#imagine. if little details had been expressed in the veil game

[calicobunnyrabbit]

do you remember when fenris showed up wearing hawke's favor. insane. insane crowd cheering. the little details get you

[fandomscraziness22]

duplicitous - a Kanej gala heist

i freaking loved this idea from our artist @bubble--berry, and their art is soooo amazing!!!! so i’m glad we got to write this! co-authored by me and @desidarling123

Inej docks The Wraith in Ravka’s port, only somewhat happy to be on land. It’s been almost a year since she’s been in Ravka, and the sight of so many joyous Grisha out and about is a bit startling. The nation’s port is busy with preparations for the Harvest Festival set to commence in a mere two days.

She’s here at Kaz’s request – though calling the letter a “request” would be like saying Jesper “mildly enjoys a game of chance.” Inej has known Kaz long enough to determine what is  a request versus what is a demand for her unique skill set. And this letter, short and to the point, had been a thinly veiled command for her to meet him at the bustling port of Udova, ready for a job. Inej knows the newly appointed Queen and her prince consort are to be at the festival –  however, that is where her knowledge starts and ends. And if there was one thing Inej didn’t miss about working with Kaz, it was his complete lack of willingness to divulge information that most would deem necessary knowledge. 

Nevertheless, her crew is a well-oiled machine, and Inej is soon ready to disembark. Many of her crew members have family in Ravka, and she’s given them an extended leave to go and visit them. Those who aren’t from Ravka have either made plans of their own or have been invited to visit their friends’ homes, so Inej is left to her own devices for the week of the festival. 

According to Kaz’s very brief letter, her identity is that of ‘Isla Rooj’, a lesser-known Mercher who has traveled overseas from a small town in order to witness the first festival under the country’s new monarch. She is to meet him at a tavern called the Ptitsa-Sinitsa, where they will be staying for the duration of the festival. As she makes her way through the busy streets, she wonders what Kaz could possibly plan to steal amidst the Ravkan festivities.

Well. That’s not exactly right. She’s got a few ideas, actually. Inej imagines the job has something to do with the amount of powerful and influential people gathering in the city. These gatherings bring with them a horde of secret information, not to mention loud displays of wealth and power. 

But Kaz has most of the Barrel afraid of him already, and he’s working his way steadily through the few who still disobey, so… it’s not like he’s lacking anything, on his end. 

So it must be for someone else. But who?

keep reading on ao3

Inej supposes she’ll have to get her answers when she sees him. And despite her annoyance at the circumstances under which it’s happening, her heart skips a beat at the thought of being with Kaz again. It’s been far too long since she last docked in Ketterdam, having been kept away by the constant slavers she’s been thwarting and the terrible weather of the open seas. She’s successfully kept in touch with Jesper and Wylan through their joint letters to her, and with Nina, who, despite often being out on assignments, keeps Inej updated whenever she can. There’s even been a scarce exchange of letters between herself and Kuwei detailing the latter's continued studies as an Etherealnik within the Little Palace. But Kaz has been oddly silent during her most recent voyages. His letters have been few and far between, and whenever they do come, they’re often undetailed and impersonal, a far cry from his first few letters to her. Not that Kaz had ever been forthcoming in that way, either in writing or in person, but his letters had become much more distant, which had hurt her more than she’d care to admit.

It still doesn’t change the fact that her heart belongs to him — an undeniable truth she had realized long ago – and that she’s excited to see him, even if she does also want to smack him over the head with his own cane. Kaz can be obtuse when it comes to understanding his own feelings, and even worse with expressing them. Though the two of them have progressed at their own speed, Inej can’t recall anything bad happening the last time she saw him that would prompt such a stark change in his behavior. Kaz Brekker may not always need a reason, but he sure as hell always had one.

I’ll just have to find out for myself, she thinks as the sign for Ptitsa-Sinitsa comes into view. The tavern itself is packed, much like the various buildings around it, with people from all roads of life coming to see the Queen’s festival. Inej skirts around a group of excited Ravkans and notes a few poorly-disguised Fjerdans on the edges. Of course, an event like this would be crawling with foreign spies. None to worry about yet, but she vows to keep an eye out anyways. 

There’s also some Kaelish folk around, evidenced by their bright hair and loud voices ringing out over the crowd of people eating and talking.

Finally, she spots Kaz at a table near the back with a plate of smoked cod and skillet bread and heads towards him. He’s wearing a hat she knows he hates, but refuses to get rid of. All the better a disguise, she supposes with a sigh. Kaz looks up from his food, and although his face doesn’t change, the edges of his eyes grow softer at her approach. 

“Isla, good. You found it,” he says in greeting. Inej smiles warmly at the sight of him, her overwhelming happiness at seeing him in the flesh overriding her annoyance for the time being. 

“Of course. It wasn’t too hard, your instructions were quite clear. Did you have a good journey?” she asks, sitting down opposite him. His body relaxes, a sight Inej doesn’t see often, though she knows he’s still on high alert to their surroundings.

“Tolerable. I took Rotty with me, as he’s the best sailor I’ve got now, and the man wouldn’t shut up about how he needed to be back in two weeks’ time for the annual plink-drop competition.”

Inej rolls her eyes. “Trust Rotty to stick to routine. He loses every year, I’m not sure why he bothers to play anymore. One would think six straight years of losses would make the whole thing not enjoyable, but alas.”

They fall back into familiar territory with ease, chatting harmlessly whilst they eat, all too aware of the many eyes staring into the backs of their heads and ears tilted ever-so-slightly in their direction. Once they’ve had their fill, Kaz guides her to their room where they retire for the evening. It’s definitely one of the nicest places Inej has stayed in for a heist of any kind, with a double bedroom, a small lounge area in the front, and a balcony looking out over the port.

Once they’ve inspected the room and secured all entries, she takes a seat next to Kaz on the plush red couch. “Who’s bankrolling this one?” she asks without preamble.

“Our friend, the demon.” Kaz’s voice is dry, but Inej can sense the humour in Kaz calling someone else what he himself has often been named. “He’d like us to relocate a foreign dignitary's documents.”

“Your friend, you mean. I’ve not become as well acquainted with Nikolai on the sea or land, despite his many roles in his country.” Kaz has kept her informed of the former king’s whereabouts, such as he knows them, but news travels slowly at sea (as opposed to rumors which spread like wildfire), and it hasn’t been a top priority for Inej. 

“In any case, he asked me to get some documents a Fjerdan official will be carrying.” Kaz’s face is set into scheming mode, and it once again makes Inej’s heart stutter. She hadn’t realized just how much she missed seeing him in his element; a slight smirk on his face and a mischievous glint in his dark eyes.

Inej shoves that thought away. Not the time, she admonishes herself. “What kind of documents?”

Kaz eyes her carefully, as though hesitant to say. It’s a strange look on Kaz; he’s never hesitant about anything. Careful, yes, but not dubious. Not like he wants to hide the information from her.

Inej keeps her gaze steadily locked with his, unwilling to back down until he relents. “It’s the instructions for a drug to render any individual catatonic in seconds. They plan to use it in hunting Grisha, and selling them to slave traders in Ketterdam.”

Saints, she thinks. Her mouth goes thin, mind racing, because of course things wouldn't stay good for her. She’s been bringing down slavers and saving people with surprising speed and efficiency (surprising only to those who don’t know the Wraith from Ketterdam’s rooftops), and her name is getting around through rumors. It makes sense that the twisted people who trade in human lives would look for new ways to get easy captives.

“Is that why you didn’t inform me in your letter?” Inej asks, half hoping that he will catch on to her annoyance about his lack of general communication in the last few months. Kaz nods in answer to her question, and Inej decides to let it go for now, sitting back against the couch in contemplation. “I assume you have a plan,” she says, and Kaz nods once more. “Tell me.”

“The Harvest Festival begins in two days. The plan is, we sneak in as guests and find the official with the documents. My plan is to steal them, leave in its place instructions for a … friendlier alternative, so as to not arouse suspicions, and make our getaway.”

“So simple,” Inej says with raised eyebrows. She’s used to Kaz only sharing parts of a plan, so it is a miracle that she even gets that much of an outline all at once. (The mention of a friendlier alternative, one she somehow doubts is as friendly as he implies, also has her curiosity piqued). Still, she knows he’s got backup plans galore, and Inej trusts him implicitly.

Kaz gives her a begrudging twitch of his lips. “For now, yes. We have two days to find clothes and fill in some additional details. Get some rest, and we can begin in the morning.”

