Audi Lucas is sitting against, a small frown of confusion making his brow furrow.

Lucas sighs and pushes his sunglasses up on his head. It’s always nice to know that whatever you do, the universe still has some jokes in store for your miserable existence. Of all the what-the-fuck experiences he’s had in his life, this one is probably a solid top-three.

Grey-eyes-dude stares back at him, and his gaze narrow when realization downs on him. “Okay, just so you know, I didn’t follow you all the way here,” he guy says, sounding almost defensive.

What’s his name again? Lucas racks his brain in search of an answer, but he’s not sure they’ve exchanged names at all in the first place. That being said he’s not entirely sure they didn’t. Nice job, brain. In the meantime, he makes a point to look unimpressed. Like it’s his daily lot to have one-night-stands, stalkers, and goddamn models following him around, hours away from the city.

“Didn’t even think of it,” he shrugs, hoping to strike casual.

The guy looks vaguely embarrassed as he drapes his jacket over his arm. Funny how he wasn’t so careful last night about literally any of their clothes. Lucas grabs his water bottle, maybe just because he needs to do something, anything at all, but as he takes a sip the guy’s still standing there, looking like that, with his navy slacks and light-blue button-up, and believe it or not but it’s surprisingly hard to make eye-contact with a guy who had his dick inside you less than twelve hours ago.

Like, seriously. When it’s not an exclusive relationship situation, it’s the epitome of w-

Hold the fuck on.

A weird feeling creeps up his spine.

What is he doing here? Not in a fuck-he’s-creepy kind of way, but in a fuck-this-is-family-only kind of way. He doesn’t know half of the people who’re under the tent. Let alone those who weren’t there for the pre-ceremony chit-chat. Fuck, what if he’s one of his cousins? Did he just bang one of his fucking cousins? He tries counting but he doesn’t even remember how many of them he’s supposed to-

Shit he’s started to talk, Lucas freezes as Mr. Fuck-Don’t-Be-My-Cousin is already mid-sentence.

“What?”, he calls out dumbly, cutting him off.

“The bride,” the guy says again, and he gestures towards the tent like Lucas can possibly forget there’s a wedding going on. “She’s my sister’s godmother.”

Oh. Okay. That’s better.

Not a cousin. Good.

Go-od.

He presses his lips together with a nod. “Small world,” he mumbles. It’s not like he’s actively trying to be sarcastic, but that’s just the way it sounds like. Whatever. There’s an awkward silence stretching, until his slow brain catches up. “That’s my dad,” he simply offers with a vague gesture of the hand. “The groom. Or whatever that’s called when it’s not the first time around.” He folds his legs and brings his knees close to his chest, letting his eyes wander away.

“Why are you hiding here then?”, the guy asks and Lucas rolls his eyes to himself. He’s really tempted to tell him that them banging last night doesn’t qualify as an obligation to make small-talks on cue at formal gatherings. “Shouldn’t you be like, celebrating out there?”

“I’m celebrating,” he counters, and when his one-night-stand-turned-shrink cocks an eyebrow, he waves his water bottle. He’s sitting flat on his ass on a patch of grass, desperately trying to let the world forget he’s ever existed — which is working spectacularly, obviously —, it’s quite noticeable he’s living his best life at the moment. “Fine, I needed a bit of quiet. Hangover and all. Happy?”

Praying that his dad chokes on the wedding-cake by the end of the day is definitely an activity that can keep it busy for a couple of hours anyway. Not that it’s his business. Or anybody’s.

The guy clears his throat. “Right,” he says, and he offers a small shrug. “I’m going to, uh, greet everyone.”

It sounds almost as a question and Lucas turns his face away, putting his sunglasses back on his nose with a noncommittal noise. He pretends to find an interest in the kids’ messy football game, which for some reason seems to have turned into a kickball game in the meantime, to avoid following him with his eyes as he walks away.

*

He has to leave his hiding spot, eventually. Not that he’s dying to.

The afternoon has already long merged into early evening as he does so, and the sun setting has made it much more complicated to stay outside in a simple dress-shirt without his teeth starting to clatter. He gives a few tight smiles as he makes his way under the tent, where everybody is cruising around and reading the nametags to find out about the sitting arrangements.

His name is two tables away from the main table, which he should be grateful about, he guesses. The last thing he needs is to end up squeezed in-between his dad’s already half-drunk witness and his stepmother’s sister. He might be an adult, legally speaking, but there’s a limit to the amount of adult-bullshit he can go through in a single day and he’s already dangerously dangling off the edge as it is, there’s no need to push any more than that. He lets his eyes wander on the other nametags on each side of him. There’s one with his paternal cousins’ name and another one he doesn’t recognize — Eliott.

Maybe it’s from Marjorie’s side, he thinks offhandedly.

Who cares.

He’s about to slouch into his seat when a small huff makes his head swivel to the side. His hook-up from last night is staring at him, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s just walked straight of an Armani campaign. “I’m going to start thinking you’re the one following me,” he says, cocking an eyebrow, and when Lucas frowns, he takes a step closer and pointedly draws the chair next to his own like it’s really no bother.

Eliott. So he’s Eliott. Great. Nice. Awesome.

“You wish,” Lucas retorts, and as much as this guy is triggering his fight-or-flight instincts, he tries to shove them back down as he sits down as well.

Hear him out. He’s not big on random hook-ups. He doesn’t do well with the whole no-strings attached bullshit, so throwing himself at a goddamn stranger isn’t something he does. He banged a random guy once.

Fucking once.

Jesus that will teach him to think with his dick.

Maybe it’s all that sunshine outside that grilled his brain but he’s sure he can feel him stare at him — probably just to test his nerves, like the rest of the world seems inclined to do. When he throws a quick glance to the side, Eliott nonchalantly looks away, his hands resting calmly on his thighs, and Lucas rolls his eyes to himself. No one has to know they’ve ever met each other anyway — and even then, ‘meeting’ is a bit of a strong word. Not that it’s such a problem or that he’s ashamed or anything, there’s just literally nothing to say. Sure, the sex was great. But that’s literally it. At this point he’s not even sure he remembers what they had to drink.

What are you concerned about anyway?, a voice snickers. He can be perfectly chill about it too. No problem. Why would that be a problem? Because on a scale of 10 Eliott happens to be a solid 15? Hell, he should be bragging about it, if anything. But there aren’t many people to brag about it with in the first place, so. The silence stretches between them and Lucas begrudgingly takes in his surroundings. A brunette in a floral-patterned jumpsuit rounds their table, and from the corner of his eye he can see her nudging Eliott in the shoulder. “Hey, mom wants us to take a selfie with Marjorie.”

“When did she become obsessed with those?”, Eliott grumbles without budging, but another nudge gets him rising from his seat with a sigh.

There’s an unintentional eye-contact as Eliott is leaving the table, but Lucas’ eyes automatically dart onto the three glasses sitting in front of him. It’s like they’re making fun of his hangover. Ah ah ah you should have gotten drunk tonight.

Well, maybe he’s gonna do that.

Maybe he’ll just steal a bottle of whisky or whatever they were offering at the bar and down it by himself in the bedroom waiting for him inside the house. He grumpily digs out his phone and starts scrolling through his IG feed and his twitter timeline. It’s already near impossible to drown out the noises all around, but it gets particularly complicated when the few cousins mentioned on the nametags come to his table to settle in their designated seats.

“Shit, Lulu,” his cousin Charline exclaims as soon as she’s done adjusting her frizzy red hair, “we’ve been looking for you for hours.”

He gestures vaguely. “I was there. Talking. With people.” Hiding from you all.

Her brother Nicolas sits next to her, and two more girls slide into the remaining chairs. He’s not good with faces but he’s 100% sure they are from his stepmother’s side. There’s a bit of an awkward silence at first and a few attempts at small-talk, only disturbed by the ‘thank you’ Charline chirps happily when a waiter spinning around the tables like a professional octopus drops a freezing cold water bottle and two bottles of wine at the center of their table, next to the centerpiece.

“Who’s Eliott?” Charline wonders, frowning, as she leans closer to peer at the nametag next to him, and Lucas reclines against his backrest with a mental huff when her hair hits him in the face.

One of the two girls in front of him grins. “Oh, we got Eliott? I thought we had Gaby. He’s her brother.”

“Marjo is her godmother, right?” The girl nods and Charline turns to him excitedly, hopping from one topic to another like she’s paid to do that. “Hey, we didn’t get to talk yet. How are things going for you?”

Awesome. I drunk like a moron last night and I almost missed my train because I couldn’t walk straight this morning. Oh, and the guy I slept with on an impulse is five minutes away from sitting his ass next to me for the next six hours to come. So exciting indeed. He doesn’t even know why it’s a big deal. Probably because he’s a man of principles. Yes. And the principle of one-night-stands is precisely not to stick around long enough to give the other person the time to regret their choices.

He gives her an unimpressed look and a no-less impressed shoulder raise. “It’s fine.”

He reaches for the water bottle to fill the biggest wine-glass at his disposal, when Eliott swiftly slides in the seat next to him. There’s a round of ‘oh hey’ ‘hi’ ‘I’m Eliott’ ‘it’s written on the nametag’ ‘oh yeah’ that Lucas is trying his best not to partake in, which isn’t made any easier by Charline’s throaty laugh that surprisingly enough (note the irony) gets really fast onto his nerves.

“I’m working in an art gallery,” Eliott says at one point.

There’s a whistle. “Shit, that sounds serious,” Nicolas observes.

Did he mention that Nico’s sense of responsibilities is non-existent? Last he heard of him, a few years ago, he was trying to pick a college with a good party scene. If he had been born American, he’d be your typical fuckboy lurking around the frathouse at 25 — Lucas himself is not exceptionally ambition-driven himself, but there’s a limit.

“It’s mostly sending emails,” Eliott huffs a laugh. “And running around before the automatic alarm sets off at night to get everything in order.”

Charline goes onto flaunting her degree in sociology, like she didn't move to Quebec because it’s easier over there, and Lucas is this close to roll his eyes — but instead he bites it down, because he’s survived this long without causing a diplomatic incident to let it all go to waste. The conversation picks up without him. He keeps himself busy with his phone and his plate, while everyone else chit-chats obnoxiously. They talk about family memories and Christmas mornings, about vacations at the beach, about missing swim-trunks stories and kindergarten tantrums, and with every single one of them he feels his grip tightening around his fork. A day to celebrate, my ass, he thinks bitterly, stabbing a piece of his food.

“Wine?”

His eyes meet Eliott’s, who waves the bottle of red wine.  

He shakes his head. “Thanks, I’m gonna stick to water,” he mutters, and suddenly it’s like everybody remembers he exists, for better or for worse. Eliott is busy filling the glass of one of the girls but he shoots him a glare anyway. It’s his fault. It has to be.

“You’re still a student, right?” Charline asks between two bites of the first course.

“I graduated last year,” he replies stiffly, travelling a piece of his fish terrine in his plate, and since she’s still not looking somewhere else he elaborates: “I’m on a six-month internship in a private cabinet.”

“Oh, yeah! Accounting, right?”

“Architecture.”

There are plenty of reasons why she wouldn’t remember his major, objectively he knows that, but it goes with the fact that she barely remembers his age and that he’s practically sure the last time they texted was for Christmas two years ago — it only fuels his desire to flee. His attention drifts away to the main table, where his dad and his new wife stand up from their respective seats to start greeting each table. They’re lucky enough (joke) to be from the main family, so it’s a given one of them will drop by their table in a little while, and he’d rather die than have his dad looking all pleased and cheerful asking him why he’s not having fun.

“I need some fresh air,” he mutters to no one in particular, as he grabs his jacket and his phone before leaving the table.

Not like anyone will care.

Not like he gives a fuck if they do.

*

Since he’s not a fan of losing himself in the woods near-by and that hiding in the improvised parking-lot has gotten a lot creepier now that it’s dark as a pit, he’s opted for the bedroom that has been assigned to him for the weekend. At first, when his dad and his stepmother started talking about the sleeping arrangements, they had talked about him sharing with at least one if not two cousins, but he had been petty enough to say that if he had to share, he might as well not come at all.

He didn’t mean it. Like, sharing was really no big deal. He was just trying to push until his dad eventually burst and so he got a reason to dodge this whole bullshit altogether. But his dad had not burst. He had not done much, aside from sighing, shrugging, and saying that he’d get a bedroom to himself.

What a fucking joke.

He’s sitting on the balcony, trying to calm his nerves with a cigarette, when there’s a small knock on the door. He turns half-heartedly, only to stare at Eliott standing in the doorway, one shoulder nonchalantly resting against the doorframe like he’s always belonged here.

“How did you find me?”, he grumbles.

Eliott offers a small smirk in return. “Trust me I’ve majored in finding quiet spots to sulk.” He seems to hesitate, before he takes a few tentative steps in the room.

Lucas swallows down a huff. He’s half-tempted to tell him that he isn’t about to explode, but he simply turns away. “I’m not sulking. And you didn’t have to come, I’m fine.” Even if he flings himself off the railing, it’s only the first floor anyway. The worst that could happen would be for him to break his back. Or a leg. In short, more shit to deal with. It’d deter anyone.

Eliott footsteps grow closer, and soon he’s stepping on the balcony. “Do you want me to go?”

Not really. Maybe a little. He can’t really make his mind.

“Whatever,” he shrugs, vaguely gesturing with the hand holding the cigarette, and it makes the smoke draw intricate patterns in the air.

He’s not a heavy smoker. He’s just your typical stress-smoker who needs some nicotine in his system to avoid a major breakdown — he always ends up breaking down anyway, but whatever. Eliott seems to ponder for a hot minute, and Lucas is this close to burst and yell ‘in or out’ when he eventually brings himself to sit down next to him. They stay quiet for a moment, the silence only disturbed by the loud conversations coming from under the tent.

“I’ve lied. To you.”

He turns his head to Eliott, who suddenly seems far too interested by the tobacco packet he exhumes from his pocket to look at him straight in the eye. Lucas watches as he tucks a filter tip between his lips and goes on to fill the roll with tobacco.

“If that’s the moment you admit you’re a psycho who followed me all the way from Paris, it couldn’t have come at a better time, I’m ready to die.”

“Nah,” Eliott lets out, his lighter flickering as he lights up the cigarette a moment later. “I wasn’t at your table. I switched the nametags when no one was looking.”

He doesn’t really know why but it draws a small snort from him, as he tugs on his cigarette. It’s not that he hates having him around, he just didn’t expect him to exist outside of the bar from last night. It was the deal, right? He’s pretty sure it was. He remembers flashes of skin and ragged breathes, he remembers fisting his hand into Eliott’s hair and he remembers creeping out of his flat in the middle of the night. There’s a reason he didn’t leave his number behind — but at the same time it sort of balances out with the rest, and he can’t pinpoint why.

Except that now Eliott is sitting there, and he exists, and the leather jacket has left way to a suit jacket, and his hair is all combed. It’s weird, Lucas decides.

“I wish you had removed mine instead of yours,” he mumbles. At least it would have kept the cousins away.

Eliott huffs a laugh, glancing at him. “Way too obvious. You’re the son of the groom, I’m sure they paid extra attention to where you’d be sitting.”

Lucas slowly shakes his head with a snort. “You’ve got a high opinion of my dad.”

Like everybody else, he almost adds. No one is really able to fathom how much that charming and easy-going man can be borderline cold and uncaring when he sets his mind to be — and that’s even without mentioning that he’s never even bothered acknowledging he’s gay. It’s just like Lucas never came out.

A group loudly erupts in laughter under the tent, and Lucas’ eyebrow twitches in exasperation as he puffs out a cloud of smoke. “Can I ask something?”, Eliott asks, thoughtfully considering the cigarette between his fingers. “You don’t have to answer.” Lucas shrugs, letting some ash fall into the empty plastic cup he found on the way up here. “Why did you come at all if you don’t like them?”

It draws another snort from him. He makes it sound like it’s… yeah, like it’s easy. “Peer pressure,” he says neutrally. There’s an ocean between not wanting to attend this wedding and making it plain, and actually getting away with not going. He heaves a sigh and rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not that I don’t like them. They just… You know. They’re all nice and fun until you actually need them.”

He brings his cigarette to his lips and tries to focus on the gulp making its way in his chest to avoid thinking about his eyes and the way they’re starting to sting. He presses his lips tighter. “My mom. She’s schizophrenic. Half of the people you see here were once part of her family too and I can count on one hand how many of them actually offered to help whenever shit would go down.”

And that includes my dad. Between those who clearly didn’t want to deal with it and those who kept acting like she was a ticking bomb whenever she was in the same room as them, there weren’t many left to spend Christmas with or throw birthday parties. Shitty annual family gatherings stopped when he was 14 and no one really tried to push for them to be maintained. Every kind of relationship needs work on both parts to function, even family, and he’s not the only one to blame for shutting them out.

Eliott doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t know if it’s good or bad. He doesn’t really care anyway. It’s not like he’s expecting anything from him. He puts out his cigarette against the ground and drops it in the plastic cup.

“I know what it feels like,” Eliott muses, exhaling a puff of smoke. Lucas gives him a questioning look, and Eliott answers with a twist of his mouth. “The ticking-bomb thing. People dropping you.” He has a sigh, looking away as he brushes invisible specks of dust off his pants. “It sucks big time. Even when you think you’re over it, it still stings.”

It stings. “Yeah.” They fall silent again, and Lucas folds his legs against his chest to try and warm himself a bit, resting his chin on his knees. “You should probably head back anyway, my mood isn’t gonna improve in a matter of seconds.” It’s not because he’s dreaming to be literally anywhere else on the planet at the moment that he has to ruin the party for everyone, he guesses.

“Don’t worry, I’m not expecting anything else,” Eliott scoffs. Lucas shoots him a half-surprised, half-offended glance. “I mean, I offered you a drink last night and you straight up went ‘no names no talking’ on me.”

It should make him feel self-conscious. Embarrassed. But instead he finds himself huffing a laugh and the smile on Eliott’s lips broadens. “Is that a laugh I’m hearing?”

“Fuck off, you’re not that interesting.”

Eliott hums with an eyebrow raise and puts out his cigarette. He keeps the smoke trapped in his mouth for a second, then he tips his head back and releases it in a long puff swirling away in the darkness. It shouldn’t look so good and yet. It’s probably easier to look sexy while smoking when you look like an Armani ad printed on glossy paper.

“It kinda bummed me out that you didn’t leave a number,” Eliott says, quietly, and for a moment Lucas is too confused to put 2 and 2 together. He turns his head eventually, meeting Lucas’ eyes, and his only response at first is to twist his mouth a little.

“I’m not really an expert in one-night-hook-ups, but isn’t that the point?”

Eliott ponders the answer, and eventually gives a casual shrug. “Dunno. I’m not good with those either. I get attached, things get messy.” He punctuates it with a wrinkle of his nose before looking away, right in front of him.

Lucas’ voice sounds a little rough when he braces himself to ask. “Is that what’s happening?”

Why would someone like Eliott even get attached to someone like him anyway? That’s fucking surreal. It feels like he’s being trapped in a prank show. Will hot-dude-Eliott manage to make regular-Lucas believe it in the next two hours? Stay tuned to find out! Eliott glances at him sideways, and the way he ducks his head, it seems like he’s purposefully trying to make himself smaller. “Will you freak out if I say maybe?”

“A little, probably,” he admits. About your taste in men, definitely. Eliott doesn’t reply anything, and for some reason he finds himself leaning to the side a little, and gives him a slight nudge of the shoulder. “Relax I’m joking.”

“A laugh and a joke?” Eliott deadpans. “Turns out you’re quite the life of the party after all. Can’t wait to see you run downstairs on the dancefloor.”