The next two days pass in a blur of planning, laying low, and shopping. The formal gala that is set to open the Festival requires nicer dress than the two Dreg members usually wear, and Inej gleefully picks out a range of horrific colors and patterns for Kaz to try on (which he declines in a variety of ways: with an eye roll, a smirk, a sarcastic comment, or outright disgust). 

His reactions do nothing but spur her on, and for those small pockets of time, she is simply a girl shopping with a boy she likes; she’s living a future she had only imagined for herself as a small child in her family’s caravan, excited for a whirlwind romance with the perfect man as only a little girl can imagine. 

The thing that truly drives her fantasy home, however, is the moment Inej spots an honest-to-saints lehenga, one of her people’s favorites for fancy occasions. She’s never worn one, having been deemed too young by her mother before…everything. Traditionally, they are worn most often at weddings and official gatherings, held once every five years where all the Suli come together to celebrate and tell stories. The sight reminds her so vividly of her mother that her heart aches as she reaches out to grasp at the fabric. The lehenga she holds in her hands is made of well-made silk, embroidered with intricate floral and paisley resham. It is obviously worn, but has remained in good condition.

Inej runs her fingers over the pieces and marvels at how this seems made for her. It’s her favorite shade of purple, the detailing done in neat rows. The lighter fabric of the shawl flows over her, and Inej trembles as she realizes that there’s nothing stopping her from buying and wearing this to the festival tomorrow. When she tries it on in the small stall of the dressmaker’s, her mind works quickly to pick out places for her knives, how the skirt doesn’t limit her motions, the way she can tie the shawl part of the lehenga in specific places to keep it from being a hazard if she should need to run. 

A thought occurs to her then. She remembers distinctly the coy look the older girls would get once dressed in their lehengas, the heavy blush riding on their cheeks, as they’d wait for their lovers to see them decked out in their finest, playing teasing games for minutes if not hours on end, before not-so-secretly escaping with them into a dark corner somewhere, far away from the rest of the caravan. 

It’s such a silly, random memory to come to mind, but suddenly it’s there, in her heart: a desire to have Kaz look at her like a boy in her caravan once might have – as she could have been, maybe, if her life had turned out the way it was supposed to. 

Yes, she has made her peace with who she’s become, the feared Pirate Queen of the Seas. But in this moment, she feels a strong pull back to who she could have been. Inej feels strong and beautiful in the lehenga, and although she thinks Kaz already knows that about her, she wants to hear him say it. She wants it to be acknowledged openly, for him to take off a piece of armor that he’s kept clutched firmly to his chest since she left Ketterdam. 

So Inej buys the lehenga, keeping the purchase a secret from the boy she came with. He’s never bothered about her clothes before, and he doesn’t break that streak when they reunite, both carrying bags with their new clothes. She drags Kaz along to buy jewelry to complement the outfit, forcing him to purchase new cufflinks for the suit he’d picked out for himself. For her part, Inej is immediately drawn to a set of golden earrings and a matching tikka, and doesn’t let herself second-guess the decision, purchasing it quietly while his eyes are elsewhere. 

She can be devious in her own right, and finally, this festival is something she can look forward to.

They do not – cannot – enter the gala together. Cannot, because, as Kaz had explained to her, should their covers come into question, both need some modicum of plausible deniability. 

(She hates that he’s right about that.)

But maybe that’s for the better. Without him by her side as she gets ready – he leaves their shared room early, claiming one final errand to run without her –  she finds herself able to gather some much-needed nerve. To put on her battle armor, so to speak.

It helps to start with her knives first – she carefully straps those to her legs, murmuring prayers to each Saint as she fixes them in place. 

(The lehenga, however tempting and beautiful it might be, is still a hard sell. It reminds her of the home she used to have, the life she used to live. But she’s determined to reclaim that piece of her that was stripped away.)

So Inej runs her fingers over the embroidered edges once more. The obvious care that was put into the details suffuses her with a much-needed sense of calm.

Yes, it would’ve been nice to have him here, to help her with this part. 

But she’s always known, deep down, that this is something she has to do alone. 

So she pulls herself together. The skirt goes on first, her trustworthy knives disappearing beneath the heavy layers. She works the blouse on next, lacing up the back of it securely, ensuring no wandering fingers will take it apart. Finally she wraps the dupatta – a gorgeous, shimmering, delicate thing – over her shoulders. A fitting last touch, the cherry on top.

She’s relieved to find that she still looks and feels like herself, beneath it all. Even if that’s not what anyone else will see.

It paints a perfectly duplicitous picture, in the mirror. A glittering, distracting facade on Ravkan soil.

And if this night goes the way she hopes – no one else will ever have to see what lies beneath.

—---------

So she enters the gala alone.

Well, correction – the gala doors have not officially opened yet, so she’s here in the large banquet hall that serves as a makeshift waiting room alone.

That is unusual in and of itself, but that’s by design. She doesn’t look like a working girl (not that any would have been allowed in at this kind of event), but she does pique some immediate interest amongst the well-dressed attendees in the room. Inej firmly ignores it, choosing instead to take in her surroundings.

It’s a magnificent hall, if darker than she’d expected. But the low light will work to their advantage, and it gives the event an air of mystery. The floor is a rich, dark wood (perfect for hiding stains of all kinds, she thinks grimly) and the furnishings are ornate and well-worn. There are small candles everywhere, reminding her, counter-intuitively, of the inside of a church.

If only this could be as safe.

Inej turns now to scan the crowd, and mercifully, most eyes have since fallen off of her, the thrill of novelty long gone. But she can pick out a few who stand out, their movements not quite casual. And just like that, her previous suspicions are confirmed: they’re not the only ones with their own agendas on the loose tonight.

That’s fine, expected really, but it adds a lovely new wrinkle to their mission: not only do they have to swap out the documents, but they have to make sure they’re not observed by anyone else looking to do the same thing. Of which there are likely several. 

That’s her job for tonight, and just as well. She can handle it, easy. 

Now as for the man of the hour. Their diplomat – where is he?

The Fjerdans are difficult to miss, generally speaking. She’s looking for someone who, by Kaz’s description, is a tall, blonde, older gentleman, one who’s covered in military regalia. Currently, nowhere to be seen.

That’s when, of course, she feels what can only be described as someone’s gaze on her. 

Inej turns, and there he is: Kaz Brekker, looking quite unlike she’s ever seen him before. He’s dressed in a more traditional Ravkan-style suit-coat, a stormy grey-black color, but it’s the look on his face that stops her where she stands: there’s a hunger, a greed on his features she’s never seen before. Never directed towards her, anyways. 

It’s so much coming from him, a man who never tells her bloody anything if he can avoid it, but it doesn’t scare her like it probably should. Instead, it sends a thrill down her spine, tilts her world on its axis. 

He’s looking at her as she could have been, yes, but he doesn’t see it that way, she realizes. There’s no bitterness in his eyes, no lingering regret over what had been taken from her. 

No, for once there’s just pure, unadulterated want from the boy she loves, the feeling it evokes is every bit as magical as those starlit caravan nights she’d always dreamed of.

And yes, maybe that exact dream had been stolen from her past, but every choice she’d made since had brought this part of her life back to her, even when she’d thought it impossible. 

The world kept changing, just as they both had. This could change, too.

It’s what emboldens her to draw closer to him, all covers be damned. 

He meets her as if he can read her mind, the two of them moving into a secluded, dark corner. (Some things, perhaps, always stay the same.)

But this part will be different. Because she has a question she needs answered, and she knows when to pull her advantage. 

“Why didn’t you reply to my letters?” She doesn’t let her gaze leave his, can feel the way he suddenly stiffens beneath it. His eyes avert from hers, on some faraway point on the wall.

“I wrote you letters,” he responds slowly. 

But it’s not a complete answer, not really. He’s leaving out something, he most certainly is. So she waits until he looks at her again, eyebrows raising in an unspoken question.

Kaz’s eyes bore into hers, daring her to look away, but Inej has held many a contest with him, and he can’t scare her away this time. Once, the challenge might have frightened her, but she knows his feelings are something he doesn’t feel comfortable expressing outright unless she pushes.

So she does.

“Why didn’t you reply to all my letters? I heard more from Nina than you this past voyage.”

A brief moment of hesitation, then – 

“I didn’t think you would want to hear from me.”

Inej snorts. “I always want to hear from you, even when you’re being an insufferable idiot about it.”

The boy lets out a small laugh, and the sound lifts Inej’s soul into flight. Kaz doesn’t laugh easily, and she treasures each and every one she creates in him.

He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself for whatever admission he is about to make. “I…thought that hearing from me might be too much of a reminder of the life you left behind. I didn’t want to pull you under the weight of Ketterdam once more.”