As if. Lucas lets out a snort and shakes his head. “I’m not moving unless they play Emile & Images.”

As soon as the name dangles off his mouth, he knows he could very well be screwed. Knowing what crappy DJs like the one currently working in the backyard like to play, it’s a given that Jusqu'au bout de la nuit is on the track list. Eliott seems to have followed the exact same train of thoughts, because he starts laughing, his shoulders relaxing and a large smile brightening his features.

“That’s literally two tracks away, no take-backs,” he snickers, but when Lucas rolls his eyes and huffs a laugh, it comes out shaky. Eliott pauses, frowning. “Dude, you’re freezing. C’mon, let’s go inside,” he says, immediately rising on his feet.

Dude. Is he fucking serious? Lucas stares at him with wide eyes from his spot on the ground, not budging. “Did you really just ‘dude’ me?”, he scoffs, lifting himself off the floor. Seriously, if it’s his way of friend-zoning all of a sudden, hello whiplash.

“I was trying to be casual, thanks for ruining it,” Eliott retorts. He heads inside the bedroom without looking back and Lucas closes the bay-window behind him as he steps in. “Plus, I thought names were off the table anyway.”

Lucas waves dismissively as he sits down on the bed. “That was before you showed up here and we both had a nametag attached to our plate.”

Maybe he’s just not made for one-night-stands. Maybe that’s just the universe’s way of telling ‘you suck at those, get a grip’. Yeah. Probably. After a while Eliott joins him, settling at the foot of the bed. There’s a silence stretching a little, and he doesn’t know what to think of it now. They can hear the music coming from under the tent, distant and muffled but far too present for either of them to be able to forget about it.

He presses his lips together and glances at Eliott. “Lucas,” he says eventually, holding out a hand still tingling a little from the cold, “22 years of daddy issues crammed into a surprisingly muscular body.”

It gets him a chuckle, rough but sweet. “Eliott,” he says, squeezing his hand. “Your local, problematic dubstep fan with a gravity problem.”

“Dubstep,” Lucas repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“Dubstep,” Eliott nods, unabashed, almost defiant.

He hasn’t let go of his hand yet.

Lucas isn’t quite sure he wants him to.

*

He stirs awake with a small grunt when the mattress starts dipping. It’s weird. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep in the first place. A rustle of fabric accompanies Eliott’s movements while he sits up to sweep his phone unlocked, still clad in his button up and his dark slacks.

“Sorry,” Eliott whispers sheepishly as he glances at him. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Lucas pushes himself onto his back, drowsily reaching to rub a hand over his face. He’s slept with clothes on before, but never with a suit — and it sucks. The sleeves of his shirt are too tight, his pants feel like sandpaper and his belt is digging into his midsection.

“What time is it?”, he mumbles approximatively, but it turns out a bit more muffled and with fewer words than that.

The room is completely dark, aside from Eliott’s phone, and he no longer hears any music outside. Last time he remembers checking the time was… maybe around 2? 3? He didn’t do it often though. There was surprisingly enough of Eliott to keep him busy, conversation wise. That’s probably why they are laying down the way they are, in the middle of the bed.

“Almost 6. I have to go,” Eliott says, sitting on the edge. The look of confusion Lucas sends him apparently prompts him to add: “Marjorie rented a cottage for my parents, and my sister’s looking for me.”

Everything is a bit blurry, though, and what he gathers at first isn’t exactly a full sentence. But the moment Eliott’s starting to move, he reaches out, hand winding onto his hip a bit haphazardly. It’s too dark for him to be able to see anything, so he has no way of knowing what Eliott’s reaction might have possibly been when he mumbles: “Can you stay?”

Please. He doesn’t add it, for some reason, which is weird because his mom raised him well in the end, but Eliott doesn’t seem to mind that it’s lacking. “Yeah, okay,” he says after a moment. There’s another outpour of bright light that makes Lucas squeeze his eyes shut and bury his face into the comforter, when Eliott unlocks his phone to type a quick text.

That’s absolutely not something he should ask for. That he shouldn’t even be in a position to ask for.

But he wants to be selfish — just this time. The light goes out as quickly as it arrived, leaving him completely blind as Eliott lays back down, and it feels almost wrong not to be able to look at him when he just knows they’re so close. But again, his eyes are heavy and his mind a bit fuzzy. He’s almost drifting back asleep already by the time he feels gentle fingers grazing his cheekbone.

“Lucas,” he whispers, so softly that he almost thinks it’s not meant for him to hear at first. “I think I’m falling for you.”

“You and your gravity problems,” he mumbles with a small huff, but he leans into the touch anyway.

Maybe something good can still come out of this, is the last thing he thinks before sleep takes over.  

[meeeeyahhhhh]

Daminette December Day 8: Robin Hood Au

——————————————————————————

Damian Al Gul was not a patient man. When he heard news of a theif stealing from nobility, it would be an understatement to say he was angry. The king, Ra Al Gul, and his subordinates lived lavishly while the rest of the kingdom lived in poverty. Being the grandson of the king, it put him directly next in the line of succession. This Robin Hood would be audacious enough to steal from his kin. They would have to be taught a lesson.

“King Ra, let’s not be too hasty,” his advisor, Tim Drake, pleaded. Though it would fall onto deaf ears, “No one knows who Robin Hood is and because of this you would punish the kingdom as a whole?”

“Of course,” the king’s voice was as cold as ice, “they need to be taught a lesson. Think of the people as dogs. If they are not disciplined, then they will never obey.”

Tim looked horrified by that statement. He knew the king was cruel, but cruel enough to not value the lives of those he ruled would inevitably cost him the crown. Damian, who had been listening to this confrontation, may not have shown his love for the kingdom, but it was there. He knew his grandfather would let the entire kingdom burn before admitting defeat. “Damian,” his grandfather called, “They are yours and you are able to do as you see fit.”

‘You’re right, Grandfather, I’ll do as I see fit,’ Damian thought bitterly. He’d do what he’d have to to ensure the future of the kingdom. Damian Al Gul is not a patient man, he can’t just wait for Robin Hood to be apprehended or for Ra to die. He would have to do everything himself. His plan needed to be enacted faster then previously expected, no matter it will be done and Damian will succeed even at the price of his soul.

The thief, who the kingdom took kindly to calling them “Robin Hood,” was the orphaned daughter of bakers. Her name was Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Her parents died due to them falling ill and couldn’t afford the medication needed to save them. That was the final push Marinette needed to fight against the rich. This would be no ordinary heist, this was war. All goods stolen went directly back to the community. This resulted in a following of the Robin Hood persona. However, as all of this happened during the cover of night, no one knew who Robin Hood was. Most assumed a man because a woman wasn’t that clever. Most nobility underestimated the women of the time and what pleasure it brought Marinette to know of their suffering.

Marinette needed to slow down, she was prone to spells of clumsiness. Another selling point as to why no one suspected her to be the smoking gun, how could such a sly thief be a clumsy peasant girl. A certain god of destruction helped with that. Plagg, Kwamii of destruction and bad luck, chose Marinette to be his vessel. With the help from the cat Marinette could disappear into the shadows of the night. How ironic that the kingdom crowned her the prey of her transformed form. Nevertheless she would creep, stalk, and hunt her prey for the good of the nation. It’s a shame that her plan would be intrupted.

It happened on the 8th of December of the year 1519 A.D. Robin Hood fell through on a job. She got sloppy. A child had been involved and threw her off her usual rhythm. On this night Marinette’s sights were set on a Duke that lived near the palace, a high risk target. She didn’t know that the Prince had been watching her activity and predicted her next move. Prince Damian Al Gul was expecting a man and did not anticipate a woman in a cat suit. Her eyes were glowing an electric blue, her suit was loose with many pockets, her hair was long and braided it mimicked a tail, a staff was at her side, and sharp claws were visible. He also hadn’t expected her to destroy the chains he bound her in, “Sayonara, Your Highness!” With that she vanished within the night.

The days following had both Marinette and Damian on high alert. Robin Hood had not been active in seven days and the Prince was trying to convince his grandfather that the culprit was a woman with powers. “There’s no need to punish the whole kingdom, it’s a woman with blue eyes that can destroy anything with a single touch and long hair. The others need not be effected.”

“They help aid and abed a known criminal. They are as bad as them, and are you certain it was a woman? They aren’t smart nor strong enough to achieve such feats, perhaps the night tricked you. There is no such thing as magic,” Ra laughed heartily.

“I know what I saw,” Damian’s voice steeled, “you shouldn’t underestimate an opponent you’ve never encountered. It was definitely a woman, I’m sure of it,” Ra dismissed Damian saying how he was fooled. Damian would kill him before Christmas Eve, he swore it.

Robin Hood took a hiatus for one week before heading back onto the saddle. She hit lower risk nobles. The poor surrounding towns have been receiving copycats and claiming to be Robin Hood. All of which were males, therefore Damian didn’t even bat an eye at these claims. He didn’t understand how she could just vanish from every scene. Not a trace could be found at any of the nobles’ homes. It made him livid.

Marinette had been working odd jobs in an effort to keep food on the table for herself. She never once kept her heist rewards, all of it went back to the people. If she kept it all, she would be no better then the nobels she stole from. Redistribution of wealth would have to come eventually to keep from another French Revolution. The king should be thanking her, without “Robin Hood” the people of the kingdom would have certainly overthrown him by now. All Ra seems to be doing now is sitting on his laurel in the palace. He seems to be on a warpath because of her though.

The people of France are now being punished with lower rations, the king says until “Robin Hood” is turned in, the rations will continue to decrease. Marinette contemplated revealing herself so that the rest would not suffer because of her, but then the people of France said they would defend Robin Hood till their dying breath. “Robin Hood is the only reason my children are still alive,” one citizen shouts, “and you expect me to turn my savior in? Who are we Judas?”

The others seemed to murmur or nod in agreement. Marinette was almost brought to tears. The people of France regarded her as their hero, and as far as they were concerned Robin Hood was their true monarch.

Damian, however, was becoming increasingly more and more frustrated with Ra and Robin Hood. His plan to kill Ra would be complete by sunrise on the 23rd of December, but he was getting nowhere when it came to her. That was until a certain female baker was hired by the palace.

‘She is beautiful,’ Damian thought to himself. He did not know her name, but boy did she take his breath away whenever she walked near him. Her eyes we the most gorgeous blue he’d ever seen, her hair was short and pulled away by two ponytails. She was a goddess in mortal form. Every time she graced him with her presence, he’d drop everything to stop and stare. The baker was none other than Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

She knew the job was risky, but what’s life without a little risk. She had to be careful though, the prince constantly had eyes on her. He never spoke to her, but was always watching her. There’s no way he could recognize her, last time he saw her she was wearing the Miraculous. It’s impossible, so why was he so interested in her?

Marinette was still active as Robin Hood, she never stoped. She wasn’t as frequent, but not once did she stop. This was about something more then her safety, there were real lives on the line and all were counting on her. The palace should probably up their security, how did no one realize that she was in the palace?

Oh, they did. It was just Tim Drake’s idea to keep silent. If Ra wanted to look at them like animals, then Tim would give him animals. They weren’t obedient dogs for his bidding, the people were foxes that were plotting against every move that was made. All but the nobels knew that Robin Hood was part of the palace staff and the staff would do anything to protect one of their own.

The 22nd night of December rolled around and everything was in place for the fall of Ra. Damian had spent weeks of preparation just to ensure the perfect crime. After his mother’s disappearance, Damian’s skill set began to incorporate some less then legal activities. He knew of the types of poison Ra became immune too, he knew of Ra’s intensive knowledge of combat, he knew the interworkings of the castle’s interior. Every piece was in place, noting was left to chance.

The only unknown variable would be the appearance of Robin Hood. Ever since their first encounter, they’ve seemed to slow their pace. They didn’t stop though. It was weird how she was attacking smaller fish other then the big leagues. But she would be a headache for another day, today Damian needed to get rid of his beloved grandfather and he knew just the way to do it. He bumped into someone, “I-I’m sorry Prince Damian! I wasn’t l-looking where I was going!”

Damian recognized the voice as the baker’s, he drew a breath. He was the one who actually bumped into her, “N-No,” he cleared his throat, “No, it was my fault.”

A flush creeped its way up his neck. He didn’t understand it, Damian had experienced attraction to women before. But with her, it was like breathing for the first time. He didn’t know how to explain it, she made his stomach do somersaults and caused his mind to go blank. “Umm,” she spoke again, “well, I think it’s time I take my leave.”

“Wait!” Damian grabbed her wrist and quickly let go after turning off autopilot, “What’s your name?”

“My name?” She questioned.

“Yes, what do they call you, other than a vision of beauty.”

It was Marinette’s turn to be embarrassed now, “O-Oh, my name’s Marinette! Marinette Dupain-Cheng!”

“Marinette,” he said as if it was a spell on his tongue, “what a beautiful name to match the face of the beholder.”

Not knowing how to respond to that Marinette bowed to take her leave. After she left, Damian snapped out of his daze and continued to push his plan into motion.

*Line break*

It was the morning of December 23rd and King Ra was found dead in his bed. He died in his sleep with no signs of foul play. Oh, but foul play was at work. This left a vacancy for the throne. A vacancy that would be filled by Damian Al Gul, Heir to the throne.

After his coronation, Damian started a initiative to improve the kingdom’s poverty situation. Damian knew the Noble families horded their wealths like dragons protecting their treasure, but that would no longer be acceptable. Damian made the kingdom’s economy flurish within 2 years time. And during that time, Robin Hood retired. She said the kingdom no longer needed her.

Marinette continued her work in the palace, she as promoted as assistant to the crown in no time. She spent more and more time with the king and grew an affection for him. But in order to sustain a life, she’d need to find a husband as were the times. Tim Drake seemed like the safest choice, they were best friends. She knew Tim and a man named Conner Kent were infatuated with each other, but not everyone was as accepting as Marinette was.

Her and the king had their daily chat as he was doing his daily duties when Marinette brought up the subject, “Do you think Timothy Drake would make a good husband?”

Damian raised and eyebrow, “Yes, why do you ask?”

“I’m wondering if I should pursue him as a husband or not,” she said plainly.

“W-What?” Damian spat his wine out, “W-Why would you need you pursue him as a husband?”

“I need a husband to sustain myself. I don’t want to marry Tim, but in order to keep my family legacy alive I will need a husband.”

“True, but Tim?” Damian tried to keep his distain to himself as much as he physically could.

“What’s wrong with Tim?” Marinette asked quited angered.

“Oh, nothing... if you enjoy talking to a wet, half-asleep napkin!”

“Hey!” Marinette snapped, “That’s my friend and yours, remember that. My king,” Damian knew me messed up, she only called him king whenever he really made her mad, “do you have a better solution?”

“I-I...” he couldn’t think of anything.

“That’s what I assumed,” Marinette huffed, “Please refrian from talking bad about him like that. What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” ‘Everything that you said’ Damian’s kind took over.

Marinette had left the room, the atmosphere became too much for her. She went to help the other servants in the neighboring rooms. It was then Damian decided he would ask her to marry him.

Damian was never a patient man, remember?

——————————————————————————

A/N: I’m sorry for not posting for day seven. I wasn’t feeling the prompt for it and didn’t want to give y’all something subpar in comparison to the other thing I’m capable of creating for you. Still, thank you for continuing to read, like, comment, and reblog my work! It’s crazy to think so many of you enjoy my work! If you want to be added to the tag list all you have to do is comment or send an ask!

 Tag list: @daminette-december2019 @persephonebutkore @gingerdaile @seraphichana @mystery-5-5 @krispydefendorpolice @jardimazul @royalchaoticfangirl @theoryfan205 @goblinwhoships @emeraldpuffguide @spicybelladonna @thesunanditsangel @coltaire

[downwiththeficness]

In the Blood-Part Nine

Pairing: Brasa/Female OC

Word Count: ~3,000

Warnings: None

A/N: Listen, y’all. This is where we diverge from canon and just, you know, keep going. I’m making a lot of inferences here on the relationship between Brasa and Amaru, which may or may not be supported by the show. As many fic authors have said, “fuck canon”.

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight  Part Ten  Part Eleven Part Twelve

The bed was just as fucking glorious as she remembered it—or, had dreamt it. Whatever.  Lilah turned to her stomach and buried her face in the pillow, sighing in relaxation.  God, but it was nice to sleep on something other than a hotel mattress.  She wondered if he had one of those memory foam toppers underneath the fitted sheet, the bed molded to her body perfectly.  Lilah was warm and comfy.

Reluctantly, she reached over blindly to her phone and tapped it, surprised to see that she’d slept about twelve hours.  Her head throbbed a little where she’d been hit, and her hip ached, but Lilah felt rested.  She sat up and looked blearily around the room, trying to get her bearings.  

Distantly, she’d felt the bed dip beside her at some point in the night, but Brasa was nowhere to be found.  She leaned over and turned on the light, scrubbing at her face and yawning as she slid out of the bed.  

After making her way to the bathroom, relieving herself, and scrubbing her teeth, she padded back to the bed and climbed in.  She could go back to sleep, could possibly sleep the entire day away, if she wanted.  The thought was enticing.

A noise caught her attention at the back of the room, another door she’d missed the previous night. Through it walked Brasa.  She was shocked that he was wearing a white shirt, though it was customarily long sleeved.  Lilah was not shocked that he was wearing the gloves.  She made a mental note to ask him about it sometime.

“How did you sleep?”

She smiled, “Amazingly.”

Pausing near the foot of the bed, he took her in.  She was wearing a camisole and a faded pair of sleep shorts. There was very likely a bruise on the side of her face.  Her eyes felt swollen with heavy sleep.  Still, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her.

“I have been researching about...caring for humans,” he said, finally.  His shoulders canted forward as he leaned his palms on the foot board.  “You’re supposed to eat when you wake up.  Are you hungry?”

Lilah would have been touched by his words if she hadn’t been distracted by the play of muscle as he moved.  In black, most of him was hidden or cast in shadow.  In white, she could see every dip and hollow. Her fingers itched to traced the strong lines of his body, to explore what he kept in secret.

Drawn to him as if he’d tied a string around her belly and pulled ever so gently, Lilah pushed the covers down and crawled forward.  The wood beneath his palms creaked, but he remained still.  

“That’s very sweet of you,” Lilah whispered when she reached him, “To look that up.”

She lifted onto her knees so that she was more or less level with him and gave in to the urge to run her hands up his arms and over his shoulders.  His eyes were on her mouth,  a flush creeping over his cheeks and down his neck.

“If I’m to keep you, I need to know how to please you.”

Lilah very much doubted that he would need any coaching on that subject, if their past interactions were anything to go by.  For the sentiment, she kissed him softly. His returning kiss was, if possible, more soft, barely a brush of skin against skin.  More than anything, a question.  Lilah answered it definitively.

With a low moan, she threaded her arms around his neck, holding him to her, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth. Fuck, but she liked the way he tasted.  The coffee and caramel of his scent somehow deeper now that she got her mouth on him.  Dipping her tongue into him was even better.  He met her halfway, and she reveled in the way she could feel his body go tight with tension beneath her hands.

Wanting to know if he tasted this good elsewhere, Lilah broke away, using one hand to tilt his jaw to the side.  She mouthed at his pulse point, her breathing uneven as felt his throat convulse. Some inborn instinct made her open her jaw and run her teeth along that patch of skin.

Brasa grunted and both hands came up to squeeze her hips hard.  Lilah choked a scream as pain lanced up her injured side. She hissed a breath in, her hand immediately covering the wounded area.

“I’m sorry,” he said, panicked.  His hands released her immediately.

She shook her head, “Not your fault.”