She’s startled, not having expected that at all. It’s complete nonsense, of course, but she’s touched that Kaz is worried about that. Inej knows he has his demons, and his course of action is to fight through them by sheer force of will and by conquering the streets of the city that never gave him an inch, but she isn’t like that. 

“My demons are strong, yes...but Ketterdam has never been a reminder of that,” she shares, willing him to realize that when she said Ketterdam, what she really means is Kaz Brekker. 

The boy who saved her from a living nightmare, who had bought her freedom with the last of his funds, and who had been willing to let her leave him behind to fulfill what she was born to do.  

But she’s not leaving him behind. Not now, not ever again. Not even if he wants her to.

“You are a part of the life I want to keep, Kaz,” she says simply. “So don’t keep yourself away from me.”

“Or what?” he says, and though there's a challenge in the low pitch of his voice, she can also see the beginnings of a smile on his lips. It’s a look that makes her want to do to him what those older girls would do with their clandestine lovers, mission be damned. One day, maybe.

“Or I’ll have to steal you away, of course,” she retorts, and there’s a fully-formed smile on her face, one she’s certain doesn’t hide her inner thoughts in the slightest. “After all, I learned from the very best.”

Around them, the crowd starts moving with a shout – the gala doors have finally opened, praise the Saints! – but neither pays it any heed.

Kaz nods once, gaze never leaving hers, before slowly moving his arm upwards to hover it in the air between them in an offering. Not everything, but enough.

As long as he reaches for her, she will always reach back. 

So Inej slowly, gently wraps a henna-covered hand around his outstretched arm. She feels Kaz stiffen momentarily before forcing himself to relax, feels a warm surge of pride at the effort made. 

He’s doing this for her. They both are.

So together, arms linked, they push through the heavy wooden doors and enter the gala. 

It’s finally time for real work to begin. 

But, Inej knows, there’s no one else she’d rather have at her side.

[albertasunrise]

Too Late - 3

Summary: You arrived with Steve Murphy in Colombia to assist in the war against Escobar, both of you are partnered with Javier Peña. The tall, dark and handsome DEA agent has a reputation for being Colombia’s Casanova but you soon learn there’s more to him than meets the eye. You realise too late… that you’re in love with him.

Pairings - Javier Peña x Reader

Warnings - Smut, Angst, Blood and Injury

Part 1, Part 2

~

Beeping. That’s the first thing you sense as your mind starts to come back online. Next was your head. It hurt. Why did it hurt? You were shot in the chest, weren't you? Your mind reeled as you slowly but surely regained the use of all your senses until finally, you cracked open your eyes and a familiar blonde came into view as your vision cleared.

Connie.

She was smiling at you as you tried to focus your mind, remember the events that had brought you here and then you remembered one detail vividly. It pained you as you recall it. Recall the feeling of relief that washed over you as you felt your life force slip away because you’d been at peace with the idea of dying, you were going to see him again. Only you weren’t going to now. No, now you were laying in a hospital bed alive and Javier was still very much dead.

Connie watched the changes in expressions that crossed your face as you battled with the thoughts and feels that raged inside and her brow furrowed in concern ‘How are you feeling?’ She asked sweetly, placing her hand on top of yours and pulling you from your dark thoughts.

‘Why did he save me?’ You questioned as tears started to slip down your cheeks ‘I was going to see Javi again.’ You sobbed ‘Why didn’t he let me die?’

‘What are you talking about hun? Javi’s alive.’ Connie stated in a confused tone ‘You were involved in a raid yesterday. Javier was shot in the abdomen and you had a bullet graze your head. You’ve got a concussion and you had to have a few stitches but you're lucky, it could have been so much worse. You’ve been asleep since yesterday, the pain meds they gave you knocked you for six.’

‘No Javi’s dead.’ You said, shaking your head as the tears continued to fall ‘He died two months ago. I was shot. Steve was holding me, begging me not to go but I could see him Con. I was going to see him again but Steve must have saved me.’

‘Sweetheart no.’ Connie replied, shaking her head ‘I promise you, Javier, isn’t dead but I will be honest with you… He’s in the ICU. He’s critical. The surgery was long and he’s been placed on life support but he’s strong, he’ll pull through.’

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ You asked, your face displaying the betrayal you felt at her deception ‘Why are you lying to me? You helped me heal. Helped me come to terms with losing him and now you’re telling me he's alive?’ You spit ‘What’s your end game, Connie?’

‘I’m not lying to you I promise you.’ She assured you ‘It was all a dream sweetie. Javier hasn't died. The raid was yesterday. It was probably a side effect of the medication they gave you.’

‘Prove it.’ You growled ‘Take me to him.’

Connie nodded, slipping out of the room to ask for a wheelchair before returning and helping you out of your bed and into the chair. She pushed you through the clinical, blue, hallways of the hospital and you looked up when you finally reached your destination to see ICU written in large, bold, letters above the entrance. A nurse kindly held the door open for you both as Connie wheeled you inside. The ward felt darker, more menacing but none of that mattered once she came to a stop outside one room, the door open. Steve was sat beside the bed, sleeping on his arms that wear resting on the edge of the bed. He looked tired, dark black backs under his eyes and you had found yourself wondering how much sleep he'd had since yesterday. Your eyes only lingered on the blonde for a moment longer before they drifted up and sure enough… There he was.

Javier Peña.

A thick tube jutted from between his straight teeth, held in place by a ribbon that wrapped around his head and disappeared in his dark curls. The next thing you noticed was the number machines that surrounded him. He seemed to have tubes jutting out of him left, right and centre, all of them keeping him alive in one way or another.

‘See.’ Connie said softly ‘He’s still with us.’ She finished, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

‘Bug?’ Steve’s voice suddenly pierced through the veil and you turned your head to look at him, his eyes still red from what could be sleep but could easily have been crying also ‘How you feeling?’

‘Head hurts but I’m okay.’ You replied plainly ‘How is he?’ Asked Connie.

‘Doc came by about half an hour ago.’ Started Steve as he rubbed his eyes with the balls of his palms ‘No change but he assures me that’s positive. He’s not getting any worse.’

‘That’s good.’ Connie pipped up as she gave your shoulder a squeeze.

‘What are his chances?’ You questioned, voice wobbling a little as you remembered the pain you’d felt when you’d learned he was dead.

‘Doc said it could go either way.’

‘Cut the crap Steve and just tell me.’ You growled, eyes burning into him.

‘The bullet did a lot of damage.’ He stated plainly, scrubbing a hand over his face ‘It pierced his colon, they managed to repair it but… Well, he’s developed a pretty nasty infection… it took so long for medical support to get to you both. He’s on some pretty strong antibiotics but they aren’t a guarantee. It also lodged in one of his kidneys which they had to remove it. He lost a lot of blood…’

‘Chances Steve.’

‘Around forty per cent.’

The words rang in your ears. He had a forty per cent chance of living, which mean he had a sixty per cent chance of dying. You rolled yourself closer to his bed, studying him closely. You noted the way his skin glittered with sweat, his skin pale and eyes sunken. He looked so unwell and your heart broke at the sight.

‘He’s got a fever of a 104. They can’t seem to get it down but it’s not going up either.’ Continued Steve as he stood from his chair ‘Just have to hope the antibiotics start to work soon.’

You simply nodded, eyes fixed on Javier as your brain processed everything. Less than half an hour ago you’d woken convinced he was dead, that you’d gone two months grieving him but then you get shot, you woke up, and here he is. Was this real? Or was what Connie described as, a dream, real? It had felt real. The pain you felt when Steve had broken the news to you. The despair, the heartache. It had felt real when that man had fucked you, had made you cum. All of it had felt so real and yet here and now felt just as real as all of that had.

‘I’m going to go get some coffee Bug.’ Stated Steve as he walked towards his wife ‘I’ll give you some time alone with him.

You just nodded again, not wanting to tear your eyes away from him in case he disappeared like a puff of smoke on a windy day. You managed to push yourself up and out of the wheelchair and into the seat that Steve had occupied a few minutes before, it was still warm, along with the patch of bed he’d rested his head on as he slept. You held Javier's hand and brought it to your lips, wincing slightly at the heat that radiated from his skin but you cherished the feeling of being able to touch him again. Feel his skin against yours. You prayed to whatever deity that was listening for this to be real, for everything that you’d been through to be a dream and that this right here, was reality. You couldn't bear the idea of waking up to learn that Javi was really gone and you were alone.

‘Please don’t leave me, baby.’ You begged against the back of his hand ‘I love you. Please stay with me.