“Lilah,” he warned, already touching her again, lifting her camisole to inspect her hip.

It was ugly.  Bruised in shades of blue and purple, about the span of a salad plate.  Lilah grimaced as he slipped a thumb beneath her shorts and underwear, tugging them down an inch or so.

“I hit the wall a little harder than I thought,” she offered by way of explanation.

Brasa’s eyes met hers, “I threw you into that wall.”

“To keep me from a rather aggressive interrogator, if you’ll recall.”

His gaze dropped back to her hip and he swallowed.  She could see the guilt in his expression plainly, it was painted all over his face, his slumped shoulders. She needed to distract him.

“I seem to remember a conversation about food. I’d like to get dressed and have some, if you’re still offering.”

One side of his mouth flicked up, “Come on.  There’s a back entrance to the kitchen.”

The back entrance was, in actuality, yet another hidden door down the hall from his room. Brasa guided her through a tight niche and pushed it open.  They stepped into the very back of the freezer.  Goosebumps rose all over her skin as she navigated around a few crates of produce and into the empty kitchen. Everything was stainless.  Stainless and spotless.  

“Make anything you like,” he prompted, taking a seat at the massive island in the center of the room.

Lilah was not a good cook by any means, having spent years in hotels with continental breakfasts and in diners on the road.  But, eggs and toast were simple enough.  She gathered her ingredients, trying to think of something to say.

While she waited for the toast to, well, toast, she asked, “Do you eat?”

“Food?”

Lilah shrugged, noncommittal.

Brasa folded his hands in front of him, watching her rifle through drawers, “I can, though it provides little sustenance.”

Making a happy noise when she found a cookie cutter, she looked at him over her shoulder, “What gives you sustenance.”

“Primarily blood,” he answered. Lilah had a feeling that he’d deliberately left the sentence hanging to see how she’d respond.

She carefully twisted the cookie cutter into the center of the toast, carving out a little circle in the middle.

“Like the culebras?”

“Yes.”

Humming, she reached over and set a frying pan on the stove, turning on the gas burner. While she waited for it the heat, she leaned her good hip on the counter and faced him.

“Do you have to kill when you…” She couldn’t find the words.

His expression carefully neutral, he finished the sentence for her, “Feed.” Then, “No.”

“How often do you have to feed?”

The fingers of his hands flexed outwards, “Every few weeks.  Sometimes more, sometimes less. Depends on how active I am.”

Much like humans, she wanted to say, her attention shifting to the pan.  She dropped the two slices of toast into it and cracked and egg in to the middle of each, setting the top on the pan.

“You said you’d been working for Javier for two years.  How long have been in this line of work?”

Lilah thought, “Hard to really put a number on it.  I did a little bit here and there before I really made it my job.  I’d say no less than seven years.”

“Javier sings your praises.”

She laughed, “I’ve made him a lot of money.  Pretty sure its my pull that paid off his house.”

“Its good that you’ve made a name for yourself,” he said, expression proud.

She lifted the top off the pan, the eggs needed more time, “I guess.  Although, that really wasn’t my aim.”

“What was your aim?”

Lilah gave him a sidelong glance, “Make enough to retire.  Go somewhere quiet. Maybe pick up a legal hobby.”

“A simple life.”

She repeated the statement, confirming, as she checked the eggs again.  They were nicely cooked, still runny.  Turning off the burner, she plated the food and turned to sit catty-corner to him at the island.  

Brasa eyed her meal with interest, “What is this called?”

“Eggs in a basket,” she said, plucking a fork from a bundle of them stuffed into a lazy Susan as well as a paper towel from the roll sitting next to it.

He watched her eat, eyes amused, “Is this your preferred breakfast?”

Lilah shrugged, “No idea. I usually just eat what’s available.”

Head cocked to the side, he decided, “Then, I’ll have to make sure you have as many options as possible, until you find your favorite.”

Blushing, Lilah forked another bite into her mouth, “Do you have a favorite? Human food, I mean.”

Brasa thought for a moment, “It used to be a meat pie.  Easy to make, easy to take with you.”

“And now?”

His eyes met her with a strange intensity, “Marshmallow, roasted over a fire.”

Lilah stabbed a piece of toast and ran it around in the yolk to soak it up, wondering how he’d focused on such a specific delicacy, though she couldn’t argue with him.  Roasted marshmallow was a pretty good favorite food.

“What happens if you don’t feed often enough?”

“It painful.  Very painful.  I would not wish anyone to feel as if their guts are being pulled out of them in one long rope.”

Lilah chewed thoughtfully, trying not to picture the image he was painting, “You sound like you’ve been starved before.”

Brasa made a soft noise of assent, and he looked away, “When Amaru—my queen—was displeased with me, she would deny me blood for months.  One time, she restrained me for a year, coming to my room every once in a while to taunt me.  Before she released me from my bonds, she pulled my fangs. It took several weeks to regrow them.”

Hand shaking as she held her fork aloft, the question was out of her mouth before she could stop it, “Why?”

“Because,” he replied, “I stared at her too long.”

“That is insane,” Lilah gasped, shocked at the frivolity of the punishment.

Brasa’s mouth twisted in derision, “That is Xibalba.”

She pushed her plate away, “I’m glad we’re going to close that portal.”

Before he could answer, voices filtered in from outside.  Lilah, out of instinct borne from years of reacting quickly to shifting circumstances, stood and grabbed Brasa by the arm.  She all but hauled him out of his seat and to the freezer, shushing him when he laughed.

They were in the back hallway before she could relax, though she heard shouts of ‘fucking night shift’ through the door before she could get it closed properly. Leaning against it, Lilah pressed her hands to her face and finally allowed herself to laugh. She felt ridiculous, and she was sure that she probably looked ridiculous. Still, a little bit of whatever was coiled up inside her relaxed.

Brasa took her hands and led her back to his room and through to the hidden room she hadn’t yet seen.  She marveled as the stacks upon stacks of books inside.  There were bookcases lining every wall, filled to the brim.  In the center of the room was a plush leather couch and a desk, a chair rolling chair tucked into it.

“I have work that needs my attention, but I’d like you near me. Can you occupy yourself with a book while I work?”

Lilah nodded wordlessly, already heading to one of the shelves and running her fingers along the spines. There must be a thousand books in here, most of them in languages she didn’t know.  Still, she looked for a while, pulled one here and there to either read the back or thumb through to the middle, until she found one that might keep her attention for a while.  Then, she settled into the couch to read.  

Like any good reader, she would lay in one position for a while, shifting a bit, then turn over, shift again, lay her feet over the arm, over the back.  Absently, she tugged a strand of her hair, wrapping and unwrapping it around her finger.  The story was decent enough, an easy read, until she got to the part where the antagonist was revealed to have been helping the hero all along.

“No…” she breathed, sitting up and then falling back down to lay on her back.

From her left came, “I was wondering when you’d get to that part.”

Lilah rolled her head to the side, eyes wide, “You’ve read it.”

The smile he was holding back widened, “I’ve read all of them.”

“And you didn’t warn me?!”

“Would you have enjoyed it half as much, if I had?”

Lilah stared at the book for a minute, “Probably not.”

“Well, there you go.”

She read for a while more, until Brasa pushed away from the desk and turned off the monitor.  He circled around and sat heavily on the sofa, one arm laying across the back of it.  Lilah made a mental note of the page she was on before setting the book on the floor and sitting up to face him.

“All done?”

He sighed, “For now.”

“What is it that you do?”

“I run a fairly large medical supplies company.  We contract and ship all over the country.”

Lilah’s brows came together, “Somehow, that was not the answer I was expecting.”

He waved away the statement, “My people need blood, a lot of it, and regularly.  The company hides the shipments we need to bring in to keep them fed.”

Smart and efficient.

She blinked at him, “Blood bags, that’s how you feed?”

“Sometimes, though its not,” he stopped, suddenly looking uncertain.

“Go on,” Lilah prompted.  She wanted him to tell her the truth.

His eyes shifted to the side, “Its not preferable.”

Her brain told her to let it go, but she asked it, anyway, “What is preferable?”

Brasa swallowed and looked her in the eye, “From the source is preferable.”

“Why?” She asked while her mind was shouting at her to shut up.

“Its warmer,” he explained, “thicker.  Sweeter.”

“Ah.” Then, “Why not feed from people?”

Sitting forward a little, his eyes softened, “We don’t need dead bodies piling up in a centralized location.  People will look for us.”

Lilah shook her head, “You said you didn’t need to kill to feed.”

“I don’t.  Others often don’t have the control to stop when they’ve had their fill.”

A long moment of silence passed between them and Lilah had the feeling that they’d turned a new corner.  A whole host of information had opened up before her and she wanted to know more about it, but couldn’t quite pick a route to travel on.  It didn’t matter.  They had time.

“There are donors, of course,” he continued, much to her surprise.

“Oh?”

“Some people like the feeling of allowing one of my kind to feed on them.”

She snorted, “I’m not surprised.”

His brows lifted in question and Lilah took the opportunity to pull her legs out from underneath her and scoot forward.

She touched his cheek, running her fingers up and over his orbital bone, “I’ve seen enough adrenaline junkies to know nothing is quite out of bounds when they need a fix.”

Brasa held her hand to him, turning to press a kiss to her palm.  Her breath hitched and she could feel her heart kick up at the feeling zinging down over her forearm.  He pulled her a little closer, until their knees met on the cushion. Lilah’s balance, already precarious, threatened to give out beneath the weight of his intense scrutiny. She wasn’t sure exactly who moved first, but suddenly he was kissing her.

His heat surrounded her immediately, drawing her in.  Lilah wished that she’d kept her camisole and shorts on instead of the sweater and jeans she was currently wearing.  She wanted to feel his hands, no matter that he was still wearing gloves.

A rumble vibrated through his chest, and she was suddenly on her back, one leg sandwiched between his body and the couch. The other was firmly grasped and wrapped around his waist.  His body weight dropped down onto her, pressing her hips open.  She winced and choked out a high pitched cry.

Brasa was off her in an instant, on his knees beside the couch before she could blink. She was left staring at the ceiling, bewildered.

“I’m calling a doctor.”

“No, you’re not,” Lilah countered, swinging her legs over the side and regarding him firmly.

His jaw clenched, “You’re hurt.”

“Yes, but I will heal.”

Brasa shook his head, “Let me get you something for the pain.”

“No. I don’t want painkillers. Its just a bruise.  It will be better in a few days.”

There might have been further argument, but her stomach growled.  How long had she been reading?

“I think I need to feed you again.”

Lilah smiled and nodded, “Three times a day, plus snacks.”

He gave that little half smile that she was beginning to be fond of, “I’ll keep that in mind. I’m going to the kitchen.  You stay here.”

Lilah watched him go, then leaned down gingerly and picked up the discarded book.  Likely, she’d finish it that night.  She gazed down at the cover, thumb running along the pages.  The last twenty four hours had been… strange, to say the least.  But, damn it if she wasn’t looking forward to seeing what happened in the next twenty four.

[greyias]

This one got… epically long. Like, over 7k words. Based on one of @grumpyhedgehog’s headcanons with her Jedi Lyra and the trash panda extraordinaire. Main pairing is Draike/Lyra (Smuggler/Jedi OC) pre-relationship, secondary pairing of Theron/Knight. I should also warn for a very brief foray into a M rating. For reasons that will become very clear about halfway through.

He didn’t care what anyone else in the Alliance said, Draike Highwind was in the very firm opinion that life on Odessen was boring. The pace around the base had practically slowed to a crawl the past few months, what with them officially laying low and trying to stay off the galactic radar while the rest of the galaxy started to ramp up back into their umpteenth war. Not that Draike liked the constant state of war they all seemed to live in, but at least out there things were happening.

A thin trickle of condensation ran down the side of his glass, and he flicked the droplet across the cantina table, watching it skip along the smooth polished metal surface. It wasn’t the most entertaining diversion — no, he still had a few hours left before that particular game started again — but hey. It was better than watching paint dry. Another trickle worked its way down the side of his glass, and he tried to see if he could get further distance.

“You do realize,” a pleasant voice chimed in, “they make coasters for that.”

Draike lifted his attention from the very interesting and oh-so-important glass of booze to see the familiar form of Lyra Dorn, standing next to his table. As usual, she was looking stereotypically Jedi, decked out in armor and robes even though they were just stuck here in this boring excuse for a base of operations. Her honey blonde locks swept back from her face as she arched a delicate brow at him. He spied a datapad in one hand, and in the other a platter filled to the brim with fried Capellan turg-root, roast gorak, and Ahrisa.

“I’m just livening up the place,” Draike said drolly, by way of greeting.

Lyra almost rolled her eyes, but seemed to catch herself before plopping down in the chair opposite him, delicately setting down the platter in the center as if it were some sort of offering. That was all the invitation he needed, and he snatched up a turg-root.

He was already halfway through chewing with when she let out a half-sigh, half-laugh. “Yes, those are for you.”

He just returned the remark with a crumb-filled grin, as if to say, “I know.”

That got past her internal defenses, and she was unable to suppress her urge to roll her eyes. The twitch at the edge of her lips let him know she found it amusing though, despite whatever airs she liked to project.

Summoning some modicum of manners, Draike finished off his bite and waved a hand at the plate. “You can have one too.”

“Oh, how magnanimous of you,” she said, but there was no sting to her tone, and she politely pinched off a piece of Ahrisa, setting down the datapad as she did so.

He eyed the device, disguising his suspicion with an easy smile as he snagged another turg-root, smothering it in one of the spicy sauces ringing the platter. “What you got there? Some spicy HoloNet fic? Apparently the latest trope everyone’s writing about is the poor betrayed rebellion commander and their traitorous spy lover.”

“How do you know that?”

“There is nothing to do here. I get bored.”

“Those are about your sister!”

“Look, it’s not my fault she professed her undying love to her stupid boyfriend in front of an open broadcast to the entire galaxy!”

“And that’s your brother-in-law now.”

“Don’t remind me,” he grumbled. “Okay, so if you’re not reading fictionalized accounts of my baby sister’s love life, what’s the datapad for?”

She shot him a look, as if to ask him once again why she would ever read trashy romance about a real person in her life, much less a relative of his. “It’s…”

“Yes?”

“For your reports,” she sighed.

“What? My reports?” he sat up a bit straighter. “Why?”

“Someone made me aware that you’ve been having difficulty getting your reports turned in on time,” Lyra said hesitantly, “and so I thought I’d help you out with them.”

Draike managed to summon his most offended face to bear. “So you bring me a giant platter of my favorite food as a ruse to trick me into working?”

“It’s not a ruse,” she was quick to reassure him, “it’s a… peace offering. And fuel for the brain.”

“It’s a bribe is what it is.”

“Oh, and so what if it is?” A little bit of haughtiness was beginning to creep into her tone, accent thickening ever so slightly as his combativeness managed to puncture her friendly demeanor. “You need to get your reports done, and I’m willing to help you write them because I am a good friend. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is I don’t need help writing my reports,” Draike said, crossing his arms as he leaned back into his seat.

“What... yes you do! Theron said—”

An almost maniacal grin spread across his face before he even realized it and quickly smothered it. Usually he was better at keeping a good Sabacc face, but for a moment, even that was eclipsed by the momentary and purely malicious glee that stole through him.

“What was that?” Lyra asked.

“What was what?”

“That look.”

“There was no look.”

“Yes, there was. I know that look—Draike.”

One of the most boring parts about living on Odessen was the rules—and the paperwork. On his own, he only had to do the bare minimum of paperwork to get his cargo runs in. Just enough legality to keep people off his back. It was annoying, but he did what he had to. And at some point he just let Risha take care of that sort of thing — he secretly suspected she enjoyed the tedium. Alas, those salad days were behind him. Here they liked to dot all of their i’s and cross all of their t’s. They wanted a flimsi trail and records for runs, but also stupid things like, incident reports. Which unless something really exciting happened was just an absolute snore fest.

So, he’d made a little game out of them.

Because of course the one person who was hounding him the most for all of this pointless paperwork was his new brother-in-law. If there was something Draike liked less than being told what to do — it was being told what to do by a joyless workaholic that was giving it to his baby sister every night.

“Your report was supposed to be handed in this morning. Do you need any help getting it—?”

“Oh no, help isn’t necessary. I’ve already got it done.”

An adorable little frown of confusion creased Lyra’s face. “Then why the delay?”

“No one, and I mean no one gives Draike Highwind orders,” he said proudly. “Shan will get the report when he’s good and ready.”

Bless her heart, Lyra always seemed willing to believe the best in Draike, even more than most people. That belief was getting tested at the moment, as he could see the wheels starting to turn in her head. She hadn’t put the pieces together yet, but she would soon.

“I’ve got, oh,” he made a show of glancing at the chronometer, “about nine hours and fifty four minutes to go before turning it in.”

As if in triumph, he picked up another turg-root and ate it with an almost perverse pleasure. This time he didn’t try to smother the big grin that blossomed in full on his face.

The thing about Shan was that he was way too predictable. Mister Super Secret Agent Man and dedicated workaholic was never too far from a datapad, whether it was in the war room or in his own quarters. If something were to come into his inbox tagged as urgent, his type couldn’t resist taking a look. No matter what they were doing. And hey, what could Draike say if maybe the message was perfectly timed to chime in right at the most, ahem, romantic portion of Shan’s evening? And if the report itself had been a little more exciting than expected, so exciting that it completely distracted Shan from any other plans, well that was just a side benefit. He was just trying to keep everyone entertained. And of course every report had a twist ending, because Draike was really giving like that. The twist being that the giant  cliffhanger he was building up to was all a sham, and that the incident report was really just a boring waste of time all along.

By his reckoning, Draike was pretty sure that he’d successfully prevented any nighttime activities between his sister and brother-in-law for at least a week now. If Shan was sending Lyra to do his dirty work, it meant he was probably getting desperate. Perfect.

Lyra let out a long suffering sigh, still acting as if she was trying to negotiate some all-important intergalactic trade deal instead of just trying to get her best friend to do some pointless paperwork. “Look, if it’s already finished, I could send the report in for you. Theron does need to sleep some time you know.”

He just snorted and shook his head. “I love you, sweetheart, but you don’t mess with a man’s data stream. If Shan has a problem he can come and talk to me—”

Draike’s statement ended in a lurch, his whole body going rigid as he suddenly processed his own words. He slid a look over to Lyra, who blinked back at him. The hints of a smile were starting to form at the corners of her mouth, something she tried to hide by taking a prolonged and yet somehow delicate bite of her Ahrisa as if she hadn’t heard anything at all.

It didn’t really matter how much she pretended though, because he knew what he’d said. It was as if the entire, expansive cantina had somehow managed to shrink in those few seconds, the natural carved stone walls closing in around him. His chest tightened, each breath a little harder to pull in than the last, as all of the blood drained from his face.

Panic could take on many forms — it all depended on the person. Some people go rigid and weren’t able to move. Others hid theirs with anger or lashed out at others. Some didn’t hide theirs at all, going into full on hyperventilation. But Draike Highwind was none of those types of people. And so he scanned the room, desperately searching for salvation, and found it in the tall form of a Wookiee at the bar.

No actual coherent thought was in his mind as he leapt to his feet, Lyra, the datapad, and platter of food seemingly forgotten as he loudly proclaimed for every patron of the cantina to hear. “Hey, Bowdarr!”

The wookiee looked up with an inquisitive growl.

“You know I love you, right? I love all my friends!”

Bowdarr shook his massive furry head, neither confusion nor resignation registering on his face as suddenly the much shorter human had crossed the threshold, practically slinging his arm around the taller being. Without missing a beat, Draike slung his other arm around the Mon Cal that was also at the bar.

“You too, Guss!”

“Oh, Captain! This is so unexpect—”

“Hey, you! Droid!”

C2-N2 had been dutifully sweeping up a mess over in the corner of the cantina, and the protocol droid looked up in confusion, as if not expecting to be pulled into this of all conversations. “Oh, Captain Highwind, as flattered as I am by your affections, I don’t—”

“What? No. I don’t love you.”

“Well I never!”

“You’re taking good care of my sister, right?”

“But of course, Captain Highwind. I am the primary expert on comfort in all of—”

“Yeah, yeah yeah. You know how much I love her right?”

An audible and communal sound of confusion rippled through the entire cantina. Apparently, this was news to everyone on base.

“In fact,” Draike continued, broadcasting at the top of his lungs to drown out the dissenters of his brotherly affection, “you should go let her know that. Right now.”

The protocol droid practically saluted him as he scuttered off to do as he was told. Orders taken, Draike turned to give the next, and possibly most important person in his life, the good news, and proclaimed to the bartender on duty his undying love for the perfect glass of whiskey that he poured every night.

Off in the corner, Lyra sunk further and further into her chair the louder Draike got, eyes raising up to the ceiling. As if somehow, counting all of the flecks up there would somehow, magically, get him to stop.

This was the perfect plan, if Theron did say so himself. Not that he was really saying much at the moment. Just enjoying the slow, slick slide, the enveloping heat, and the low but appreciative noises filling the room. It had been far, far too long. That was, of course, a nice chunk of his good mood—just having some nice quality time with his wife. But it had the added benefit that he’d finally managed to outwit his stupid brother-in-law’s attempts to derail it. There was no way Draike and his late reports could screw this up. All it had taken was rearranging several meetings and some nonessential business to get the afternoon off.

And Theron was putting the time to good use.

His lips wandered their familiar route, starting just under the shell of his wife’s ear, slowly making their way to the hollow of her throat. Just the way she liked it, if the fingernails digging into his back was any indication. That’s right. Just like that. He let out his own sound of appreciation, and just a little more and he’d—

That thought, and the precious rhythm he’d been building up, was completely shattered as the telltale hiss of hydraulics cut through the room as the door to their quarters whooshed open. Both occupants in the bed went completely still, wide eyed and dumbfounded as a little breeze of recirculated air drifted in from the hall.

Before Theron could say anything, or even twist in what was now a very awkward position, a cheerful robotic voice called out from the doorway. “I have wonderful news, Master!”

A frown of confusion stole over Grey’s face, clearly perplexed by whatever was more important than their privacy.

Heedless to this breaching of protocol, C2-N2 continued on obliviously. “Your brother was just telling the whole of Odessen how much he loves you and how much you mean to him. He urged me to make sure I was taking the best possible care of you that I could!”

At this point, any glimmering hope of continuing their previous activities had now been shattered thoroughly. Theron let out an inarticulate growl as he disentangled himself, flipping and turning even as the bed’s coverlet, previously shoved out of the way magically flew up to cover both occupants propriety. Just about at the same time, Theron had grabbed the nearest pillow, and had chucked it as hard as he could towards the doorway.

It was a marvelous throw. One for the ages. Truly, Theron had missed his calling in Huttball. Unfortunately, pillows weren’t nearly as aerodynamic, and it flopped to the floor several feet away from its intended mark.

“Oh my!” Seetoo exclaimed.

“Close the door!” Theron’s snarl echoed across the expanse of the room.

“Oh, quite right!” Seetoo hit the button for the door to close, and it swished shut behind him. That task completed, he turned back to the bed as if awaiting further instructions.

“I meant for you to shut it with you on the other side!”

“Well, you must be more specific in your wishes if you—”

“Get out!”

“How rude.”

Theron flopped back on his pillow, or he would have, if he hadn’t flung it across the room. Instead his head hit the mattress with a slight spring and bounce back. The motion made him nostalgic for thirty seconds ago, when that bounce back had been for different reasons. He glared at the room in general, as if it had betrayed him. After thoroughly expressing his displeasure with his environment, he turned to look at his wife.

“First it was the manipulative Force parasite in your head interrupting us. Now it’s your brother.”

By proxy no less.

“Did you just compare my brother to Valkorion?” Grey asked. He couldn’t tell if she was offended or in agreement with him. At the moment he didn’t particularly care.

“If the evil shoe fits!”

At some point, Draike’s near maniacal effusion of love for every person and object on Odessen had finally run its course. Probably around the time that Bowdaar had practically shoved a bottle of whiskey into his mouth. It had been an effective measure of finally getting the endless stream of affection to stop.

It had been a little while since that point. So much so that Draike had migrated from his laze-a-bout in the cantina over to the Logistics Hangar. He wouldn’t have said that he was consciously avoiding Lyra or anything, but at some point he’d looked back to where he’d abandoned her at the table and realized that he may have made things a little awkward. There was an itchy feeling on the back of his neck as a tiny in voice in his head told him that he needed to apologize to her. That voice sounded a little too much like his mother for his own comfort, so he studiously avoided it.

Besides, a far more logical part of his brain said that he had nothing to be sorry for. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

He looked up from his contemplative perch to see his brother-in-law angrily storming in his direction. Draike took in Theron’s untucked shirt over rumpled pants, the lack of belt and mismatched slippers in place of the normal calf-high boots, bloodshot eyes, twitching brow, and a possibly new undiscovered vein bulging in his forehead. As an expert in the field, Draike recognized the all-too-familiar signs of someone who had dressed very hastily. That same wide, nexu-like grin spread across his face at the sight.

Okay. Maybe he had done one thing that was technically wrong. But why did it feel so right?

The open display of amusement did nothing to quell the spy’s rage, as he finished closing the distance and furiously poked a finger into Draike’s chest. He growled something distinctly unflattering in High Gammorese, and while Draike tried to hold his mirth in—he didn’t really try that hard, because he almost doubled over laughing.

This only egged Theron on, and the next string of curses mixed in several other languages. Who knew the man was a polyglot?

“I will have you know that my mother was a saint,” Draike managed to get in between wheezes, “and you better not let your wife hear you talking about her like that.”

That seemed to break through Theron’s sexually frustrated rage long enough to stem the seemingly endless, nearly incoherent tirade. But the anger was clearly still simmering. If looks could kill, Draike was pretty sure he would have been a puddle of incinerated goo on the floor of the Logistics Hangar. Of course, he’d been on the receiving end of far worse looks. Shan would need to bring his A game if he wanted to attempt to intimidate Draike Highwind.

Theron started again, in Basic this time. “You son of a—”

“Ah ah, a saint,” Draike reminded him, possibly a little too mockingly.

Theron’s mouth shut with an audible click, and breathed out a long whistling breath through his nose.

“You know, Shan, you really should put a little more care into your wardrobe. Tumble bunny slippers? Really?”

The spy wrinkled his nose, the newly discovered vein seeming to bulge again with a freshly ignited rage. “You sent that droid into our quarters on purpose!”

“Who? Me?”

“Yes, you!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Draike widened his eyes, the complete picture of innocence. How was he supposed to know that Theron was trying to route around his carefully crafted plans and engage in a little afternoon delight? Truly, it had just been a cosmic coincidence that had turned out in the smuggler’s favor.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Highwind! I know what you’re up to!”

“And what is that?” Draike blinked languidly.

“I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of saying it out loud!”

“Oh, no,” he tsked sadly, “is there some trouble in the bedroom with you and the misses?”

“Knock it off!” Theron snarled. “What the hell is your problem?”

That sort of language utterly wounded Draike, and he displayed that the only way he knew how, by dramatically clutching his chest and crying out in the most melodramatic fashion. “I’m just upset that I wasn’t invited to the wedding!”

“What?” Theron asked flatly.

“It was always my dream to walk my baby sister down the aisle — and your elopement ruined that!”

“…no it wasn’t, you goddamn liar!”

“I’m wounded, utterly wounded!”

Theron pivoted on his heel, letting out an inarticulate frustrated cry.

“You know what would cure that bad temper?” Draike couldn’t help himself. “A little good quality time with the little mis—“

The rest of his sentence was drowned out by another particularly vile High Gammorese curse as Theron stormed off. A final “Turn in your goddamn reports!” echoed across the hangar, and Draike couldn’t hold it any longer and broke down in laughter.

There was really only one problem with Draike’s plan to completely avoid any potential awkwardness with his best friend — and that was when you completely avoided someone, it had a tendency to compound the issue of not seeing them. In fact, Draike had been so successful in his efforts, by the time it occurred to him that maybe he’d overreacted a little, and the encounter itself had probably long faded from her mind, Lyra was nowhere to be found.

Which was just rude. People shouldn’t be able to use his own tactics against him. There had to be some sort of rule or code against that.

Naturally, all inquiries made in regards to her whereabouts were completely and utterly casual. As he had carefully cultivated an upstanding reputation of detached aloofness that had served him well. If he appeared too eager for anything, someone might get the bright idea in their head to saddle him with more responsibility — maybe mistake him for the other Highwind on base that seemed to thrive under that sort of thing.

And it wasn’t like Lyra was the most entertaining Jedi or Force user on base to hang around with, she wasn’t even the most entertaining person—because apologies to everyone, Guss would forever and always hold both of those titles. No contest. No contenders. It was just the cold, hard facts of the situation.

But if Draike was being honest… her company was missed some. Bowdarr didn’t laugh at his stupid jokes that he told in an attempt to cheat—er, strategically get the upper hand—at Sabacc. The wookiee just let out a non-amused growl and called him on it. And Guss just kept trying to palm the cards himself. It just wasn’t the same. He would hang out with Gault, but both Hylo and Theron had strictly forbidden it, as if they were convinced the entire base would erupt in flames if the two of them engaged in a battle of wits.

(And there was no way in hell he was ever going to sit at a table with that Rattataki, no matter how many lewd invitations she offered.)

So, Draike had been forced to turn to the very last place that he would ever dare to find answers: the duty roster.

“Who the hell is Houch Plehnt and why is he flying my ship?”

“Last I checked, the Khoonda was registered to Master Dorn, not you.”

Draike looked up to see one smirking and insufferable spy staring at him over the brim of a large mug of caf.

“Shan.” Any joviality in the greeting on Draike’s part was forced. “Nice to see you up and at ‘em. Still suffering from that acute case of prolonged sexual frustration?”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” a wide, unrepentant grin spread across the other man’s face, “I’ve found that if I wake up early enough, there’s definitely enough time to fit in a quick bit of quality time with the little lady. Sometimes twice.”

“Gross! That’s my sister you’re talking about!”

“A wise man would know better than to ask a question he didn’t want the answer to.”

“Don’t think I won’t camp outside your door and bang pots at random intervals!”

“I think our guard droids might take issue with that.”

“HK-55 loves me and you know it!”

“Where are you going to find the pots?” Theron challenged, taking a long sip off his mug.

“I have friends in the kitchen!” Draike crossed his arms. “They’ll hook me up.”

“Don’t you think you’re going to excessive lengths to ‘protect your sister’s virtue’?”

“She’s a Jedi, I think she’s entirely capable of protecting her own virtue,” Draike sniffed indignantly. “Besides, this has nothing to with her, and everything to do with you.”

“And what did I do now?”

“You let some moon jockey take my ship out!”

“Again, not your ship.”

“Well, it’s the closest thing I’ve got to one until we track down where mine is,” Draike huffed.

“Guess it’s a shame you were off pouting somewhere when Dorn got her mission then,” Theron said a little too casually, taking another long, slow sip from his mug. “She had to go find another pilot since you were incommunicado.”

Draike tried not to look as put out as a he felt. Lyra knew that he was bored out of his skull and she had just left him here? And had gone off with some moon jockey? Who probably couldn’t even take off without scraping the paint? Houch Plehnt — what kind of name what that anyway? Man probably didn’t even know how to handle his blasters! (Pun partially intended.)

“You don’t just hijack someone’s crew, Shan!”

“Oh?” There raised those eyebrows again, another sip and a smirk. “Your crew, eh? I didn’t realize things were so… official.”

“They’re not,” he snapped back, perhaps a little too quickly. “We just have an understanding—she knows how bored I am! And she just leaves me here?”

“What she left you was this message.” Theron paused in his sipping and smirking long enough to produce a datapad. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

“It’s not.”

Theron shrugged, picked his mug back up and began to amble off. Presumably to his next meeting, or a rigorous and boring round of coding, or something equally dull and chaste per the elaborate fantasy that Draike was concocting in his head. 

“You still haven’t sent in your report for the Kathol Rift incident yet.” The spy didn’t turn around or even flinch at the silent, rude gesture sent his way. “Maybe you’ll have some time to finish it now, since you’re so bored and have nothing better to do.”

“You know, Theron, I never pegged you as some flimsi pusher,” Draike called after him, which seemed to break through the smug haze, because he saw the spy’s shoulders stiffen, as if that insult had hit particularly close to home. “I guess we all become the thing we hate, eh?”

“You’re the one with the problem here, Captain, not me,” came the sharp reply, before the spy stalked off.

Draike glared at his retreating back, and when that had finally disappeared off into the bustle of the Odessen crowds, he turned his ire back to the traitorous duty roster that had started this whole thing to begin with. He ignored the datapad in his hand for longer than was probably necessary, before finally flicking the thing on.

Hey you. Got a little job to do in Taris. Couldn’t find you to see if you wanted to tag along. Houch Plehnt volunteered — should be back in a day or two. Wish me luck, he’s… not as quick with his blasters as you are. If you know what I mean. See you later, friend.

He glared at the datapad and the text on it, trying to smother the rising and conflicting emotions welling up in his chest. The walls weren’t closing in like the other day, but that nagging voice was starting to whisper in the back of his mind. In particular he kept staring at the word “friend” over and over, as if trying to parse out if it was some sort of hidden message.

It was stupid, that’s what it was. If she wanted to get herself killed by letting some random person with lesser skill at the helm of her ship, then fine. So be it. See if he helped her steal it back again if the jerk decided to fly off without her. Of course, that might strand her on Taris, which was not exactly friendly territory to have to try and navigate a flight out of.

Whatever. It wasn’t any of his business. He had better things to do. Like go teach Guss how to cheat better at cards.

In between about the thousandth time of trying to demonstrate the proper way to palm a card, and Guss accidentally spraying the entire Sabacc deck across the table, Draike had to admit defeat on his latest venture. The game of 76 Card Pickup was only entertaining about the first three times in a row, and then it just became dull. Like everything else around this place.

While he was amazing at most everything he did, Draike would have to admit that maybe he could have been a more effective tutor if he didn’t keep getting distracted by trying to calculate the average duration of a roundtrip between Wild Space and the Ojoster sector. Granted, a talented pilot could shave off a little time from that route, but he was pretty sure Houch Plehnt was anything but. Did the man even know the front end of his blaster from the back?

Not that Draike was concerned.

Because he wasn’t. He just had to find some way to fill his time, and unfortunately he’d been reduced down to basic algebra problems that most school children learned in their third year. And he wasn’t put out. How could he be? It wasn’t like he and Lyra had any formal arrangement (no matter how much Shan tried to slyly imply) to not go on missions without each other… they just… hadn’t for a long time. It wasn’t an expectation exactly, it was just the way things had been for a while. Help each other on assignments, hang out in the down time. Keep the ever encroaching boredom at bay for a little longer.

He also would not define himself as moping about the Logistics Hangar, with Guss trying to pick up an entire Sabacc deck off the floor where he’d accidentally flung it for the umpteenth time, when the Khoonda made its landing again. The ship’s owner emerged down the boarding ramp, covered in something utterly foul. Draike had almost no warning before a particularly sticky and odious arm was flung around his shoulders, an unidentified muck slurping itself onto his jacket.

“Hi,” Draike said, one hand discreetly covering his nose. “Miss me?”

“Yes,” Lyra enthused as she laid her head on his shoulder, further smearing the gunk of whatever covered her onto his skin.

He valiantly did not cringe at the slimy sensation. “You know that you stink, right?”

“It’s your fault,” she insisted.

“I don’t recall smearing you with the most disgusting substance known to man. That you’ve now smeared all over my best jacket.”

“Good,” she said firmly, “ and it is your fault. You disappeared on me, forcing me to take Houch as a pilot.”

“What kind of name is that anyway?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Lyra wrinkled her nose. “He was so afraid of getting bit by a Rakghoul he refused to step off the ship. So I had to get samples for Lokin myself.”

“Wait, so this stuff is—”

“Yes,” Lyra said lightly, “Rakghoul guts.”

“This was my best jacket!”

“Was being the operative word. Now it’s just a jacket covered in guts. We match!”

Draike sniffed indignantly, which was a mistake because all it gained him was a giant whiff of the odious stench emanating from the Jedi. “Why did you not shower?”

“Because Houch was so afraid of being infected he quarantined me in the cargo hold. Wouldn’t even let me near the refresher.”

“It’s your ship!”

“Trust me,” she muttered dangerously, “I know.”

“He still in the cockpit? I can go give him a hug on your behalf.”

“You’d do that?”

“Bastard stole my ship and by proxy ruined my favorite jacket. He’s got it coming.”

“You do realize it’s technically my ship, don’t you?”

“Why does everyone keep bringing that up?”

“Well, you have fun talking to Houch,” Lyra said breaking away, “I am going to go take a shower and then burn all of these clothes.”

“Looks like I’ll be doing the same,” Draike muttered petulantly.

“And be nice to Houch.”

“No promises!”

The conversation itself was normal. Friendly side-hugs and spirited banter but… as Lyra walked away, Draike couldn’t help but feel something about the encounter was different. The barbs just a little more pointed, and Lyra avoiding catching his eye. She had usually been quick to follow up the banter with some sort of reassurance, but this time she just walked away. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d been an ass, and she had always let him off the hook before. He wasn’t sure why this time was different, but it was.  

He watched her go, that same matronly voice in his ear starting up in its familiar scolding refrain.

The expletive slipped out on its own accord. His jacket was thoroughly ruined. It was a nice jacket. He’d just finished breaking it in. The sleeves were no longer stiff, and it had breathed so much nicer than the cheap synthleather ones that they kept in stock here on the base. Also, Houch Plehnt really needed a sticky Rakghoul gut hug. But mostly the man just needed to be kicked off and banned from ever re-entering the Khoonda.

Is that all you should really be thinking about right now? — the infuriating voice in the back of his mind asked.

He tried to come up with some excuse, some flim-flam to distract it, but arguing with one’s self was the first sign of insanity. He couldn’t give into it now, not after managing to keep his wits about him being stranded for five years on a backwater planet while the galaxy passed him by. That would just be insult to injury.

Fine. Fine. He’d listen to the stupid voice just this once.

It was much, much later when he found her out in the nerf pens. After a shower, burning his jacket, and covering one asshole Rodian pilot in rakghoul guts — not necessarily all in that order — he walked into one of the dirtiest places on base. It seemed almost pointless for Lyra to scrub herself clean and then go commune with the giant stinky beasts, but this was where she liked to hide out when she was trying to pretend she wasn’t upset. Like that time they had to steal back the Khoonda from the Corellian shipyards. Or the anniversary of dates that she’d never really explained the significance of.

Just like those other times, she was petting the nose of one of the giant, gentle creatures. Leaning in and saying something low. He spied a small smile playing at her lips, even if there was the air of something else about her. Like even with her big animal friends she felt she had to pretend that everything was fine.

Draike cleared his throat, and both Jedi and big nerf head looked up at him. He held up a bag from the mess hall as an offering, and her eyes lit up at the familiar sight. She gave the big beast another affectionate pat on the nose, whispering something before wiping her hands and ambling over. Just like all of the other times, they took a seat on one of the fallen logs that served as a makeshift bench.