~

You were woken by alarms and the sound of urgent voices. You cracked open your eyes as someone pulled you away from Javier’s bed and suddenly your heart started to race.

‘What’s going on?’

‘His fever’s spiked.’ The doctor stated ‘We need to get his temperature down.’

‘Javi?’ You sobbed, eyes fixed on him as you were placed back in your wheelchair and removed from his room.

‘What’s going on?’ Questioned Steve as he and Connie sprinted into view ‘Bug what’s happening ?’

‘He uh… they said…’ You couldn’t seem to focus, your eyes locked on Javier as the doctors worked ‘Fever spiked.’

‘Shit.’ Connie breathed and both you and Steve looked at her.

‘What Con?’

‘If his Fever has spiked it's likely his Sepsis has developed into Septic Shock.’ She stated plainly, eyes flitting between the two of you.

‘And that's bad?’ Steve questioned.

Connie nodded grimly, her face falling as she saw the anguish that crossed your face. She hadn’t told Steve what had happened when you’d woken up but she could imagine what was going through your head. You get him back only to face losing him again. She watched you as you watched him, your mouth moving in silent prayer as the doctors and nurses fought to stabilise him. Finally, after what felt like an eternity the room started to empty and a doctor came to a standstill across from you all with a solemn expression on his face.

‘I’m not going to sugar coat this. He’s not doing well.’ He started ‘We were treating him for the sepsis but it appears the antibiotics weren’t responding and it’s progressed to Septic Shock. We are treating it with some aggressive medication but I need you all to prepare yourselves. He’s weak and his body’s struggling to fight this. We’ve done all we can… it’s down to him now.’

You nodded numbly as your eyes trailed back to Javi, his prone form laying there deathly still. You wheeled yourself back inside, pushing yourself to your feet and wobbling slightly before steadied yourself with his bed and placed a small kiss on the corner of his mouth.

‘I need you to listen to me Javi.’ You start ‘I love you, Javier Peña. I love you and I need you to fight this and come home to me.’ You commanded, voice staying surprisingly even ‘I need you to come back to me, baby. I lost you once. I can’t do it again.’

You weren't sure if he could hear you. You read in books and saw in shows that sometimes people in comas could hear you. You weren't sure how much stock you put in it normally but right now you prayed he could. You hoped that if he knew you loved him, that it would give him something to fight for. Of course, you had no idea if he loved you also, you hoped he did. The way you'd been fucking lately. It wasn't frenzied like it had been in the beginning. He had been taking his time with you, worshipping you, making love to you. That had to mean something. Right?

~

You sat at his bedside every single day and soon a week passed. You talked to him, cleaned him, shaved him, cared for him despite protests from the nursing staff. Steve had managed to convince the nurses to let you stay with him, a small cot had then been set up in the corner for you to sleep on. The day they’d taken him off the vent and he’d taken a shaky breath on his own was the happiest you had experienced since waking up. He had then been fitted with a nasal cannula to assist with his breathing but he no longer had to have a machine breathe for him. His fever gradually started to lower, the medication finally beating the infection in his blood and finally you allowed yourself to hope. The nurses brought you meals every day, you'd been surprised by how good they were compared to some that you'd experienced in the States. There was one nurse that came regularly to check on him, you could see in her eyes that she was taken by him and instead of feeling jealous you talked to her about him. She was British. Had come to Colombia with her husband who was a citizen. You had then learned that he had been a Government official who'd ended up getting shot and killed a few months previous. You told her about your relationship with Javier, how you were worried that you may be too late to tell him how you feel or how he might now feel the same but she'd taken your hand and told you to do it. That you'd always regret it if you didn't tell him the truth.

‘Steve and Con stopped by earlier.’ You said as you forked some hospital pancake into your mouth ‘Steve’s being getting hounded at work for news on you. I guess you’re more popular than you realised.’ You said with a chuckle.

A groan suddenly fell from Javi’s lips and you were on your feet in an instant, holding his hand tightly as you watched his face twitch. Then his hands started to move and your heart started to skip as he squeezed yours. Then finally he cracked open his eyes and those familiar brown orbs peeked through, setting you ablaze.

‘Bug?’

‘Yeah, Javi it’s me.’ You sobbed ‘I’m here.’

‘Wa-water.’ He managed to stutter out, his mouth so dry that his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

‘Here.’ You said softly as you brought an ice chip to his mouth. The nurses had kept bringing them in case he woke up and at first you'd thought it a pointless task but now you were grateful they had.

You gave him another which he accepted graciously and then another before he finally held his hand up to stop you from giving him anymore. He scrunched his eyes shut for a few moments as the fog in his brain cleared more and more but ultimately his gaze fell on you, his chocolate brown eyes studying you carefully.

‘How you feelin’ Peña?’ You asked, grinning at him as he smiled back at you but your expression changed when his brow furrows.

‘i heard you.’ He said out of the blue and you gave him a bemused look ‘I heard you speaking to me.’

‘Yeah?’ You questioned, curious as to what it was he heard.

‘You said you’d lost me.’

‘Oh, that… yeah that’s a long story.’ You said nervously as you scratched the back of your neck, looking anywhere but at him.

‘You said you loved me.’

Your gaze shot up then, locking with his as your eyes started to prickle with new tears and you swallowed thickly, desperately trying to form just one simple word with your tongue.

‘Yes.’ You whispered, eyes wide as you started to panic.

‘I love you too.’ He replied, a single tear escaping from the corner of his eye.

~

Chapter 4

[wlfkssd]

Midnight Caller

based on the prompt ‘hvithelred + midnight / early morning hugs’ sent in by @issadoragreen <3

summary : after a rough week, and with hvitserk not answering his calls, aethelred (thel) visits the lothbrok house at midnight to see him.

warnings : smoking, brief mention of ragnar yelling at hvitserk, mentions of divorce and a bad impression of gimli from lotr. a little bit of angst, not much though.

pairing : hvitserk x aethelred. small appearances from alfred, rollo, ubbe. as well as a tiny flirtation between ubbe and thel. 

words : 2,380.

notes : aethelred is referred to as thel a lot in this fic. just because it’s a little more modern.

The dial tone continues in its monotony and Thel shakes his head, lowering the phone from his ear before he hangs it up again. He stares at the screen and his brows instinctively pull close and tight.

Why aren't you picking up, Hvitserk?

"Any luck?" Alfred, his younger brother, stands in the doorway. He looks anxious; hands buried so deep into the single, long pocket of the oversized, borrowed hoodie to keep him from picking at his fingers in worry.

"No. It just keeps ringing." Thel's defeated and to pretend otherwise would be idiotic. Perhaps Hvitserk doesn't want to talk to him. Perhaps he doesn't want to see him anymore. "I should go over there and see if he's alright."

"At this time of night? What would mum say?"

That's hardly a threat and they both know it. Life at home hasn't always been plain sailing, especially with Alfred's illness and the fact that it's clear he's the favourite. But Thel doesn't mind. Quite the contrary; sometimes that leaves him free to do just about whatever he likes without much fear of repercussions.

Still, this? Maybe his brother is right. It's no time to be showing up unannounced.

"You're right, Alfie." That garners a smile from Alfred - nickname having been with him, practically since birth - and he turns to leave for his own room just as the dial tone strikes back into life.

Some seconds pass, long and unnecessary in Thel's opinion. He can only imagine what the excuse will be.

"Hello?" Ubbe's voice is quiet, softer even than usual and something about it sends a tingling jolt straight up Thel's spine. They're best friends - more like brothers, really - but some things just can't be denied.

"Is Hvitserk alright? He's not answering his phone."

There's a silence and Thel hears the heavy sigh come through loud and clear. In fact, it's far too close to the receiver for comfort.

"Our father came home." Four short words that set the scene for the whole conversation and the coming night. So easily let out and yet their weight now holds itself in the space between the two boys. "He has a way of speaking that isn't always what you would call nice."

And that's putting it lightly. In truth, Ragnar had come home after three long years of globe-trotting and demanded to know which of his sons intended to take over their family business. It was sudden and off-putting and had ruined the last of everyone's Sunday night.

He'd barely spoken to Ivar, choosing instead to focus on Ubbe and Bjørn as his successors. And why not? They are the oldest of his sons. Why wouldn't they want to inherit his empire, his wealth, his standing in Scandinavian society?

Because, for one, Ubbe had told him, he was still in school and wanted very much to become something other than what had come before him. Bjørn had said much the same; giving details that he was going into business with their uncle Floki for a while.

That left Hvitserk and Sigurd and being faced with a father he hadn't seen for years, yelling into his face and asking if he's man enough, wasn't the ideal reunion.