They didn’t exchange a word, but he pulled out the to-go containers and utensils. She took his offering, removing the lid and inhaling the spicy scent wafting out. The smile that played at her lips was different from the ones she graced the nerf with, and she arched a brow at him. The noodle dish wasn’t her favorite Dantooinian variant, but it was the closest he could wrangle up. Thankfully, the grumpy cook wasn’t in the kitchen today, so he’d been able to negotiate a special order.

“Smells spicy.”

“I’m surprised you can smell anything over that nerf,” he said.

She shook her head, lips pressing together lightly, but the expression was a familiar mix of exasperated amusement. Not the slightly edged smile she’d greeted him with in the hangar, so that was probably a good sign.

“I don’t recall this being on the menu today,” she remarked lightly.

“I called in a favor.”

“How big of a favor?”

“There’s an extra container of hot sauce in here. You’re liable to lose a few taste buds.”

“Ah, that was quite the favor,” she mused. “The kitchen never wants to make it spicy enough.”

“You just have to know how to ask nicely,” Draike shot back, “and also slip them a few credits when no one’s looking.”

She slurped up a noodle with more gusto and noise than was necessarily proper, but the genuine smile blossoming on her face counterbalanced the breech in manners. For a few minutes, they were content to munch on their food as they watched the giant stinky beasts graze. It was almost tempting to just let the companionable silence stretch on, but he was supposed to be listening to the stupid little voice in his head, so…

He took a little time preparing the noodles for his next bite, seemingly focused on getting the absolute perfect twirl as he spoke. “I turned in the damn report.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pause in the middle of her chew, shaking her head almost in disappointment. As if that wasn’t the actual issue. He continued to twirl his fork slowly, gathering more and more noodles and sauce. She was the one that left him behind, and yet he had swallowed his pride and given that stupid smug spy the satisfaction of having his precious paperwork turned in on time.

You know that’s not the real issue here, that damnable maternal voice in his head whispered again.

He ignored the voice. It only got one good deed out of him per month. That was the deal.

“You left me here,” he said continuing to twirl the noodles into what was starting to resemble a monstrous bite.

“You disappeared,” Lyra shot back. “What was I supposed to do? Refuse a mission because you were pouting?”

“I was not pouting,” Draike said huffily.

“Then what were you doing?”

He didn’t have an answer for that, so instead of replying he stuffed his now epically sized pasta twirl into his mouth. It was a mistake, as there was hardly any room to chew, and the spicy oil of the sauce set his cheeks on fire. Gamely he looked at her and shook his head, pointing at his full mouth as if in explanation that he couldn’t answer her question with his mouth full. The effect was ruined by the fact that he could feel a bead of sweat start to trickle down his face, his traitorous body betraying the fact that he was not as immune to the level of spice that she enjoyed in her dishes.

Lyra quirked a brow at him, unimpressed by his obvious skirting of the issue, while an oddly satisfied smile threatened to quirk at the corners of her mouth. It made him feel as if he had stepped into some sort of well-planned Dejarik maneuver she had been planning from the beginning of the game. Although Lyra Dorn really wasn’t the evil mastermind type.

“It really stung, you know,” she said after a moment of literally letting him sweat, “that you’d avoid me instead of talking to me about whatever was wrong.”

He could have had a perfect follow-up quip for that to distract and derail the conversation, but his mouth was still both on fire and impossibly stuffed with noodles which prevented him from forming any coherent sound. So he just let out a muffled series of noises in protest.

“Chew your food,” Lyra said, that eyebrow quirking again.

He snorted out an annoyed breath and tried to find a way to safely chew his monstrous, ill-conceived bite. He felt not unlike one of the big, stinky piles of fur chewing their cud. In retrospect, perhaps this maneuver of stuffing his face to avoid questions had backfired, as he was now at the mercy of anything else the Jedi had to say.

“I’d never strong arm you into saying or doing anything you didn’t feel,” she continued. “The fact that you don’t trust that…”

He shook his head at her, still unable to form coherent words.

“No, you don’t trust me?”

He shook his head again.

“No, that’s not what you meant?”

He nodded.

She sighed. “Can we just both agree to not do that again? Neither of us goes incommunicado when something’s wrong and… you never leave me at the mercy of a Houch Plehnt again. Fair?”

Draike couldn’t sigh, could only snort out a very long and aggrieved breath through his nose and shrug in an exaggerated manner — but he nodded. That seemed… fair.

“Good.” Lyra shot him a small, almost mischievous smile. “You know you’re being uncharacteristically silent.”

He tried to say something, but his mouth of noodles prevented more than an impolite, disgruntled sound.

“Chew,” she reminded him again, that little smirk still blossoming further. “So, did you get up to anything fun while I was gone?”

He let out another incoherent noise of frustration, unable to form proper words around the fire on his tongue and the noodles trying to slip out of his mouth.

“It’s impolite to talk with your mouth full, Captain.” Lyra clicked her tongue, and took a delicate, small bite. “You know, these are really good.”

He wrinkled his nose at her and tried to communicate his plight with his eyes.

She just flashed him another wide smirk, leaning over so she could bump his shoulder with hers. “You want some of my extra sauce to help wash those noodles down?”

Her only reply was a disgruntled grunt.

[creepingsharia]

A Month of Islam in America: May 2019

After more than 11 years of aggregating the painful details of the onset of sharia law in America, May 2019 was the month American tech companies Wordpress.com and Automattic enforced sharia law and banned the Creeping Sharia blog. With no explanation.

WordPress.com Blacklists Blogs Critical of Islam

Originally we suspected it was several years-old images (seen here) that Pakistan claimed violated Islamic sharia law but that would be too easy. It was more likely that terror-linked, foreign-funded CAIR was involved in the systematic shutting down of sites in America that are critical of sharia law and jihad.

As such, this month’s report is a little shorter than prior months. Click any link for details and please share on your social media sites while you still can.

May 2019

Jihad & Terror

Minnesota: Somali Muslim cop found guilty of shooting woman who called police

Mohamed Noor became the first former Minnesota police officer found guilty of an on-duty murder Tuesday as a Hennepin County jury convicted him for the fatal shooting of Justine Ruszczyk Damond in 2017.

Missouri: Bosnian Muslim female refugee pleads guilty to providing support to Islamic State

Sedina Unkic Hodzic, a 39-year-old St. Louis County woman, pleaded guilty to one count of providing material support to terrorists in federal court.

North Carolina: Pakistani Muslim immigrant arrested after lying about contacts with terror organizations

Waqar Ul-Hassan, a Pakistan native, was arrested when he arrived from the Middle East at Charlotte Douglas International Airport.

Hassan admitted to authorities that he lied and was in contact with two terrorist organizations, ISIS and Jaish-e-Mohammad, according to the complaint.

Muslim who plotted to bomb Chicago bar gets 16 years, could be out in less than 3

A federal judge on Monday handed an Illinois man Adel Daoud a 16-year prison sentence for trying to kill hundreds of people by detonating what he thought was a car bomb outside a crowded Chicago bar, saying she factored in Adel Daoud’s mental health in imposing a sentence much lower than prosecutors requested.

The sentence — which, with time served, could mean the 25-year-old goes free in less than 10 years — includes prison time for attempting to have an FBI agent killed and for slashing an inmate with a shiv for taunting him with a drawing of the Prophet Muhammad.

Texas: Muslim Found Guilty of Conspiring to Support ISIS

Said Azzam Mohamad Rahim, a 42-year-old United States citizen, was convicted of one count of conspiracy to provide material support to a designated foreign terrorist organization (FTO), one count of attempting to provide material support to an FTO, and six counts of making false statements involving international terrorism to federal authorities.

Texas: Jihadi Recruiter Pleads Guilty to Conspiring to Provide Material Support Pakistani Terrorist Org (LeT)

Michael Kyle Sewell, 18, who was arrested in February, formally pleaded guilty to conspiracy to provide material support to Lashkar-e-Taiba, a Pakistani-based foreign terrorist organization also known as LeT.

Alabama: FBI uncovers another Siraj Wahhaj Islamic training camp a few miles from Tuskegee

...plot of land in Macon County, Alabama is described in an FBI search warrant as a “makeshift military-style obstacle course” belonging to a small group of terrorists led by Siraj Wahhaj who owned the property up a long dirt road but just a few miles from downtown Tuskegee.

New Jersey: Man who funded Hamas, spoke of bombing Trump Tower, attacking Israeli Consulate is arrested 

New York: Muslim Immigrant Convicted For Covert Terrorist Activities On Behalf of Hizballah’s Islamic Jihad

A jury returned a guilty verdict against Ali Kourani, a/k/a “Ali Mohamad Kourani,” a/k/a “Jacob Lewis,” a/k/a “Daniel,” on all eight counts in the Indictment, which charged him with terrorism, sanctions, and immigration offenses for his illicit work as an undercover terrorist operative for Hizballah’s external attack-planning component.

“Ali Kourani was recruited, trained, and deployed by Hizballah’s Islamic Jihad Organization to plan and execute acts of terrorism in the United States.” 

South Carolina: Greenville man who offered to be suicide bomber for ISIS sentenced to 10 years

Michael Bruce Messer, Jr., posted a message in an online forum stating he was interested in joining ISIS and volunteering as a suicide bomber.

While at his residence, agents found a .38 caliber pistol, according to the statement. They found another .38 caliber pistol during a warrant search on May 9, 2018 as well as assorted items related to ISIS, according to the statement.

Virginia: Somali Muslim FBI translator charged after his own voice was intercepted on terror surveillance calls

Abdirizak Jaji Raghe Wehelie, a former FBI translator, was arrested and has been charged with doctoring transcripts in which his own name appeared on intercepts of phone calls placed by a terrorism suspect.

Immigration Jihad in America

Kentucky: Imam at the Islamic Center of Lexington charged in murder-for-hire plot

Oregon: U.S. revokes citizenship of imam at Portland’s largest mosque over jihad ties

Texas: Afghan pilot training program terminated after almost half went AWOL in America

Information slowly emerging about pipe-wielding mob of Somali 'youths' who attacked people waiting for light rail train in Minneapolis last Friday

Virginia: Muslim immigrant who drove for Uber and Lyft is Somali war criminal, jury finds

Texas: Jordanian (Muslim) pleads guilty to smuggling Yemeni (Muslims) into the U.S.

Islamic Rape & Violence Against Americans

Minneapolis: 54-year-old Somali Muslim charged with stalking 11-year-old girl

New Jersey: Muslim Woman Convicted of Keeping Sri Lankan National as ‘Slave’ for 9 Years

Judicial Jihad and Dhimmitude in America

Muslim immigrant who plotted 9/11 Times Square, Grand Central subway bombing to be released on time served

'American Taliban' John Walker Lindh released from prison

Sharia in Your Community

Philadelphia: Muslim American Society Mosque Kids Sing “We Will Chop Their Heads Off” (VIDEO)

Muslim Group Tells Writers Guild of America to Further Islamize Hollywood

Florida: Tampa Bay mosque security guard shoots and kills Muslim at Ramadan feast

Philadelphia Int’l Airport submits, allows Muslim cabbies to keep makeshift (illegal?) mosque on property

Sharia in American Education

Washington: School District Asks Teachers to Bless Muslim Students in Arabic During Ramadan

Sharia Adherents in Elected Office

POTUS held a Muslim celebration at the White House and whoever wrote the speech for him slipped in 100% pure Islamic taqiyya (lies).

Watch the video at this tumblr post.

Fraud for Jihad in America

Whoever wrote this speech for @POTUS slipped in a doozy - pure taqiyyah. At least Trump didn't invite terror-linked Muslim groups like CAIR, MAS, ISNA, ICNA, MSA, Emgage & others but why is the Month of Jihad even recognized at the White House? https://t.co/8nvEPoWv0k pic.twitter.com/0Qb0jLAVz2

At Least $41 Million U.S. Taxpayer Dollars to Questionable Islamic Groups

Terror-linked Muslim Org ICNA Solicits Donations for Islamic Prison Program

Victories Against Sharia in America

California: Law Center Thwarts Muslim Attempt To Silence Disturbing Truth About Islam

South Carolina becomes 32nd state to outlaw female genital mutilation (FGM)

Washington: Northshore School District Quashes Special Ramadan Policy for Muslims after Threat of Legal Action

Oklahoma: CAIR dismisses lawsuit against “Muslim-Free” gun range

             =========================================

As we have been warning for 11 years, if the threat of sharia is not stopped in its tracks, you will lose your right to speak freely, and even commenting or criticizing Islam and Muslims will become a crime.

Sharia law is now in effect in America whether those of us subjected to it admit it or not.

As we tweeted then, Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?

[thebiasrekkers]

Fragmentation 0.4 - KTH

Plot: How does one measure freedom? Are our choices truly our own, or are they part of a preset design outside of our control? We all have a question burning inside of us, though few speak it out. It is the question that drives us forward, seeking purpose in our lives. What is The Matrix?

Rating: NC-17 // NSFW

Genre: Series | The Matrix!AU | angst | sci-fi | action | drama

Pairing: N/A

Warnings: Strong language, allusions to suicide, extreme angst, graphic violence

Links: FAQ || BTS Masterlist || Admin E’s AO3 || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 2,204

AN: And here we have Taehyung with his brother, Namjoon, in the Real World in Zion. Again, all information in the universe can be found on the official Matrix Wiki so please use that as a reference guide if you ever get confused!

Tag List: @aroseforyoongi​, @prisczero​, @pinkpjmin​, @btsaudge​, @flowerwrites06​, @unoriginal-username15432​

© thebiasrekkers (Admin E). All rights reserved. Reposting/modifying our work is prohibited. Translations are not allowed. Plagiarism/stealing is not tolerated by any means. Legal action will be taken in instances of theft.

“Big Brother,” Taehyung called, watching his brother, Namjoon, halt in his steps to look back at him, “are we going to be separated?”

A look he couldn’t place spread over his brother’s face. Taehyung surmised that it wasn’t anything good. He bit his lower lip, fighting back the urge to cry. His eyes lowered to the metal flooring of their home. Sucking in air through his teeth, he closed his eyes to keep the tears from spilling out. A sudden weight fell on the top of his head, causing him to look up as he met Namjoon’s gaze. 

His expression was softer now.

“It won’t be for long,” he reassured, rubbing Taehyung’s hair comfortingly, “and we’ll be seeing each other again before you know it.”

Taehyung’s lips trembled slightly, forming into a small smile. He knew his brother was doing his best to ease the wave of anxiety threatening to overtake him. But there was a part of him that worried about so many terrible things happening before they could reunite. There were rumors that some failed the training program outright. Others died from the heavy mental and physical strain placed on their persons. 

Maybe it was the child-like optimism he had, but Taehyung knew that his brother wouldn’t fail. He wouldn’t either.

Their mother worked tirelessly in the kitchen, trying to put some semblance of a meal together for them. She knew she wouldn’t be seeing her children for several years; not until they finished their training programs. Namjoon would head down the path of an Operator, the same occupation their father had before he died. The Elders of Zion said that their father was a hero, but Taehyung knew they were just being nice.

He died before he could activate the ship’s EMP, butchered by Sentinels that destroyed the ship his father was a crew member of. 

No matter what, he would find a way to be with his brother. To make sure nothing like that happened. To do so, he had to pick a different goal. Taehyung would become a pilot.

“Taehyung! Namjoon! It’s dinner time!”

They both turned in the direction of the kitchen, Namjoon gently urging Taehyung to head out first. He didn’t have to look behind him to know that his brother was following closely. When they reached the kitchen, they saw a spread fit for an important guest and couldn’t help but eyeball it with obvious fascination. There was no way that they’d finish this in a single night.

“Mom,” Namjoon said as she set metal cups filled with water next to each plate, “this is too much…”

Taehyung scrambled into his chair, resisting the urge to dive into the bread, cured meats and dried fruits. He could feel his mouth watering already. “This looks awesome!”

Their mother smiled, reaching out to pat their heads. “Nothing less for my brave boys,” she said, the pride clear in her voice, “you need to eat well to do well.”

They both nodded, digging into the food heartily. Between laughter and light conversation, it felt like just a normal day in the Kim household. But they knew it wouldn’t be like this for a long time. Taehyung remembered his brother telling him that the coming days of spoiled bliss leading up to their departure was for their mother more than it was for them. They only needed to do their part and allow her to bask in these simple gifts. 

“Have you boys picked your names yet?”

“Spectre,” Namjoon replied as he bit into a slice of apple, “just like Dad.”

Taehyung watched as their mother’s smile fell a little, but then it returned even bigger than earlier. Her eyes took on a watery sheen and she reached out to wrap her arms around Namjoon. A soft blush crowned Namjoon’s cheeks and he cupped his mother’s elbow. Taehyung looked away to stare at the bread and dried fruit on his plate. The truth was that he hadn’t even thought of what name he would use. He always assumed one would be given to him.

“And you, Taehyung?” He looked up, meeting his mother’s gaze. “What name have you chosen?”

He felt like he was going to be swallowed up by his mother’s deep hazel eyes. There was a time when those same soft eyes were hard like a rock’s; the eyes of a person who looked Death in the face and told him “Not today”. She did it without fear. 

He smiled. “Edge.”

His mother blinked, her lips parting slightly. “But Taehyung, that’s--”

“I know.” His smile grew wider. “That was your name.”

Looking across the table at his brother, he saw the smile creeping around the corners of Namjoon’s mouth. His chest filled with warmth at knowing that his brother approved of the name choice. Their mother let go of her alias a long time ago. They remembered their father telling them once that she was thinking about giving it all up when she became pregnant with Namjoon. Stepping down from the role of Captain of her APU squadron, their mother focused fully on raising her children when she gave birth to Taehyung a year later.

Actual tears streamed down her face and she stood up, leaning over Taehyung and pulling him closely into her chest. She cradled the back of his head, stroking through his dark hair, and it wasn’t long before Namjoon was also hugging him from the other side. Taehyung lifted his arms so he could pull them in even closer to him.

“No matter what happens, I want you both to know that I am so proud of you.” Both Taehyung and Namjoon looked into their mother’s tear-stained face. “And I know that your father would be too.”

Seven Years Later

“EDGE! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!”

A devious smirk slid over Edge’s features as the ship rattled and clanked around them. “Hold on to your lunch, Captain!”

His eyes zeroed in on the terrain of cables, pipes, and junk that managed to pile up over the years in the tunnel system. Veins of electricity flared out in either direction and he gripped harder on the flight controls. He quickly swiped his fingers over the control panel in front of him, redirecting power to the hover pads at the ship’s stern.

The ship dipped quickly, falling several hundred feet. Edge didn’t bother stopping the laugh as his co-pilot made a retching noise from the sudden shift in their gravity. 

“Forty-five percent to starboard bow,” he said through his laughter.

Again, his co-pilot gagged behind his hand. “F-Forty-five percent to...to starboard…”

“Bow!”

“B-Bow!”

Edge jerked the flight controls to the left, swerving the hovercraft hard as they rounded a sharp corner. Metal groaned in protest and people were swearing at the top of their lungs. Others were cheering in the artillery section of the ship. 

“Fifteen percent to port bow!”

“F-F-Fifteen percent...oh, God.” The gagging was soon followed by actual vomiting. Something wet hit the floor, but Edge remained focused on the path in front of him. 

“Stagger! Port bow!”

“Y-Yes Sir! Fifteen to port bow, Sir!”

Again, Edge yanked at the flight controls. The ship screamed as electric pulses erupted around the left side of the ship just as they made a right turn. In four hundred feet, they would hit another drop and would be able to bee-line it straight for Zion’s main gate. 

“Come on, baby,” he whispered, his eyes darting in every direction as he pushed the engines further, “we’re almost there!”

“SLOW IT DOWN, EDGE!”

Edge chuckled, pushing the controls harder. Sweat slid down his neck and shoulders. “Aw, don’t be like that, Cap.” He quickly mashed several more key commands on the console in front of him. “You know that she doesn’t like it when you speak to her that way.”

“THIS ISN’T A GODDAMN RACE!”

“I beg to differ, Sir. It’s always a race!” Reaching over, he smacked Stagger’s shoulder to get him back into focus. “Eighty-three percent to the ship’s bow!”

Stagger wiped at the mess around his mouth and gave a determined nod. “Aye, Sir! Eighty-three to bow!”

“EDGE!”

“Careful, Sir! You’ll bite your tongue!”

The front of the ship lit up with bright blue and white spider veins of electricity just as he pushed the stern of the vessel back. He called it his “leap frog” technique, allowing him a single opportunity to bounce the ship just before reaching a drop to give it extra momentum. It was slightly taxing on the ship’s hull, but reduced the power needed to launch it forward - utilizing gravity more than the reserves on the ship.

It wasn’t a fan favorite.

Metal things clanked around throughout the ship as he spun the ship into descent. More crew members hooped and hollered their approval. There was a good chance that his captain would refer Edge to recycling - deciding that he needed to start the training program over from the beginning. But if he could beat his previous record return time, then it might have been worth it.

Electric waves sprayed in various directions as the hovercraft pillowed down at the base. Edge let his shoulders relax and he sank back in his chair as the main gates to Zion were in clear view. Rushed footsteps thundered from the back and he braced himself for the screaming onslaught that was sure to come.

“God fucking dammit, Edge,” screamed Captain Halo into his ear, causing Edge to laugh and wince simultaneously, “you’re going to get us all killed one of these days!”

He shrugged one shoulder, poking one finger into his ear just as an incoming transmission reached their communications panel. “This is The Hierophant requesting permission to enter Zion.”

“Access codes required for entry.”

Edge leaned back in the chair, giving Captain Halo time to enter the access codes. Once entered, they waited for the confirmation beep.

“Thank you. Welcome home Hierophant. You are cleared for Dock Seven.”

“Roger that. Moving to Dock Seven.” Edge set the controls to auto-pilot, allowing for the hovercraft to coast through the main gate. He stretched his arms high over his head, popping the tension from his spine. “It’s good to be back.”

The rest of the Hierophant’s crew quickly gathered their belongings, all of them excited for the results of their final exams. The ship secured its landing gears on the dock, shaking the entire vessel. After the cabin was de-pressurized, the electronic ramp disengaged on the landing pad. The door slid open, allowing everyone to disembark.

Edge lingered in the pilot’s seat a little while longer, his fingers undoing the straps from around his chest. 

Stagger unstrapped himself from the co-pilot seat, sidling over the opposite side from where he’d thrown up. “You’re not coming?”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Edge replied as he met Stagger’s gaze, “I want to say goodbye properly.”

“Whatever.” Stagger smirked, reaching out to clasp a hand on Edge’s shoulder. “You’re one crazy sonuva bitch, Edge. But you’re also one helluva pilot.” The two of them shared a smile. “I’m gonna miss ya.”

“It’s been real.”

The both punched fists before parting ways. Captain Halo shuffled up beside him after watching the other trainees exit the ship. Edge hissed when he felt a smack to the back of his head, rubbing it gingerly. Not that it actually hurt, but he was a showboat in various ways.

“If you weren’t such a skilled pilot, I’d request that the Admiral kick you out of the program entirely.”

Edge flashed his trademark boxy smile at him. “Awe, c’mon Cap. Don’t be that way. You know I’m better suited to fly.” His expression softened some. “I’ll always get my crew home. No matter what.”

“I don’t expect anything less. Heroism is great, but real heroes remember what’s truly important.” Captain Halo sighed, placing a hand on top of Edge’s head. “You’ll do more good being alive than getting yourself killed. Remember that.”

Smirking, he saluted his Captain - the main he admired and served under in the program for the last three years. “I won’t forget, Sir.”

The Captain reached into his pocket and pulled out a small mini disc. “Take this to Central Command. They’ll award you your wings.”

Edge stared at the disc in amazement, but before taking it, he stood to his feet and gave his Captain a proper salute. “Sir, yes Sir.” 

He took the disc, slid it into his pocket, and saluted the Captain again who, in turn, saluted him as well. 

“Make your crew proud, Soldier.”

Captain Halo took his leave, allowing Edge to bask in the good news. He was a full-fledged pilot now. The only thing he had to wait on was his next assignment. He’d had a good run with The Hierophant, but training was over. His next ship would be the ship that he would pilot until the end of his days. The crew would be his lifelong friends and partners.

Reaching one hand out, he stroked the flight controls affectionately as his vision blurred from oncoming tears. He smiled, laughing slightly as a warm feeling spread across his chest.

“...see ya ‘round, Hierophant. Be good to the next one, alright?”

[its-jwang2017]

Part 3: Why Jinyoung is a Genius but Not Very Smart

Ok! I've been gone for a bit... and I am very sorry... but now I am back! With a brand new chapter!

As I said before, Jinyoung really wanted the focus to be on him this time... so we'll get his view for this chapter, then we'll jump to a week later to see what they've done with the place. I had to split this up into two chapters because I wanted to show y'all just how ill-fitted our villains are to the #evillife , just like we see in Megamind.

Also, we get to see Yugyeom in this chapter!!! Guess who he has a crush on...

As always, let me know about any spelling mistakes or general got7 errors. I'm doing my best to remember nicknames and stuff, but I'm not the greatest, being an international aghase... anyways, read and enjoy!

Jinyoung jogged up the steps of the sports complex, digging through his backpack in search of his fake Loyola University ID. Normally, Jinyoung would never be caught dead in a gym filled with other gross, sweaty, hormone amped students (he pays extra to go to a high quality private gym, thank you very much), but today was a special day. He had overheard a conversation between two of his younger classmates, Bambam and Yugyeom, while he happened to be meandering by their open dorm room. From what he could gather, Yugyeom had asked Bambam to make him a fake Loyola University Student ID, which was suspicious for three reasons: Yugyeom attended JYP International Prep, he did not know anybody that attended that university (Jinyoung had to look up his Facebook page for the details... it was interesting to say the least), and he wasn't even old enough to attend university. Now, Jinyoung considered himself a smart person, a genius even. He had noticed that Yugyeom had been acting oddly the past couple of weeks, to say the least. Always spaced out and acting extra happy for seemingly no reason, almost like he was under some sort of spell. So, being a concerned hyung that he was (stop laughing, Jaebum!), he made it his mission to figure out the new puzzle that was being laid out before his eyes. It wasn't because he was bored or because he had nothing to do.... No, not at all.

Let it be said that Jinyoung did nothing by halves. When he was committed to something, he was fully committed. So after he heard that interesting conversation between the troublesome duo, he waited outside the room, very casually, until Bambam walked out. He then (not so casually) convinced Bambam to spill the tea by placing some vague, very subtle threats in every other sentence.

What he found out from that conversation was that he threatened Bambam too much in Korean class since the younger seemed to be unaffected by his menacing glare, the hand holding him against the wall, and the venomous words attacking him. At least the younger was still scared enough to make Jinyoung a fake ID so he could figure it out himself.

So here Jinyoung was, digging through his backback for the well-made badge that would get him through the doors (and 85% closer to solving the mystery) when he saw it. There, in his backpack, was the faint blue glow of his latest invention buried underneath stacks of essays, folders, pens, wallet and other school supplies. Jinyoung wasn't normally a "messy" person, but that morning he was crunched for time and had to shove anything he could grab from his desk into his bag in order to both surprise Yugyeom and then later meet Bambam and Youngjae for a study session. Looking back, Jinyoung could now see that he should have turned right on his heels and headed straight back to the "lair" in order to return the potentially catastrophic item to a safe, destruction proof location. The gun wasn't even an official prototype yet, just something that Jinyoung created during another one of his sleepless nights.

Instead, he acted like a character in a B-rated horror movie and shrugged off the nagging voice in his gut that screamed, "turn around!". The opportunity to figure out the puzzle and thereby be granted an exclusive pass to tease Yugyeom about it was just too great of a prize for him to pass up! So, ignoring the faint ominous glow of the contraption in his backpack, Jinyoung continued his path towards his younger friend and finally grabbed the Loyola ID out of his bag. As he scanned the card and walked through the doors, he immediately spotted the hunched over figure of his classmate sitting at the receptionist desk, playing on his phone and practically ignoring everyone around him.

Shaking his head and smirking to himself, Jinyoung conscientiously made his footsteps heavier and made his way over to the younger. When he finally made it up to the circular desk, his footsteps not breaking the other's concentration in the slightest, Jinyoung leaned over the barricade in order to see what was taking up so much of Yugyeom's attention. When he saw what appeared to be a livestream of a fencing match on the tiny home screen, Jinyoung rolled his eyes and let out a huff of disappointment. Seriously, Jackson must be some sort of super... It's the only way that he could have so many guys incapable of making proper choices whenever he's involved.

Smacking his hand hard against the table near Yugyeom, Jinyoung let himself have a couple moments of laughter as Yugyeom dropped his phone and let out an audible shriek, before smoothing his face back into a serious expression. He watched the younger scramble to reorient himself after the sudden shock to his system as he walked towards the other side of the desk and allowed himself into the receptionist space. "Seriously, Yugyeom-ah? I thought digging up dirt on you would have been so much more... enjoyable than this." drolled Jinyoung, his hand flippantly gesturing at Yugyeom.

"Jinyoung-hyung! I... what? How did you find me?!" Yugyeom whisper-shrieked, trying his best to scooch as far away from the older boy as his wheelie chair would allow, his phone laying forgotten on the floor.

Jinyoung idly poked around the various items of the tiny space, giving off an air of vague interest the entire time. "I bribed another student to tell me where you always scurry off to after school. And by bribed, I mean threatened. And by student, I mean Bambam. And by scurry off, I mean creepily follow after. Seriously, what is up with Jackson that everyone seems to be lovestruck whenever they spend more than four minutes with him? I don't understand. It seems as if only Youngjae and I are immune to his charms. Even his best friend, Matt or whatever, seem to be practically in love with the guy with the way they're always attached at the hip!" Jinyoung exclaimed with a dramatic flourish.

Yugyeom sank lower in his seat with every word, red blush creeping up onto his face as Jinyoung sat opposite of him, feeling more exposed than ever in front of the other. "Jinyoung-hyung, I don't know what you're talking about..."

Letting out a bark of laughter, Jinyoung leaned back against the desk and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Let me count the ways in which you, Kim Yugyeom, are a lying liar who has an unhealthy obsession with one Jackson Wang," Jinyoung dramatically exclaimed, ignoring the other's attempt to shush him and raised his pointer finger up in the air, "One! You were watching a livestream of his fencing performance and always keep up to date with his activities online. The video is still playing on your phone, by the way." Jinyoung said with a pointed look at Yugyeom's phone from which the fencing match could still be heard.Yugyeom practically dove out of his seat and snatched his phone from off the ground, his face as red as a tomato. Ignoring the other's pitiful attempts to get Jinyoung to stop talking, he continued, "Second! In Korean class, whenever you're partnered with Jackson, you turn into an ineloquent, stuttering mess. At first, I assumed it was either because of lack of sleep, that you were cursed by a witch, or that you reached a new level of prepubescent clumsiness due to your gangly, overgrown limbs. However, upon further review that I just made in the last eight seconds, it is glaringly obvious that you are head over heels for the fencer! Even though I am probably the smartest in that class, there is a chance that the other less-smart people have figured that out however improbable that may be. His best friend is probably suspicious of your intentions towards Jackson by now. It got even worse after Bambam's party a couple weeks ago, now that I think about it... Anyways, third-"

"Jinyoung-hyung, please stop tal-"

"THIRD!" Jinyoung shouted, slapping a hand over Yugyeom's mouth and ignoring the curious stares of the students around them. "Yugyeom-ah, you can't interrupt, I'm monologuing. Third, you practically insert yourself into any situation that involves helping Jackson even a little bit. I've seen you practically bodyslam Youngjae out of the way in order for you to be the one to offer Jackson a dumb pencil to replace the one he broke. I mean, that's a bit obsessive, don't you think. And I save the best for last!" Stepping back and removing his hand from Yugyeom's mouth, Jinyoung gestured to the entire facility that surrounded them, spinning around on his heels for dramatic effect. "You literally, somehow, scammed your way in to working a part time job at a college that you don't even attend! Probably because you knew that Jackson attends most of his fencing matches here and you wanted to be near him. I mean, you barely look legal, how did these people hire you when you look like you're 13? Bad managing, probably. Am I right or am I right, Yuggie?"

Slumping in defeat, Yugyeom covered his face with his hands, embarrassment preventing him from looking at Jinyoung in the eyes. "Oh my god, it sounds way too creepy when you say it like that!"

Jinyoung, feeling slightly proud of himself that he was able to embarrass his younger friend like this, decided to put the other out of his misery. "So, Yugyeom. Care to explain your stalker-like tendencies?"

A soft whine escaped from between Yugyeom's hands, the freshman sitting back into his chair and rubbing his face, eventually letting his hands fall to his sides and stared off into the ceiling, face still burning with embarrassment. "Hyung, there's nothing to say!"

"...."

"Jinyoung-hyung! I mean it!" "...."

"Stop looking at me like that!"

"...."

"ALRIGHT FINE!"

Jinyoung smiled triumphantly, the menacing glare vanishing off of his face. "Go on then, Gyeommie! Tell your hyung all about it!"

Yugyeom glared half-heartedly at his so-called 'caring' friend, wringing his hands together as he prepared to tell Jinyoung everything. "Ah... well... you see... Jackson and I... got....together... at Bambam's party?" Yugyeom mumbled, his words disconnected and quiet.

Jinyoung's whole body unwillingly jerked at the younger's statement, brain trying to process the new information. He had about twenty seconds to put his monologue together about Yugyeom's crush, that he had assumed was one-sided, but this new puzzle piece threw the whole picture off kilter. "Wait, so you two...?"

Yugyeom nodded his head, face somehow becoming even redder at the implication. "Yeah...it's just, I had a crush on him for a while and I was a little drunk and he was drunk but everything was consensual!" Yugyeum rushed out, hands fluttering around as he talked. "I don't think he realized who I really was until the... the morning after. And he asked if we could still be friends, he was so nice about the whole thing, and I said yes but I think... I think I really like him so I tried to... woo him as best I could! So I've been trying to show him that I could be a good... boyfriend to him and Bambam suggested I start working here so that I could see him more often outside of class but I never do and people always look at me strange, probably because I am pretty tall but look younger...Even when I see him, I have to hide because I also thought it was weird if he actually saw me working here but it was nice to see him outside of class! It's... been a stressful past couple of weeks, hyung!"

Jinyoung stared open-mouthed at Yugyeom, feeling a bit overwhelmed at the new situation he was presented with. Looks like JB has some competition.

Moving to kneel beside the distraught freshman, Jingyoung placed a hand on the other's knee, doing his best to try to comfort his friend. "Yugyeom-ah. This may not be my place to ask and you do not have to answer, but I would like to know because it would clear things up a bit for the both of us. Was Jackson....was he...you know... your first?"

Hands wringing together, Yugyeom looked down and away from Jinyoung, his head slowly nodding. Sighing, Jinyoung continued, "Yugyeom, does he know?'

Wet eyes stared straight at Jinyoung as the other shook his head.

Now, Jinyoung was not usually a very tactile person but he also wasn't completely heartless. He was the person who caused the metaphorical emotional dam inside the younger to break and spill over, so he thought he at least owed Yugyeom a bit. He took the other's hand in his and carefully wrapped one arm around Yugyeom's shoulders, making the other lean in to him. The two were moderately close in school, having shared some of the same classes and lived on the same floor with overlapping friend groups, but Jinyoung never felt as close to the other as he did in that moment. Ignoring the slight wetness building near his collarbone where Yugyeom buried his face into, Jinyoung started to slowly stroke the others back, hoping his movements would give the other some comfort. "Yugyeom, why didn't you say anything? I just thought I would come here to embarass you, not make you cry!"

Laughing wetly, Yugyeom shrugged his shoulders, leaning back out of Jinyoung's grip and wiping his face with his t-shirt. "I didn't think we were at that stage in our friendship, Jinyoung-hyung. I should have asked you, though, because Bammie gives the worst advice!"

The two boys burst into laughter, surprising a couple students as they walked by. Stifling their laughter, Jinyoung stood up and stretched out his legs and arms. "Don't worry, Yugyeom-ah. You're not the only freshman who's fallen in love with their elder after having a one night stand. Especially when their elder looks and acts like Jackson Wang. Jackson and I may not be the closest, but after working with him in class, I can say that he's intelligent, funny, creative, athletic, and talented. However, those same words of praise do not stretch into his ability to perceive others emotions. You should tell him. I'm sure you'll either get a boyfriend out of this. An older, hotter boyfriend at that," Jinyoung winked at Yugyeom, avoiding his half-hearted swat at Jinyoung's stomach, "Or you'll get the nicest let down in history and you'll be able to tell yourself that, at the very least, you tried!"

As if a switch had been flicked on inside of Yugyeom's head, Jinyoung watched as the embarrassment faded away and determination replaced the look on the younger's face. Yugyeom pushed his chair back and stood up at full high, causing Jinyoung to look up instead of down. Curse Yugyeom's freakishly tall genes!

Yugyeom stuck out his hand which Jinyoung reluctantly took. "Jinyoung-hyung! Thank you for your words! I will do my best and try to ask out Jackson-hyung and make him see me as more than just a naive freshman! And if he says no, I swear I won't become a lovestruck teenager in an old Taylor Swift music video anymore!" As Yugyeom vigorously shook the older's hand, all Jinyoung could do was nod in agreement, smiling slightly at Yugyeom's enthusiasm. While his attention was still on Jinyoung, the eldest took the time to firmly grip the hand in his grasp and tug Yugyeom closer to him.

"So, Yugyeom, I've been dying to know... Did Jackson prefer to give or receive?"

Jinyoung laughed as his words got the desired effect, watching as Yugyeom quickly let go of his hand as if he had been burnt and scrambled away, stuttering out ineligible words all the while. "Yugyeom-ah, I was kidding! Don't be such a prude." Jinyoung said, ruffling Yugyeom's hair. "Besides, we both know he's more of a twunk than a hunk, am I right?"

Before Yugyeom could grab Jinyoung and strangle the other like he desperately wanted to do ever since the conversation started, Yugyeom noticed the other's stare was a bit too far to the right of his head. Quickly spinning around, Yugyeom's stomach dropped and his whole body froze. He would recognize that bright red hair anywhere and the person connected to it was quickly approaching up the steps to the facility now.

In a fluid motion, Yugyeom reached behind him and grabbed whatever piece of fabric his hand landed on. Ignoring Jinyoung's squawk of protest, Yugyeom roughly jerked the other forward towards the front end of the desk, letting go just as he ducked underneath in an effort to hide himself from plain view. "Jinyoung, it's Mark!"

"Mark, who?"

"Jackson's best friend!" Yugyeom whisper yelled at Jinyoung, listening for the familiar sound of the door opening. "He's literally in the same class as us and sits next to Jackson every day, how could you not- Aish, that's not important! He shouldn't see me here! He's probably here for the match now!"

Jinyoung looked down incredulously at the hiding figure. "So, you're saying you were watching a live stream of a match that you could have just... watched in real life?"