It also explains exactly why none of the brothers have been at school for the past two days. Now Thel understands and his heart eases off its hammering just a little.

"Do you think Hvitserk would see me, if I came over there?"

For the first time in the conversation, Ubbe seems to relax. The sigh slips into something more amused and he hums, lowly. "I think so, yes. It's a shame you like him so much. I could use someone like you right now. Calling at midnight and asking to come over, just to see me."

Shame indeed. Were it not for the fact of Ubbe's younger brother's charm, Thel might have eventually fallen out of friendship and into love with him, instead. But both know it's not to be and there's a moment of comfortable silence.

"I'm on my way, then."

They hang up and Thel takes a deep breath, relieved that the sudden silence isn't anything he's done.

Dressing warmly, Thel makes his way down the stairs and out into the night with a single thought; how can he cheer up his boyfriend?

Several different ideas run through his mind as he walks the short distance from one house to the other. He could pick a flower from each of the gardens on the way and present them to Hvitserk. He could jog to the 24-hour corner shop and buy him some sweets or a large bag of popcorn. Or he could just bring himself and the space between his waiting arms that so perfectly encompasses the one he's chosen to show and give his heart to.

That sounds about right. Sappy as it is.

Coming to the Lothbrok house, Thel slows and considers his ways of entrance.

Knocking on the front door is definitely out. That's far too obvious, isn't it? Plus, he doesn't know who might be sleeping. There is a light on in the living room but the windows blinds are all the way down and disturbing whoever is inside might not end well. Especially if it's Ragnar.

As he's standing there, looking at the house, a throat clears and sends him almost out of his skin.

"Staring won't get you anywhere." Flame of a lighter flickers into life and, for a few seconds, the identity of the voice shows itself. Then it's gone. Thel stands his ground, though, relief filling his veins now instead of fear.

"And scaring the shit out of teenagers won't get you anywhere, either."

Tongue kisses teeth in a gesture of disappointment at the language and Rollo stands up, causing the lamp above the side door to come on, illuminating him. The sterile shade reminds Thel of a hospital.

"What are you doing here, Aethelred?" Rollo asks on the exhale of his cigarette, smoke blown in a steady stream as his eyes focus on the boy before him. "It's a little late for studying, isn't it?" His expression holds so much knowing.

"I'm here to see Hvitserk." And that's all the explanation he's going to give.

"So it's true then? The two of you-" Rollo cuts himself off as he takes another drag on the cigarette, which now looks as though it's due to be snubbed out any moment. He holds in the smoke to delay but lets it out as he comes closer, towering over Thel the way one does when he should be feared.

Flicking away the cigarette gives a single notion.

Threat.

Instead though, it's an embrace that passes between them. A hefty one in which Thel is lifted quite literally off of his feet. And a hearty laugh bellows uncaring from Rollo's chest, still rumbling as he lets go and claps both hands to the teen's shoulders, looking him over.

"You're both terrible at hiding things, you know. Anyone with eyes can see your affection for each other." Maybe in the dark it's easier for him to say things like this; the veil of night covering all manner of distress at discussing affairs of the heart. Lagertha and Siggy have both torn him apart in their own ways but love spreads just as much as anything else. "Now," he sniffs and clears his throat, squeezing one of Thel's shoulders. "Do you need help getting into his window?"

"What?" What, indeed. Thel blinks up at Rollo, brows coming together as they had earlier over the screen of his mobile phone. "I was going to use the front door." He lies and hopes it's convincing.

It isn't.

"Nonsense. You English need to have more adventure." Rollo observes, all the while leading Thel towards the overhang beneath Hvitserk's bedroom window.

They come to stand, looking up at it together. From on the ground, it doesn't seem too daunting but Thel isn't keen on breaking a bone when he's got a big game at the end of the week.

"You expect me to climb up there?" Thel shakes his head, wishing he had asked Ubbe to wait up and let him in. Better than risking life and limb for the sake of adventure. In fact, he's sure Hvitserk would prefer he arrive in once piece and upset Ragnar than show up and immediately have to spend the next day and a half in the hospital with him because he fell.

"Come on. I'll help you."

Bending at the knees, Rollo widens his stance and lays his hands palms up in front of him, interlocking his fingers. He gestures for Thel to come closer with a jerk of his chin. Silently his eyes say he'll never forgive Thel if he doesn't find the courage to at least try it.

"Oh, fine. Fine." Thel huffs and, putting one hand firmly on Rollo's shoulder, he lifts a foot and places it into the waiting hands. One swift motion sees him launched up and onto the overhang. No problem whatsoever.

Rollo gives him a thumbs up for good luck and disappears, presumably to smoke some more.

Then it's just a glass pane that separates him from the one he loves. It feels strange to think, let alone to say, especially given that each of them is so young but, apparently, when you know, you know. And he knows.

Crawling on his hands and knees, uncaring as to the scuff to his black jeans, Thel gets close enough to see his own breath fog up the window and he pauses to peer inside. One hand cups over his eyes, blocking out the light of a nearby streetlamp.

Hvitserk is on his bed, curled around his blanket. One leg on top, one beneath. He wears only a pair of bottoms - Thel's, he notices. They're a loose fit and black and the pull strings are frayed from years of play and fretting. They're old but, somehow, Hvitserk makes them new. He makes everything new; vibrant.

The catch is unlocked so he doesn't even have to struggle with it before he's pushing up the window and slipping through. Hvitserk would say he's like Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible but that's difficult to believe.

Cool air moves the curtains and breathes life into what is otherwise a morbidly still room. Hvitserk's mobile phone lays dormant on his bed, placed in the concave created by his rounded position. As though he just watched Thel calling and calling and chose to ignore it.

No.

Maybe he couldn't bring himself to answer. Shock does strange things to people. Aethelred's own parents almost divorced when his father found out Alfred wasn't his. But they worked through things, eventually. So he's all-too-aware of just how debilitating that emotion can be.

"Hvitserk?" Thel whispers into the dark. It's the softest he's ever spoken and thinks, perhaps, he didn't actually make any sound at all. So, he tries again, not wanting to startle Hvitserk too much if he wakes.

"Mmm?" The noise is an obvious sign of exhaustion and Hvitserk doesn't turn over, immediately. He clearly thinks it's one of his brothers; come to disturb what little sleep he's managed these past few days. "What is it, Ubbe?"

Chancing the gesture, Thel sits on the side of the bed and tentatively lowers a hand onto Hvitserk's exposed shoulder. "It isn't Ubbe. It's me."

"Hello... me." For the first time in days, Hvitserk smiles. His eyes are still closed but that simple touch to his shoulder - naked skin prickling at it - is enough to lift his spirits from even the deepest of depths. "How did you-?"

"Your window was unhooked. I've told you about leaving it that way. Strangers could get in." The hand moves from bare skin to sandy braids and Thel's long fingers gently sweep through, earning him a contented sigh.

A contented sigh that precedes Hvitserk's eyes opening heavily. He blinks, adjusting to the light. "Did you climb up here?" His brows furrow at the thought and he turns over fully now, onto his back. The side of Thel's face that is visible looks to be smiling but it's hard to tell.

"Your uncle tossed me." Doing his best impression of Gimli, Thel ducks his face and laughs. It's almost silent but the moment is one of utter closeness, despite the humour, and after a minute, even that dies away, leaving nothing but the gaze of a sad boy looking into the face of the one he knows can rescue him.

Abruptly, Hvitserk embraces Aethelred's waist; not sitting fully but no longer laying as still and placid as he had been.

"I'm sorry I didn't answer you before. My father-" The very fact that Hvitserk buries his face tells them both all they need to know about the life of that conversation. It needs to be cut short.

"Ubbe told me everything. So you don't have to explain."

It isn't made clear exactly what it is Hvitserk has to do but by the way Thel directs him steadily with a hand at the back of his neck, the other having moved now from soft hair to rubbing at the space between his shoulder blades, and kisses him, it doesn't appear to be anything too taxing. Just be kissed. Even he can manage that now.

For a long moment, there's nothing in the world but them and it's blissful. All the heavy decisions in their futures and all the things they've done wrong in the past just melt into nothing. They're living for the moment.

Lips leave their tender mark on one another as Thel pulls away, briefly, nose bumping Hvitserk's, along with a touch of their foreheads to bring about the signal of parting. Not that it lasts long. Tiredly, Hvitserk shuffles further towards the wall, letting the blanket tangle itself even tighter into his legs and Thel kicks off his shoes and strips down to his shorts.