"Jinyoung! Now's not the time to berate me! I'm hiding!" At that moment, Yugyeom heard the doors get roughly pushed open. "Tell him it's down the hall to the right! He could be lost!"

As Yugyeom hid, Jinyoung did his best to look as professional and greetabl as possible. He was sure Mark wouldn't recognize him. Or he hoped, because that would definitely be embarrassing if the other recognized him when Jinyoung barely knew who he was. For whatever reason, they were never really paired up in any of the three classes they had together but only knew each other through the talks of the shared mutual friends they had. Clearing his throat, Jinyoung utilized his inner Yugyeom voice and called out to his noticeably stressed classmate, "Mark-hyung! You're so late! Jackson-hyung is almost done with his match!"

Jinyoung barely restrains himself from sending a judgmental look at the other as Mark just stares at him in shocked silence. A light punch to his leg spurs him to continue talking, his left hand pointing to Mark's right, "Down this hall, on your left! Maybe you'll see the last couple of seconds!"

Jinyoung watched as Mark ran away, sending a barely perceivable Thank you! Over his shoulder before disappearing down the hallway. He may not be the most perceptive person, but he is cute.. I'll give him that.

Jinyoung's pulled from his thoughts as he is roughly shoved aside, the space he once filled soon replaced by a grumbling Yugyeom. "The door isn't on his left when he goes down that hall, it's straight ahead!"

"Hey, you were the one who literally gave me a five second notice. If I knew I was going to play a receptionist today, I would have worn fancier clothing to complete the part!"

The oncoming fight was soon interrupted as Jinyoung's phone rang loudly, Shinee's 'Lucifer' playing loudly in the once quiet(ish) facility. Holding up one finger as if pausing their conversation, Jinyoung tugged out his phone from the inside his pocket and answered it in one fluid motion. "Hello, Park Jinyoung here."

"Jinyounggie, are you done torturing Yugyeom-ah now? We've got work to do."

At hearing the monotonous voice of his so-called best friend, Jinyoung starts slowly backing away from the confines of the circular receptionist desk. "Hyung! I was just leaving. You know me, I had to go all out on embarrassing our precious yugyeommie!" Jinyoung said, making kissy faces at Yugyeom, who returned it with an ugly face of his own. Sighing at the rejection of his aegyo, Jinyoung mouthed back exit? After being pointed in the right direction, Jinyoung resumed his conversation with his impatient roommate, walking quickly in the direction Yugyeom suggested. "I have the ray with me, we're all set. We've been planning this for days, don't worry!" Jinyoung exclaimed, making sure to avoid that his possession of the untested ray was completely planned.

"Jinyoung-ah, with you, I always have to worry. We don't even need the ray yet, why do you even-?"

"Jaebummie, don't you want to see the miraculous product built with my blood, sweat and tears??"

"I shouldn't have even asked... Now, the plan is set for tomorrow at Buckingham Fountain. There shouldn't be a lot of tourists in the early morning, so we should plan it for then. I think we should-"

Jinyoung pushed open the back door, only half-listening to Jaebum as he repeated the same plan that the two had been going over for the past five days. JB and Jinyoung had worked together for the past couple of years, after they found out about each other's powers when they were roommates during their first semester, so Jinyoung was used to the whole overprepared pre-battle spiel Jaebum would give the day before. He figured out that if he nodded his head and agreed with Jaebum every once in a while, the other would continue talking and Jinyoung could ignore the speech in favor of literally anything else.

He hummed along with whatever Jaebum was currently speaking, switching his phone to the other ear in order to tug his backpack off of his arm and around to his front. Digging through his backpack, Jinyoung looked for something to distract him. A book, a pencil to click, even the fidget spinner that he took from Yugyeom's desk earlier. With half of his mind focused on entertaining the droning one-sided conversation in his ear and the other half looking for a source of entertainment, he didn't notice that a runaway pen had slipped through the trigger of his sonic ray. It only took one accidental sweep of his hand against the pen to activate the blue ray. Before Jinyoung could even register the sound of the device triggering, he was jerked sideways onto the grass as the ray blasted one side of his backpack open and hit the wall that Jinyoung had walked beside seconds earlier.

The whole event happened in a matter of seconds and there was nothing Jinyoung could do to stop it as he watched a hole replace the spot that solid concrete once held. Belatedly, Jinyoung realized his phone had been thrown to the ground next to him, his screen completely shattered. Luckily he seemed to be unharmed, which could not be said for his half a backpack that he had left, as he sat up and watched the smoke rise. Surveying the scene, Jinyoung winced as he noticed a couple of passed out students who were located too close to the blast site. Otherwise, the scene was blessedly clear.

Hopefully they won't remember any of this...  

He sat back on one arm as he ran his other hand through his now soot/dirt covered hair. "Jaebum is gonna be so mad at me when he sees this..."

Jinyoung froze as he heard familiar, boot covered footsteps approach from behind him. "Jaebum-HYUNG is actually furious at you, Jinyoung-ah."

Jinyoung whirled around just in time to catch the watch that was thrown directly at his chest. His eyes looked up to meet his best friends cold, unforgiving glare and he felt a tiny twinge of fear rise up in his gut. Darting his glance away from the other's face, Jinyoung noticed that Jaebum was already in full uniform, his suit already charged and ready.

"Jaebum-hyung, I can explain-"

"We'll talk later. Honestly, I sort of expected this. You're lucky I happened to be in the area. We'll do the plan today so suit up now and let's go inside. Red Dragon should be here any minute and we've wasted too many seconds."

Jinyoung could only nod as he quickly put the watch on his wrist, activating the handy device as soon as he could. Ten seconds later, Project J stood side-by-side with Dark Soul, both in full battle regalia with their helmets open and suits glowing a faint blue as Dark Soul's powers energized their suits. Project J quickly suppressed the orange schematics that popped up into his field of vision, instead focusing on "gripping" the both of them with his telekinetic abilities. As the two rose into the air, he briefly glanced at Jaebum before their helmets snapped into place. The glimpse of the 'angry chin' was all Jinyoung needed to see as they floated towards the still dust covered ruins of the gym. If things didn't go according to plan during this impromptu 85% pre-prepared battle, he would definitely be getting an earful later.

And.... well... you know what happens next. It did go according to plan. Sort of.

*Alright! Next chapter will be a week in the future (hopefully posted within the week). I've decided against the markson reunion. It just doesn't fit the general flow of the story, but maybe I'll do a dramatic one-shot later. I've written their reunion already, but I wasn't happy with the direction it would take the story in so I decided against publishing it in this work. So look out for another series, written by me, focusing on tidbits I've written that just don't fit in my story flow! Maybe I'll just post tidbits on tumblr, I haven't decided yet.

Also, Jinyoung's origin story has been written, so watch out for that!

Did it surprise you that Yugyeom had a crush on Jackson? Thoughts? Let me hear them!

Kudos, comments, and favorites are much appreciated!*

[skeletorific]

I Like My Coffee Like I Like My Skeleton

The name changes. To some its known as Reaper’s Grind. To others, Bones and Brew. To still others, MarshMarrow. It depends who’s in charge that month. Regardless of the name, it is always painted in black script on a driftwood sign, carved so that it appears to be cradled by giant skeleton hands.

Most see this sign and assume its some kind of Halloween or Goth themed establishment. However, the caffeine addicted of the city know there’s no better place to get your fix. As long as your willing to put up with the quirks of the owners.

The cafe is a cozy space, varying levels of clean depending on who’s on staff. The walls are beige, with abstract murals of black paint covering the walls. Frequent patrons will notice that the murals seem to expand as time goes on. Every now and then they’ll come in to the walls completely blank, having apparently been painted over, only to start again. Rumor has it that if you squint you can make out swear words, or even bad jokes in the design. Squinting is not encouraged. There is also a shelf of books for customers to peruse or even purchase. Mostly trashy romance novels for reasons no one has ever been able to figure out, as well as joke books, science textbooks, car magazines, and, most bewilderingly, puzzle theory. 

The cafe has 8 owners, usually with only two or three on staff at a time. They all look so similar that most believe they’re related. Some will even call each other “brother” or “bro”, which seems to confirm it, but everyone worries it’d be racist to ask.

Papyrus is usually on staff in the mornings, which is a good thing. He’s a bright and perky presence to start your day with, and he does his best to create a welcoming environment for those on their way to an early morning commute. He specializes in perk ups, something to get help you shake off those last remnants of sleep while preventing those midmorning crashes. He’ll usually try to coax customers into the healthier versions. “REALLY, ALMOND MILK IS MUCH BETTER FOR YOU!” He also is very good at remembering small details about his regulars. Some of them come to depend on him as a daily reminder to take their meds. Now if only he was better at remembering names...he tends to come up with nicknames for people he sees a lot and they stick with him more than their actual names. An absolute sweetheart who keeps the store spotless, but if he tries to get you to sample his latest pastry invention, politely decline.

Sans is a less energetic presence to be sure (he can usually be found asleep and propped up in some corner if no one on shift bothers to wake him up), but he’s also a well-liked staple of the cafe. He has an easy, laid-back small talk that can set even the most agoraphobic introvert at ease, and writes bad jokes on coffee cups. His coffee is mostly pretty basic stuff, but if you know him well and ask him for the secret stuff....well, you’d be be prepared to deal with the fallout. That particular menu option is the last resort of grad students trying to get through their thesis. The effects are somewhere between Red Eye and Speed. One girl reported a full week of being unable to close her eyes, by the end of which she could taste color and was carrying on active conversations in a language that she did not know. It is varying levels of legal depending on who you ask. Just dont narc. And don’t ask in front of his brother. 

Its easy to tell when Red is on the clock, his motorcycle is easily the most ostentatious thing in the parking lot. So much so that he insists on a two parking spot bubble around it to avoid scratches. He also refuses to take off his leather jacket, wearing it over his uniform. No apron. Not a fuckin chance. His customer service is at best ehhh (unless he considers you attractive, in which case, prepare your flirtatious barista fantasies), but the boy makes a pumpkin spice latte so good it should be illegal. Spiced drinks as a whole are his specialty. When fall and winter roll around he brings customers in like flies to honey to get a taste of it, and it make the cafe smell amazing. Don’t tell anyone but he has a habit of “forgetting” to make people pay for their coffee when they look like they’re having a rough time. Not that he’d ever admit it, but he’s kind of a softie. Abysmal cleaning, and he’s usually making drinks for himself on the clock, but once you get to know the guy, he’s a pretty good dude. Also his music taste is fire and the cafe playlist gets infinitely better whenever he’s on staff.

Edge is a different story. While all of them technically own the store in equal parts and no one is legally in charge, it was pretty quickly discovered that mixing Edge with customer service was a recipe for disaster. So he takes on a more managerial role, dealing with finance, shipment, rent, and advertising deals. Everything needed to keep the place afloat. When he’s on shift (and he usually is), he can generally be found in the office unless the place is absolutely slammed. Though he’s not much for dealing with customers, he’s excellent at making gourmet drinks. His skills were made for Instagram. He also has just a biiiit of a soft spot for the kids that sometimes come in,  and may have quietly slipped in some more child friendly options to the bookshelf, as well as a couple action figures that Red swears look familiar. 

If you want a high octane burst without risking your life, Blue is your guy. I mean, the dude’s practically a walking five hour energy. He is more than generous with his definition of what a shot is, and blends in truly irresponsible amounts of sugar and sweetner for an extra kick. Kids naturally love the insanely sweet taste but it is not recommended that parents let them finish a full sized one. If Edge is on the clock he will straight up slap it out of his hands before people start bouncing off the walls. Blue is also incredibly sweet and friendly with the customers, and has amassed a decent sized collection of regulars who only became regulars due to a crush on him. He flirts shamelessly but never lets it go too far.

Stretch likes doing novelty drinks. Did someone say Unicorn Frappucinnos? The weirder and more poorly conceived the better. He also does most of the baking for the cafe. Muffet taught him a lot about pastries back underground, although it took a while to make the transition from spider carcasses to just...you know, normal flour. He switches the menu up a lot when he gets bored of making the same thing, although for some reason corndogs are always an option. The kitchen really is the best place for him. Leaving him unattended on the front tends to lead to miscief, especially if his brother is there to egg him on. He’ll loosely detach his hand only to enjoy the horrified looks when it pops off as he hands a drink to the customer. They get more negative Yelp reviews that way, but a lot of customers enjoy his sense of humor. He has absolutely tried to pull the Salt and Pepper diner bit by editing the playlist for the cafe 

Black is a bit of an odd duck in the cafe. He doesn’t have the patience to sit still long enough for managerial responsibilities. He’s terrible with customer service. His drinks arent bad, but the coffee is as black as his soul regardless of what they actually ordered. Even when forced to make something a little less straightforward he makes it incredibly bitter, because to him, coffee should never be sweet! If you don’t want bitter, don’t get coffee!! some wonder why the others even bother to let him on staff. But Black’s role is vital. Its inevitable that asshole customers pop up in a coffee shop. Entitled, being a dick to either the other baristas or even other customers. And this is where Black shines. Come hell or highwater he can get any customer out in less than a minute with little to no scene, both reducing the time they’re  in the store and the risk that watching the altercation might cause an anxiety spike in one of their customers. He just up and carts them out of the store, then returns a few moments later, quietly checking in on everyone involved to make sure no one was hurt or too shaken up. When asked what happens to these guys the only thing Black will ever say is “NOTHING YOU CAN PROVE”. He also keeps the place spotless. May or may not help Blue and Stretch with the pranks, though he’ll deny it to the bitter end.

While Blue may lowkey flirt with a few and Red may highkey flirt with a lot, Rus is flirting with everyone. No, seriously. Everyone. Not being creepy, but chances are you’re leaving with red cheeks that have nothing to with the hot drink in your hand. He’s fairly popular for precisely this reason, though very few have ever gotten a serious date out of it. The man makes a mean cappucinno, great herbal  teas and has those smoky bedroom eyes. There’s buzz that he’s also the one responsible for the ever evolving mural, though he never confirms it. Rus takes far too many smoke breaks and doesn’t clean worth a damn but is responsible for nearly half of their consistent customer base. He has a sixth sense for creeps. If he sees a date going on where one of them is looking exceedingly uncomfortable, he can effortlessly swoop in and charm the pants off them until the other asshole leaves in frustration. If he sees someone looking nervous he has ways of subtly getting out of them what the problem is. And if he ever gets the vibe that someone is being harassed he may or may not sic Black onto them without batting an eye. Much as he seems not to give a damn about anything regarding work, Rus takes it as a minor point of pride that their cafe is a safe space for people to get away from it all, if only for a couple minutes.

Bonus:

Axe is their maintenance man who comes in whenever equipment breaks, while Crooks is the night janitor who will often come in with his brother on daytime calls. Both of them are a bit too...unstable for regualar shift jobs. Maintenance positions allows them to be on their own if they need to be and generally avoid stressful triggers. Still, Crooks loves the cafe. On his good days he helps Stretch with the baking, and when the day is really slow Blue and Papyrus will teach him how to mix drinks. Axe is a little more grumbly about it but even he admits its kind of a calm space to be in. The man drinks exculsively black coffee though so he kind of misses out on most of the menu. When he’s in a good mood he competes with Red over flirting with customers. 

Special thanks to @jezziconvair who gave me the idea for a lot of the drink specialities and who Tumblr isn’t letting me tag for some reason!

[diinofayce]

Shadows on the Horizon - 7

Pairing: Winter Soldier! Bucky Barnes x OFC! Layne Hardin // Thor Odinson x OFC! Susanna Sweet | Word Count: 2.4k | Warnings: None | A/N: This is a sequel to my story Like a Whisper in the Night | Shadows on the Horizon Masterlist

Susanna stepped out of her bathroom with a towel tied around her body while using a second to squeeze water from her red hair. She looked up as the doorknob to the apartment turned and smiled softly as the lumbering frame of her boyfriend slipped in.

“Long day?” Sue asked, taking in his ragged appearance and tired eyes.

It had been a whirlwind romance and admittedly a complete accident. She had come to the tower when she got a frantic voicemail from Layne about having been kidnapped and being unable to get a hold of the team. Sick with worry she had hopped on her motorcycle and drove all the way from Minnesota to New York barely stopping. When things with Layne had settled and she met Thor the connection was instantaneous. She was a forty-year-old divorcee and had given up on the thought of love, putting all of her energy into her music and her friends. Thor was the first man in a long time to make her feel beautiful and wanted.

She would be the first to admit that this whole thing had gotten a little out of control. Susanna went from hiding the fact that she was born with the mutant gene to now being an Avenger. Albeit, an Avenger that was off the radar. Layne, Wanda, and Natasha were constantly hinting that she should be joining them during press conferences, especially after missions that succeeded thanks to her, they always press how more women on the team the better. But she just couldn’t, she had grown kids and the last thing she needed was for them to be worried sick about her all the time.

She had already been chewing over how she would bring up to Thor and the team that she would have to step away for a little while. She owned a mechanic shop back in Minnesota and while she had a very competent team running it in her absence, between the tour and the Avengers it’s been almost six months since she last stopped in to make sure her business was still standing. The weight of her responsibilities back home battling the taste of actually contributing to keeping the world safe was starting to wear on her.

“Only because you were not beside me,” Thor answered with a dopey smile and followed her into their bedroom.

Sue was digging through her clothes drawers trying to find something comfy to wear, her muscles pleasantly sore from her work out earlier. Thor walked up behind her and wrapped his hands around her waist, pulling her up and against his hard body. Sue giggled as his beard tickled up the side of her neck as he spattered kisses along the soft expanse of skin.

“A good thing I wasn’t, you never pay attention when I’m around,” Susanna teased and Thor simply hummed in agreement.

“How can I? You are the most distracting creature I have ever come across.”

Sue felt the heat of a blush creep up her chest and flare the tips of her ears. “Flatterer.” She spun in his grasp so she could lean up and catch his lips with her own and creep her arms up around his neck.

Thor growled in want and softly bit at Sue’s bottom lip until she allowed his tongue access. They made outstanding in the middle of their room until both needed to break away, dizzy from lack of air.

“How was Layne this morning?” Thor whispered, not wanting to break the soft mood between them as he rested his forehead on hers.

Sue shrugged, a slight frown creasing her features. “I think it was just a fluke. We’ll have to see if it’s a pattern that’s going to continue, but I think she scared herself a bit.”

Thor placed a kiss on her forehead before sliding his arms down under the round of her ass and lifting her easily into his arms. Susanna let out a less than delicate squawk of surprise, still not used to being handled like a delicate little thing like Thor often did, only for him to carry her over to the bed.

“What did they say about Barnes?” Susanna asked, running her hands up Thor’s chest as he climbed onto the bed to hover over her.

“Rogers seems to think that he can be given some extent of trust. He’s not a mindless machine like he was last time I suppose, I was not around when problems with Barnes were happening in the past so I couldn’t really say. He reminds me of how he was when I first met him after he was brought back from Africa.”

“So, what? Are we rotating babysitting duty?” Sue questioned, tangling her fingers in Thor’s blond locks.

Thor sighed, darkness falling over his expression that had Sue furrowing her brows in concern.

“Unfortunately, I am needed back with my people for a little while. There are apparently issues with the government and our settlement. They gave us land to make our own, but they have asked that we follow their laws. We are Asgardian but also Norwegian and my people are finding issue with that as are the locals. My people still see me as the king, but Norway has a…president? And they have laws that are not our own,” Thor sighed again and fell to his side next to Sue where he buried his face in her neck once more, inhaling her scent to bring him comfort.

“Well, being refugees can’t be easy, but you can’t exactly colonize a chunk of Norway and declare it Asgard. You’ll start a war,” Susanna insisted softly.