As they get comfortable, skin presses against bed-warmed skin; the soft, downy hair of Thel's soft tummy tickling the small of Hvitserk's back. Naturally, a groping hand reaches and finds an arm to pull over and a hand to hold in the darkness. The same lips, too, now part and breathe as one, chests rising and falling together.

"Will you stay until I fall asleep?" The question comes around a yawn and Hvitserk hugs Thel closer to him, looking back briefly and offering himself up for another kiss. Aethelred gives it, freely, leaning in for a series of small, affectionate pecks. Each brings about a satisfied sigh.

"I will stay until you fall asleep."

[alternatearchiver]

Daring Escape

 Lan Wangji looked up curiously as his brother entered the jingshi, the noise of a crying baby preceding him, and he couldn’t help the way his expression softened at the sight of his squalling nephew. “Ah, I hate to bother you, Wangji, but I have important sect business I need to deal with, and a-Yuan doesn’t want to be handed off to any of the nursemaids.”

 Lan Wangji stood and carefully accepted the infant, making sure to properly support the head and neck the way he’d been taught. “Is Lan furen still feeling ill?” Lan Xichen grimaced in concern before nodding.       

Ever since his brother’s wedding, very few people in the Cloud Recesses had actually seen Lan Xichen’s wife. It had bothered Lan Wangji at first, imagining someone else being locked up and forced to suffer the way their own mother had, but Lan Xichen had assured him that Wei Wuxian was a very sickly person, and it was safest to keep him away from anyone who might make him sick, especially after being weakened from giving birth. Having no reason to doubt his brother, Lan Wangji had accepted the reasoning, and Wei Wuxian had remained out of the public eye over the past year and a half since marrying into the Lan sect. “I should be finished before dinner. I hope a-Yuan does not cause you too much trouble in the meantime.”

 “It is no trouble,” Lan Wangji assured his brother.

Satisfied with that, Lan Xichen took off to go take care of his duties, leaving Lan Wangji to watch over the baby who always seemed to calm down when placed in Lan Wangji’s arms. “Do you miss your father already?” a-Yuan grinned at Lan Wangji, showing off his toothless gums, and Lan Wangji couldn’t refrain from offering a rare smile in return. It seemed impossible for anyone to not find a-Yuan’s joy contagious.

 A little while later is when everything started to go wrong. a-Yuan sniffled a few times, and Lan Wangji gently rocked him in his arms. That didn’t calm the baby down, though, and instead he burst into tears, wailing loudly. Lan Wangji tried all the usual tricks, including making soothing noises, speaking softly, offering some of the bottled milk that had been left with him, and changing a-Yuan’s diaper, but nothing seemed to work.

 Out of ideas, but not wanting to disturb Lan Xichen from his important business, Lan Wangji began walking the familiar path towards the gentian house, where Wei Wuxian lived. He did not want to disturb Wei Wuxian’s rest, but he figured that a-Yuan’s mother would be able to calm the baby down and then Lan Wangji could head out again.

 Nervous knots twisted in Lan Wangji’s stomach. He had not been back here since his mother’s death. Perhaps it would be healing, in a way, for Lan Wangji to see a Lan furen who was happily housed there rather than imprisoned. He knocked politely on the front door but there was no response. Lan Wangji considered turning back, but a-Yuan’s crying had only managed to get louder, which was impressive considering how tiny his lungs were, and Lan Wangji did not enjoy seeing his beloved nephew in such distress.

 Later, he would ask for forgiveness for barging in. For now, Lan Wangji opened the front door and stepped inside. “Wei Wuxian?” There was a muffled noise from nearby.

 Still carefully cradling a-Yuan, Lan Wangji stepped into the main bedroom, then immediately closed his eyes and turned away. He couldn’t even think straight long enough to mutter out a proper apology for what he had just witnessed. While Lan Wangji was aware enough of his own strange… proclivities, he had not needed to know that his brother and Wei Wuxian enjoyed similar games in the bedroom.

 Expecting flustered noises, or anything, really, in response to having been seen, Lan Wangji was confused when Wei Wuxian simply said nothing. What if something was seriously wrong? What if Wei Wuxian had gotten sick while waiting for his husband to return?

 Lan Wangji took a deep breath, then carefully set a-Yuan down on the kitchen table before steeling himself to not react inappropriately at the sight of his brother’s wife. He returned to the bedroom and cautiously approached the bed, where Wei Wuxian was stretched out across the bed, limbs all secured.

 It was the first time Lan Wangji had ever seen Wei Wuxian’s face, since it had obviously been covered with a red veil at the wedding, and he couldn’t help noticing that Wei Wuxian was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. But then he noticed other things that made him feel quite uncomfortable.

 There were tear tracks leading down Wei Wuxian’s face, and a cloth tied very tightly around his mouth in a way that prevented him from speaking. His arms and wrists seemed to be bruised and bloody from the restraints, and with his entire body naked, it was easy to make out the many injuries and scars that crossed his pale skin.

 Wei Wuxian’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and he whimpered piteously when Lan Wangji reached out to carefully remove the gag. “Are you alright?” There was no response, and Wei Wuxian did not open his eyes, so Lan Wangji felt the worry in his stomach quickly grow. “I’m going to cut you free, and then I will see to your injuries.” He wasn’t sure of exactly what had happened, but clearly Lan Xichen had gone too far.

 Lan Wanji was very careful with Bichen as he cut through the restraints, and he pulled out some healing salve to gently rub onto Wei Wuxian’s wrists and ankles. Then he found a blanket to tug up and cover Wei Wuxian’s naked body. “Do you want to see a-Yuan now?”

 That’s when Wei Wuxian’s eyes snapped open, revealing a dull silver that somehow looked wrong. He gave Lan Wangji a long, dazed look, seeming to take in every detail, before speaking in a croaky voice that sounded like it had not been used in a long time. “You’re not Lan Huan.”

 Lan Wangji shook his head. “I am Lan Wangji, Lan Zhan,” he confirmed. “I brought a-Yuan because he would not stop crying.” Though as he said that, he realized that he had not heard the loud wailing in a few minutes. “I will be right back.”

 He got up from where he’d been kneeling next to the bed so that he could go and get baby a-Yuan, but a hand reached out to snag the back of his robe with a surprisingly strong grip. “Don’t- don’t leave me here,” came that desperate, hoarse voice.

 Lan Wangji gently removed Wei Wuxian’s hand and placed it back down on the bed. “I am only getting your son, and then I will be right back.” As he left the bedroom, the bad feeling in his stomach only grew worse and worse. As little as he wanted to think about his brother in bed, he couldn’t stop his mind from whirling through all the possibilities that could have led to this.

 When he returned to the bedroom, a-Yuan began flailing his limbs around, instinctively reaching out to his mother. At the sight of the baby, Wei Wuxian didn’t start sobbing, but silent tears began to drip down his cheeks, and he was so gentle as he took a-Yuan from Lan Wangji’s arms, making soft shushing noises. He sat up, causing the blanket to drop down to his lap. “Ah, ah, it’s alright baobao. Mama’s here.” When one of a-Yuan’s chubby feet bumped into a dark looking bruise on Wei Wuxian’s side, Wei Wuxian didn’t even flinch, like the pain was irrelevant.

 a-Yuan calmed down very quickly, apparently having been waiting for his mother to soothe him. Then, exhausted from keeping up his crying for so long, a-Yuan slipped into a nap.

 Lan Wangji found it difficult to look away from the sight in front of him, even though he knew that he should. It was just so gentle and caring and sweet, marred only by the marks that seemed to cover Wei Wuxian’s body. He glanced away to look for a crib, ready to offer to take the sleeping baby out of Wei Wuxian’s arms that looked like they were starting to tremble, but he frowned when he didn’t spot one. “Where does a-Yuan sleep?”

 There was a very long moment of silence before Wei Wuxian spoke, still not looking away from a-Yuan’s sleeping face, like he thought he’d never get the chance to see his son again. “Away from here,” Wei Wuxian murmured.

 The picture that was starting to come together about Lan Xichen’s marriage was a very unpleasant one. He decided that it was worth risking offending his brother-in-law if it meant getting the truth out of him. “Wei Wuxian, tell me plainly. Do you wish to stay here?”

 Wei Wuxian’s head jolted up, and he stared at Lan Wangji with wide, alarmed eyes. “Why are you asking me that? Why are you here?” His breathing became labored and uneven, his eyes getting a lost, feverish look to them. “Why would you let me see him?” It sounded like it was painful for him to speak, but that didn’t stop him. “What do you want from me? What do any of you want from me?”        