“But they gave it to us,” Thor pressed.

“That’s not how things work.”

Thor grumbled into her skin and sucked softly on her earlobe. Susanna huffed with amusement at Thor’s antics, even during a rather serious discussion the man was insatiable.

“Will you come with me? Help me navigate the laws of this world?” Thor asked, his voice soft and small.

Susanna sat up and looked down at Thor. “I’m not some kind of political lawyer, Thor. I’m a mechanic. You should talk to Pepper about borrowing some of the legal team.”

“Well. Will you come for support?” He looked up at her with big blue puppy dog eyes and Sue sighed in frustration.

“I can’t just go to Norway, Thor. I need to go back to my home too at some point. Check in with my family and the shop. And I can’t just leave Layne for an extended period with everything going on.”

“But I need you,” Thor said, pouting slightly.

“I have my own responsibilities.” Susanna insisted.

Thor sighed in defeat but then a wide smile took over his face. “Why did I have to fall in love with such a strong woman?”

Susanna mirrored his smile and reached over to run her thumb over his scruffy cheek before sobering and looking him seriously in the eyes. “Because no one else will put up with your bullshit, my king.” She teased lightly.

“Hmm. Well, how about I show my queen my fealty?” Thor suggested and rolled so he was caging her in between his thick arms once more.

~*~

Layne sat curled up in the corner of the long sectional couch in the common space. Everyone had their dinners and cleaned up after themselves and then parted to do their own things. It was Wednesday and normally on Wednesdays those who weren’t on missions would get together and watch a movie or just hang out and socialize, but after the incident with Bucky and no one really getting any rest after long missions it went unspoken that no one would be coming to hang out that night.

So Layne enjoyed the expansive room by herself, curled up with an acoustic guitar and notebooks scattered on the cushions around her. Snow was falling softly outside and Layne had turned on the gas fireplace when the sun dipped down behind the other buildings. It was quiet and cozy and Layne loved the small moments like this that she could get in the tower. Normally she had to lock herself away in her apartment for this sort of peace, but she couldn’t stand being in her old room right now.

As she slowly plucked at the strings of her guitar, pausing every so often to scribble a number or dot on a blank piece of sheet music, her gaze flashed back to the windows. Where it had just been softly snowing only a few minutes earlier suddenly sheets of freezing rain were falling from the sky followed by a flash of lightning and an immediate crash of thunder. Layne sighed and went back to her music, trying not to feel bitter.

When the little hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rose she didn’t falter.

“Escape from your watchdog?” Layne asked, not even bothering to look up from her notebooks.

“He’s a bad handler,” the Soldier answered stepping into Layne’s field of vision.

Layne hummed and looked up at him to examine his face. The emotionless mask was gone, replaced with one that was pinched in concern and confusion. There was a soft sparkle behind his eyes, it gave Layne hope.

“That’s because he’s not a handler,” Layne corrected going back to her notebooks. “He’s your best friend. Where is he?”

“Medical.”

Layne’s eyes flicked up to him sharply and he winced, just barely, in what seemed to be guilt.

“Sparring get out of hand?” she asked nonchalantly. It wasn’t anything new, Steve or Bucky usually ended up in medical getting their nose set or a shoulder relocated every time they sparred. Both were too stubborn to let the other win.

“I broke his cheekbone, maybe his eye socket.” The Soldier admitted and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Layne motioned to the empty expanse of couch and the Soldier hesitantly sat down on one of the ends, a good three cushions away from her.

“This arm is lighter than Hydra’s. Hurts less,” he continued.

“Shuri is very good at what she does,” Layne murmured, trying to keep her heart rate steady and looking focused on what she was doing.

The Soldier was now actively seeking her out, trying to hold a conversation with her. This was good, this was what she wanted. If she kept playing hard to get like this then maybe they could start getting somewhere. She tried to pretend like she wasn’t bothered or concerned about his uncomfortable fidgeting as her pencil scratched along the notebook. This felt so much more familiar to her, her sitting and working on music while Bucky would watch TV with the sound off or just read on the other end of the couch, that she started to forget that it was different.

It was when the feeling of his intense gaze on her got too heavy that she startled out of her reverie and looked up at him.

“Who is with Steve now?” Layne asked after clearing her throat.

“Natalia.”

Layne hummed and plucked a little at her strings. “Does that bother you?”

The Soldier’s eyes moved over Layne’s face, he could hear her heart pick up with nervousness and he watched as her tongue poked out and anxiously wet her lips. His gaze moved down to her long fingers that wrapped around the neck of her guitar, his eyes narrowed as a memory surfaced. He had gotten it for her for her birthday earlier in the year. It looked like the one he had seen from her memories before they were ever together. In her memory, he had watched as her father smashed it against her bedroom wall. He remembered Layne cried when she opened the case and it seemed to get more play than her electric.

“No. Natalia doesn’t remember us,” he admitted finally. It used to hurt him, that her eyes would shift over his with nothing more than simple recognition - like the kind of look you’d give an acquaintance. But then Layne had joined the team and suddenly it didn’t matter. Bucky had kept Layne at an arms length for months after seeing her had stirred the Soldier, Bucky had felt it, the animalistic need to protect the new girl.

“Does that bother you?” Layne pressed and the Soldier shook his head.

“Not anymore,” he answered immediately and honestly, his eyes connecting with hers.

She sucked in a small, sharp breath and broke their gaze to look at her fingers on the fret board, a soft pink blush gracing her cheeks. Clearing her throat she looked back up at him through her lashes as he inched a little closer to her. She smirked and moved a pile of notebooks on his side of the couch over to the other side.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said slowly, lacing his fingers together in his lap and cracking the knuckles of his right hand nervously.

“For what?” Layne asked, setting her guitar aside and pulling her legs up under her and wrapping her arms around her knees.

“For not being afraid.”

Layne tilted her head to the side in confusion and chewed on her bottom lip. “Why would I ever be afraid of you?”

The Soldier shrugged. “Well, I’m not him,” he swallowed hard, his gaze on the floor darting back and forth as he tried to recall something. “I’ve done all the bad things.”

Layne scooted closer and the Soldier flinched, Layne hesitated before throwing caution to the wind and moving right next to him. She held her hand out to him, palm up. “Do you trust me?”

The Soldier looked between her and her hand. She was leaving him with the choice, just like she always did. He took it last night because he was so ridiculously tired, but now when he was awake and aware it was a different story.

“I have always seen you. Please, let me show you,” Layne begged. “Just give me your hand.”

The Soldier hesitated for a moment more before reaching out with his right hand to brush his calloused fingers across the soft skin of her palm. She smiled softly and gently laced her fingers with his. This time instead of the sensation of being hit with a bucket of ice the Soldier felt himself sucked into a vacuum, his ears popped and his vision went dark momentarily and when his vision came back he was looking up at himself from Layne’s perspective.

[shadows-echoes]

The Logic of Emotion - Pt. 3

Pairing: Connor RK800 x fem!reader

Summary: Connor’s just trying to complete his mission but he keeps running into the emotional roadblocks of those around him. You’ve been assigned to the deviancy investigation along with Hank and Connor, but you’re starting to ask questions no one seems interested in listening to. The investigation becomes more difficult for everyone involved as it progresses, and for vastly different reasons.

Warnings: None (save for terrible jokes)

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: Some lighthearted indulgences before the coming angst 🙃

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 // Part 7 // Part 8 // Masterlist

You were not a drinker, this could be considered a fact. Occasionally, however, you would accompany Hank on his outings to Jimmie’s bar. It was solely to keep an eye on him and his likely faltering liver, but still you went. On yet rarer occasions, you would have a drink with him.

Tonight was one of those rare nights.

Less than two weeks ago you’d run into Kara and the little girl she was with- when you’d actively prevented them from being followed and not turned them in as you were legally obliged to do. The run-in with Gavin -as unfortunate as they always were- was less than a week ago. Even forgoing all the other stressors in your life, the ones so kindly provided by your job were troublesome enough. On top of that, thoughts and questions about Connor kept creeping into your mind.

So, when Hank saw you stroll into the bar and started grumbling something about not needing a babysitter, you simply plopped down beside him and ordered a drink.

The trouble was that you were a giggly drunk. 

After the first drink, your signature composure would quickly dissolve- and you had had more than one tonight. You were amused and apparently amusing enough to even drag a few hearty laughs out of Hank and more grins than he would ever admit to. 

At some point during the night -early morning?-, Connor found the two of you laughing in the corner of the grungy bar and insisted on getting you to your respective homes. Which is also why Connor currently had his arm slung around Hank as he led him up the path to his house. When Hank demonstrated a new inability to unlock front doors, you naturally commented on it. Though, the lighthearted bickering was abruptly cut short as Connor snatches the keys from Hank’s fingers and opened the door himself.

If you hadn’t been so amused by the android’s actions, you might’ve felt a tad guilty. It wasn’t always the most pleasurable experience to take care of one’s decidedly not-sober partners, you knew.

Following Hank and Connor inside, you quickly turn on the lights before anyone gets the chance to introduce their face to the floor. Reaching out to pet an eagerly awaiting Sumo, your hand freezes in midair as you catch sight of them.

“What are those?!” you cry, dramatically throwing out your arms at the offending articles by the entranceway. Too transfixed, you don’t notice the faces of those now turning towards you. Hank looked like a man slowly dying on the inside, while Connor merely looked perplexed.

“I believe those are his crocs, Detective.”

Ever so slowly, your eyes raise from the shoes and pass directly over Hank’s suddenly exhausted features to land right on Connor. An entirely, completely, one-hundred-and-ten-percent serious Connor.

Then, the only sound bouncing around the apartment was your echoing laughter. With a hand clutching your stomach, you stumbled back a step or two in desperate need of a wall to assist with your now unstable legs.

“Lieutenant,” Connor slowly hedges, “is something wrong with her?”  He knew your blood alcohol concentration levels were far higher than normal, but technically you were only one average drink above the legal driving limit.

“Something, all right,” Hank mutters, looking down at you with a disappointed shake of his head.

“Oh. My. GOD,” you exclaim breathlessly, wiping away the tears from your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Connor, if- If I hadn’t seen the things you put in your mouth, I could almost kiss you right now.”

A groan of disgust erupts from Hank and he yanks himself free of the supportive grip Connor had on him as if he could be contaminated by the reminder alone. Connor merely readjusts his grip on the Lieutenant to keep him upright. Although, it takes Connor a full second longer than it should to do so.

You were too busy laughing to pay attention, and Hank seemed too drunk to particularly care or notice, but Connor nearly froze. No, he had frozen for a single moment as he processed your words.

Connor knew it was a joke. He knew, given your obviously inebriated state and the fit of laughter you seemed consumed by, that the remark had not been a serious one. All the same, it gave him pause. Kissing as a behavior had never crossed his thoughts before. He had witnessed people kissing, understood its possible implications for the parties involved -generally interest; an expression of attraction of some kind-, but it was an action irrelevant to his mission and normally had nothing to do with the deviants he hunted.  It was certainly not something he had ever thought about in relation to himself. Why would it be? Neither was it something he thought about in relation to you. So even though the comment was made in jest, he wondered why the idea of you kissing him had stuck out in his mind you would mention such a random behavior.

“If I start vomiting, I want you to know it’s all your fault,” Hank groans.

Suppressing your laughter, you push off the wall to stare him down with dignity. “If you start vomiting it’s definitely because of the alcohol,” you counter. “I told you that you should’ve eaten something-” you continue, struggling to keep your voice level. “May- maybe you should’ve had some free shavaca-”

“Y/N, I swear to god if you reference one more old joke tonight, I will find a way to get you fired,” Hank warned, sharply cutting you off. He eyed you with all the authority he could muster, but the look he gave you fell far short of stern.

The two men watch with varying amounts of dread, confusion, and suspense as the muscles in your face began to twitch with the effort your expend to keep it blank. It’s a complete failure, but it’s almost admirable the way you desperately try for a straight-face. “Does that mean you don’t have enough money for chicken nuggets?”

Now, you are no lieutenant or chief, only a mere detective, but you’re fairly certain Hank’s sudden coughing fit is more than it seems. It’s quick to be smothered by an overly-loud groan but not quickly enough to prevent the smug smile crossing your face.

“Don’t ask,” Hank orders, eyeing Connor’s opening mouth. Looking back to you, he grumbles, with a not-so-well-disguised fondness, “get out of my house,” before telling Connor to “make sure she gets home in one piece.” 

Hank misses the sight of your rolling eyes as stumbles away, disappearing around a corner before you have a chance to retort.

“Well, goodbye to you too,” you call after him in a chiding tone, a smile lingering on your lips.

A faint grunt from somewhere down the hall is his only response. Shaking your head, you say goodbye to Sumo and leave as requested with Connor trailing out after you.

After being inside for even a short amount of time, the temperature outside was far more apparent. The wind bit at your exposed skin, soberingly so, and your amusement morphs into wonder as you glance upwards. 

It was a dark night. Through all the light pollution of Detroit, a few bright stars poked through the unusually clear sky. It was a great change, you decided. Seeing the stars, space, it was peaceful. After a few moments of appreciation, you lower your eyes back to reality- only to encounter Connor’s watchful gaze.

You mistake the look to be one of impatience. “You really don’t have to come with me, you know.”

“I don’t mind,” Connor easily replies.

Having expected him to default and remind you of the order he’d been given, his answer surprises you. For half a heartbeat, you consider insisting that you weren’t the one who needed a babysitter and ordering him to carry on with whatever it was he did at night. But the thought was a fleeting one. Sure, you had the authority to give Connor orders, but you’d made a silent point of never doing so. Besides, on the few occasions Hank had ordered Connor to do this or that, Connor seldom obeyed.

“Alright,” you relent, shrugging away the thoughts. “Well, do you mind if we walk?”

Your apartment wasn’t far. Plus, it was a nice night after all, one of the nicer ones Detroit would likely see before the city was blanketed with snow for the winter.

“Walking wouldn’t be the most efficient means of travel, and statistically speaking, it isn’t the safest at this time either,” Connor cautioned. Though, it was only a half-hearted and futile attempt at persuasion since you were already walking away. 

Resignedly blinking away any further protests, Connor quickly matches your stride.

“Ah, yes, but life is about more than efficiency,” you inform with a pointed look and a grin. “Besides, I’m armed and you could probably outrun anyone you needed to anyway.”

Connor wasn’t overly reassured to hear that you still carried your weapon, but he’s quick to glance down at you with furrowed brows and a correction on his tongue. “My concern was not for myself, Detective. I can easily be replaced. You, on the other hand, cannot.”

Involuntarily, your head snapped towards him as a part of you immediately rebelled against such a statement. Hearing him talk about his own death like that was horrible, even if it was technically true. 

Your tongue stung from biting back your immediate retort.

Though, a part of you was… strangely comforted by the admission of concern. Who knew? Maybe Connor’s programming really did include instructions to keep people from harm.

“Aww, Connor,” you cooed with a partially teasing smile. “I knew somewhere deep down in those frozen biocomponents of yours that you cared.”

Had he any lungs, you were positive Connor would have sighed- the look he shot you was certainly flat enough to exude the same energy. The corners of your lips curl up into a grin, the remaining tension from your shoulders and the last few moments quickly fading.

“My biocomponents aren’t frozen,” Connor grumbles under his breath, staring straight ahead. “One of the initial complications in producing androids was actually overheating.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Really?” you prod, equal parts intrigued and baffled. “So, what, you run warm?”

If you thought about it, it did make sense: most electronics heat up to some degree when in use. Hell, despite the advances made in technology in the last twenty years alone, your laptop still overheated. It was still an odd thing to think about in relation to androids, though.

At first, Connor doesn’t say or do anything aside from keep walking, and you wonder if he’s officially ending the conversation. Beginning to worry that you had accidentally crossed some weird android etiquette rule, you’re drawing nothing but blanks as Connor extends a hand. He reaches out with his palm facing up as though he were gesturing to the barren sidewalk ahead. 

As though in invitation, you note with a start. 

The entirely unsubtle, slightly challenging raise of his dark brows snapped your blank mind back to attention and you were unsure whether or not to be grateful.

Well, alright then.

Desperately trying not to overthink it, you reach out and wrap your hand around his. The synthetic skin was smoother than you expected -not that you really knew what to expect-, and it takes a second to remember what you guessed your task was. 

Peering inquisitively at the sight of your combined hands, like it would somehow heighten your sense of touch, you focused on temperature. The tips of his fingers were cold, colder than your own, but the center of his hand was… faintly warm? It was hard to tell whether or not the warmth emanated directly from him or if it was from your own hand. Sending him a questioning look, you slide your fingers slightly higher to the skin beneath his sleeve to find a space less affected by the elements. 

“Dude, you are warm,” you exclaim, withdrawing your hand even as you unconsciously shift a little closer in the hopes the proximity would help stave off the chill of the night. “How does that work? Like, do you have a liquid cooling system or something? What if you get too cold, can you heat yourself up?”

Connor meets your curious, awaiting eyes and feels the strong urge to run a self-scan. He doesn’t know why he reached out. A verbal explanation would have sufficed, would have been more informative than the half-unintentional tactile demonstration. 

The sensation had been nice strange, however. It left his mind spinning. 

He needed to run a full diagnostic after this, he decided. For now, he tries to remember what you’d asked him.

A strange, curious look passes Connor’s face but it’s immediately vanquished as he launches into a very technical explanation that was dryer than many unfortunate textbooks. With a verbal filter thinner than usual, you prod him with follow-up questions as well as some random ones you’d been curious about. The latter included inquiries about how he thinks -no, he did not have an inner monologue but different courses of action;  possible responses to external stimuli did appear in his programming to help steer him-, physical sensations -he can physically feel, yes, but sensations are not registered as painful or pleasurable-, and, of course, if androids dream of electric sheep -he didn’t get the reference-.

You could have needled him with questions until the sun rose and set again, but you thought it best to stop asking questions before you sounded like a friendly interrogator. It did not take long for Connor to turn the tables and start questioning you. He asked why you decided to partake in Hank’s drinking habits tonight -you cited stress-, why you had seemed so interested in the sky earlier –“why wouldn’t I be?” you queried back-, and then, after a few more questions, he asked if you were normally this carefree after drinking.

It was a stark reminder of how carefree you couldn’t be, of how careful you needed to be. With any luck Kara and the girl were long gone by now, but that didn’t mean some random street camera hadn’t captured your deeds. It didn’t mean that someone curious enough might not notice small pieces of evidence you have accidentally overlooked since then.

Whether or not Connor noticed your stiffening posture was left up to some degree of debate. But by some miracle, the door to your apartment building appeared, graciously granting you coverage and preventing a tight response. His question was quickly overshadowed by your quick, sincere thank you and a half-hasty goodbye.

Connor was great, but if he gained any insight into what you’ve been doing, if you raised his suspicions… You couldn’t let that happen.

-

A/N 2.0:  This is a short-ish chapter and I debated whether or not to post it at all, but I feel like it’s necessary because the following parts won’t be as lighthearted.

I am shooketh by the number of people enjoying this story. The amount of support this is getting is something I never expected and it’s so incredibly appreciated, guys, you don’t even know.

A lot of the D:BH fandom seems pretty set on androids being cold so it I hope no one is put-off by the warm-android thing. I saw this post about something similar and I think it’s so incredibly adorable and it’s now a headcanon for me, okay? So, with much love and respect, you can pry it from my cold, dead, human hands. 

Tags: @aya-fay @mamamemequeen @layinglonely @robin-rokossovsky @simplysaying @superanonymousreader (your comments have been giving me life btw) @aririna1412 @marinettelafayette @purpstraw  @tinycyberhacker  @lunarlexycon