 That seemed like an answer enough to Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian had been tied up, abused, unable to speak, and isolated from everyone else, including his own child. He thought of his own childhood, of only getting to see his mother once a month, of how sad she always looked. Of how he had been too young to get it at the time, but eventually understood that she had taken her own life. He thought of his older brother, who had always loved him and cared for him, and understood him like nobody else ever had. And Lan Wangji hardened his heart against his mental image of Lan Xichen’s gentle gaze.

 “I am taking you away from here,” Lan Wangji announced abruptly, cutting off Wei Wuxian’s panicked babbling.

 Wei Wuxian blinked up at him a few times, then furrowed his eyebrows in disbelief. “What?”

 “Both of you,” Lan Wangji clarified, nodding towards the sleeping infant. “Anywhere you wish to go, I will get you out of the Cloud Recesses and bring you there.” Perhaps it would be better to bring Wei Wuxian to Uncle, and have Lan Xichen’s crimes aired before the entire sect. But it would be cruel to force Wei Wuxian to recount whatever he had been through in his time here. And there was no telling who might choose to be more loyal to their sect leader than was wise. So for now, Lan Wangji would settle for getting Wei Wuxian and a-Yuan as far away from here as possible. And then, maybe someday, he would come back to make sure that Lan Xichen got what he deserved.

[abizarreyodelingincident]

Ridiculous Optimization: The Art of Finding the Right Tool for the Wrong Situation

Chapter Five: THE INFINITY WARDROBE

Three dances.

He could do this.

He hated that he  had  to do this, but he could. The taste of alcohol on his tongue, its burn at the back of his throat... they were tempting, but he knew better than to rely on them. He never tasted any that he hadn't seen served himself, and in a function such as this one, it meant he had only ever carried a single glass throughout.

His lips pinched together, remember the last time he'd forgotten to keep a close eye on his drinks.

A cold grip closed over his guts. Nope. He shouldn't go there. Not the right time. Every notable noble in the kingdom was watching his every move.

Warriors had busied himself teaching his brothers how to best deal with the nobility at his Queen's gala for the past two days. He could say he was proud of Hyrule's and Wind's progress in particular. Neither had had much manners or interest in them before and not one lady had fainted from their crude or frank behaviors. He also had to admire Four's control in accepting the few pinches on the cheeks he got for being so fun-sized.

  I'll give him a bigger part in our next plans of attack. That's a ton of resentment to vent. Whatever monster we face next will be very dead.

“And I was just telling our dear Hero Link here how-” Lady Farosi bragged to Lord this and Lady that and Warriors carefully agreed at all the right places.

He used to like these things. Used to be proud of his role.

'It's you! All this time, the deaths, the battles, it was all because  she  wanted  you !'

Three dances. He had given the first one to Zelda, of course. No one could ever protest that choice of partner. The Queen and her knight. The most important figures in the War of Eras. A splendid couple, though he could not tell if Zelda felt any attraction towards him, the way he...

Warriors shook his head, made an excuse and stauntered to the buffet table, under which he thought he'd seen Legend hide. Two more dances. Then I'm free to leave. Hide in the stables. Play a game with the guards or maybe pay back Twilight for our last match.

He offered Sky a smile when his brother offered him a plate with some meat skewers and a piece of cheese. His stomach protested the very idea of food at the moment, but he appreciated the thoughtfulness. He forced himself to nibble on some of the cheese. It gave him an excuse not to talk to Lady Lanayrou. To dodge her attempt at linking their arms.

  Second dance will be soon.

He scanned the crowd for a proper candidate that wouldn't be draping themselves all over him.

General Impa met his gaze over the crowd of mingling nobles, and his desperation must have shown on his face for she scowled something fierce at him. Right. Sheika. Security detail. Not the kind of person that should be on the dance floor.

With a sigh, Warriors resigned himself to letting whichever lady found him first have first right at a dance with him. Hopefully they'd listened if he said-

“Hey,” said a slightly  off  woman's voice, “do you think you could show me the steps?”

Warriors froze.

A slim, pale Hylian in a turquoise gerudo outfit stared patiently at him. Scars peeked out from under a tasteful veil that hid their chin, mouth and nose, leaving only startling blue eyes. He knew both the veil and the eyes.

Oh.

His gaze flickered down to the extensive network of spider web scars on the sides of the Hylian's torso. The outfit left little to the imagination. It was on full display.

For a second, he struggled to breath, realizing the extent of his brother's action. Warriors needed to apologize so damn much!

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes and he hurried to blink them away, taking the offer with as much gratitude as he could show his brother. Together, they reached the dance floor, and Warriors barely noticed the few times his feet were stepped on. At this point, Wild could stab him and he'd be thankful. Just swaying to the rhythm of the music and making jokes at the expense of the obnoxious people around them was one of the best dances he ever went through.

And then, someone reminded him just where he was.

“Who's this pasty ruin?” Lady Dynral loudly whispered behind her hand fan.

Twilight, who had just previously been attempting to convince a fair maiden that he was mute, tragically incapable of dancing and awaited in a backwater hut where he'd forgotten to turn off the stove, froze.

(It was no secret that Twilight couldn't  quite pull off the neutral look of disappointment patented by the old man. It was a decent attempt, but they all had earned the original too often for the off-brand version to work.)

(What he  could  however pull off was the deadly stillness of a predator stalking a prey that had been just too loud. Eyes that promised death. Eventually.)

The chill alone made hair rise on the back of Warriors' neck and he was barely in the general vicinity of the lady. Now that was some killer instinct. The blatant bloodlust made his chest pang with nostalgia.

Goddesses he'd take another war over this...

However, seeing Lady Dynral's face drain of blood like this filled him with a singular vindictive happiness.

“Never seen Lady Dynral flee a function this fast before,” Warriors chuckled, twirling Wild at the tip of his arm for another round. “Our farmer's got your honor' back, huh?”

The veil hid Wild's face, but not the curious look in his eyes, nor the faint tilt of his head. “He cares about you too,” he said, softly. “We all do, Warriors.”

Warriors couldn't speak with such a soft feeling warming his chest. Wild's fingers squeezed his hands, then let him go. The others all gave him subtle thumbs up throughout the crowd, encouraging him to stay strong in the face of this battle. Dozens of skirmishes flashed behind his eyes, memories where he stood back to back with them, brothers-in-arms before the forces of evil.

(Sky found him another plate, which he did eat this time. Twilight patted him in the back strong enough to make him stumble into a lord, and wasn't that a shame. 'Ah, my mightily sorries, your lordness!' and Hylia alone knew how he hadn't burst out laughing at that one. Wind subtly hinted at the possibility of skedaddling mid dance if things were needed. 'I can fake illness like you wouldn't believe, War'.')

Third dance.  And he had to admit, it looked like it wouldn't be so bad. Wild's assurance and the others' support made it feel smaller than before. He only needed to dance one more time, and he had had fun at a function for once...

Warriors almost felt serene when the bards on stage began plucking at their instruments' strings.

“Announcing... ” one of the guards near the door suddenly shouted, grinding the activities to a halt, “Princess Lore-al of Koholint!”

“What the f-?!” Wind's attempted swearing mercifully was stopped short by Sky's hand covering his mouth. No one even looked their way.

But Warriors deeply understood the sentiment.

The dress was impressive. Cut from the finest fabric, maybe enchanted silk, white with golden accents, and a gentle pink layer in the style of old royalty. Twenty or so rings, gold, silver and platinum, adorned the newcomers' fingers. Some inserted with gemstones, other carved with hylian runes.

Warriors really wanted to know where he'd gotten the tiara. He could have sworn...

Unlike Wild, Legend hadn't bothered with hiding his face. Or transforming it with make-up. He seemingly relied entirely on his natural twinkitude. And the lack of his ever present scowl that softened his looks considerably.

Amazingly, the haughty, confident expression on Legend's face wouldn't have been out of place amongst royalty. His absolute lack of shame as the rest of the ballroom stared did more for his credibility than an actual magic spell would have.

Warriors felt he ought to laugh, but he was too shell-shocked to do so.

Legend strutted, on high heels, right up to him, finally deigning to meet his eyes as if they were meeting for the first time.

“May I have the honor of this dance, Brave Hero?” Legend offered his hand, which Warriors contemplated like he would the head of a particularly vicious and hungry dodongo.

A long series of excuses came to mind, ranging from needing to go iron his wolf and thinking he heard Ganon call his name somewhere. Wild was one thing.  Legend though? The veteran gambling addict would extract so many favors out of this...

Of course, Legend had to raise an eyebrow like he was challenging him to a game of cuccos and Warriors' entire being tossed caution to the wind in a resounding, mental  fuck it .

With all the assurance of a chosen hero of Courage, he snatched a tulip from some of the nearby decoration, bit down on the stem and winked. “The honor shall be mine, Princess Lore-al.”

The musicians noticeable hesitated before starting to play again, and Warriors would have bet that his Queen had subtly instructed them to go on as normal.

The lascivious beat of a tango resonated around them. Legend's smirk widened, his eyelashes batting. “A red rupee you can't lift me one-handed over your head, Brave Hero.”

Despite himself, Warriors grinned. “You're on, Princess.”

 BONUS

“So... where was the old man tonight?” Wind asked as they made their way back to their suite in the guest wing of the castle. “Couldn't find him.”

Hyrule frowned. “Wait, seriously? You didn't notice him? He was really obvious.”

Wind exchanged a glance with Sky and both came to the same conclusion. “What?”

“He was standing next to some of the really snobbish nobles all night. Just looming. Like when he's really pissed at our collective stupidity. They kept glancing around like they were wondering.”

The Links exchanged glances, mulling their recollections of the evening and arrived to a collective conclusion.

“Bullshit.”

Hyrule gave them an uncertain look.

“Was it the mask?” he mumbled, suddenly unsure. “You guys noticed the freaky grayish purple mask, at least? Like, it hid his entire face, but that was still clearly him, body type and stance and all.”

They turned toward Twilight, who shrugged. “Magic?”

They agreed, Hyrule especially. “Magic.”

A few steps later, Wind broke the silence again.

“... So the old man spent the evening just putting the fear of evil spirits in the nobility?”

Warriors snickered.

“Sounds like him, alright,” Twilight drawled.

 DOUBLE BONUS

“You know...” Sky mused, his hands stilling over the piece of wood he was carving. “Maybe I should just ask Zelda to make it Hylian law to never hold balls.”

Four frowned and looked at Time. “Wouldn't that unraveled, you know, the fabric of time and space?”

Time shrugged, looking quite relaxed sitting by an old tree.

“Oh, right,” Sky mumbled, now hesitant.

Warriors fell on his knees. “I'd give you my firstborn, Sky! Please!”

Legend huffed. “Well, now he's gonna have to make those officials.”

Four put a hand on his forehead. “Does  that  count as a paradox? How many of those have we caused actually?”

“I meant Sky being straddled with Warriors' spawn, but sure. Tons of 'em.”

“HEY!”

[caiminnent]

not designed for the cynical [kylux with side phasma/rey, rated T]

PROMPTS: communication suddenly cut off (@badthingshappenbingo​, 8/25) & bed sharing - pet - delivery (@kyluxxoxo​)

SUMMARY:

Whenever Snoke calls upon only Ren’s service, Hux sends word to all his relevant contacts that he’s available. The job offer he accepts turns out to be far more than he's bargained for.

(This is a low-key Inception AU that requires little to no knowledge of the movie.)

FANDOM: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

TAGS: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Sharing a Bed, Mutual Pining, Alternate Universe - Inception Fusion, except not really, Armitage Hux Has Feelings, Kylo Ren and Rey Are Related

NOTES: This was written mostly during commute and/or sleep-deprived within an inch of my life and edited under the same circumstances. As such, I don't have the faintest clue what this is, but I love it.

5K || ALSO ON AO3

Hux isn’t prone to worry.

He is prone to stress, and he’s got the blood pressure to prove it—but that’s a necessity of the life they lead. It’s got its uses. Worry, however, is for when you don’t have an alphabetised, colour-coded list of plans for every situation that may arise. Worry is for the under-prepared.

Worry is a waste of time.

Knowing this doesn’t stop the fist around his heart from squeezing tight every time he hits redial and finds Ren’s phone still switched off, however.

Then again, there’s no real reason to worry about it. It’s a perfectly Ren move to go off the radar for weeks on end and turn up three countries away from where he was supposed to be, shrugging off all reprimand like he can’t understand why they’re so angry about it. It’s just what he does—he disappears, then he shows up at your doorstep when you least expect it.

He will this time, too. He promised—he will be back by Hux’s birthday.

----------------

Contrary to the popular (re: Ren’s) belief, life doesn’t stop just because Ren is off doing what Ren does somewhere else.

Even with all the safe houses and personas they maintain all across the world, the unreasonable amounts of money Snoke throws at them to be at his beck and call is more than enough to keep them afloat. Ren would be fine with not taking another independent job ever again; but Hux knows better than to rely on Snoke alone. He’s been burned enough times by fickle employers; he’s not ready to bet on the wrong horse and have to build his reputation up from scratch yet again.

That’s part of why, whenever Snoke calls upon only Ren’s service, Hux sends word to all his relevant contacts that he’s available. It keeps him in the game, on the occasion he gets an offer worth considering—and if he doesn’t, he calls it getting a feel for the market and moves on.

Monday morning finds him curled on the sofa, going through the responses on his phone. Most offers he received are below his notice like he expected, some downright insulting—and then there’s the e-mail from Enric Pryde himself.

He sits up so fast he almost knocks over his empty cup.

Among the dreamshare community, the First Order is as revered as it is despised. They reach out to very few and pay three times what they should; but the cost of failure is equally severe, growing proportionately to the project’s worth. Which seems to be a lot, in this case. While he can’t tell from the sparse details in the e-mail whether this Project Starkiller is meant to be a moving city or some sort of weapon—perhaps both, knowing the First Order—he already estimates at least two layers, more likely three, and a special blend of stabiliser for the dreamer and the architect both, who cannot be the same person for this design.

Because they want him on board as the main architect and his dreams never hold steady after the first layer, special blend or no.

Whatever he was looking for as a quick job, this is not it. It’s far more involved and challenging than he could have imagined—and, he’s finding, everything he needed. He could do this for himself. He could work a job he enjoys, instead of running point to Ren or Phasma’s picks all the time to keep them from working with incompetent point men.

Ren and Phasma, who might be working with incompetent point men halfway across the world this very moment.

No. No, he’s not thinking that. His birthday is only three days away. Everything is fine.

----------------

He e-mails back to say he’s honoured and asks for one week to get his team together. Pryde gives him five days and a thinly-veiled warning that there are others who would jump at this opportunity.

Stomach at his feet, Hux throws his phone on the coffee table and gets up to make more tea.

----------------

As expected, research gives him little of substance about the First Order’s operations and nothing at all about the Starkiller, although he finds a low-quality close-up of Pryde to glare at as he sketches out some ideas. They will get binned once he gets his hands on the self-destructing dossiers or whatever ridiculous security protocols the First Order may work with; but it keeps him busy. Better than watching the hours tick by.

When the clock turns from 11:59 to midnight on what is now Thursday, he considers texting Rey to ask if she’s heard from Phasma recently—changes his mind before he even picks up the phone. Ren wouldn’t like it. Hux has been accused of being a control freak more times than he can count as it is; he doesn’t want to add clingy to the list of his unattractive qualities.

----------------

At two in the morning, the doorbell rings.

He is going to murder Ren.

The door had never felt so close or so far as he rushes to it, heart hammering in his chest. He’s going to let Ren in, he’s going to check him for injuries and he’s going to disembowel that infuriating, thoughtless, selfish piece of shite if he’s had Hux fret all this time for no reason—

“Hi,” Rey chirps, looking up at him with damp eyes and a brittle smile. She raises a bottle of whiskey—Phasma’s favourite. “Happy birthday?”

He opens the door wider.

----------------

Admittedly—not out loud; he would never hear the end of it, from her or her cousin—Rey scores high on the short list of people whose company he enjoys. The booze helps, too. They drink in front of the television Hux hasn’t switched off in days and talk about everything but the aching holes in their chests.

She falls asleep on the sofa. He puts a blanket over her and goes to bed.

----------------

In the morning—practically afternoon, if he’s being honest—he tells her about the Starkiller. The plan was to pitch it to Ren first, to see what he thinks before bringing in the others. As it is, Ren isn’t here and none of Hux’s messages has gone through since their interrupted conversation and Hux is going to bloody explode if he doesn’t tell someone.

“I’m not sure, Armie,” she says around a spoonful of breakfast cereal he certainly didn’t buy. “He will never agree to work for the First Order.”

“Why the hell not? He works for Snoke.” Rather happily, in fact. Ren never prepares more carefully for a job than one of Snoke’s plentiful errands, no matter how simple. “Why wouldn’t he work for Snoke’s own company?”

She considers him for a long moment, chewing slowly. “He hasn’t told you the story.”

The implication—accusation—stings deep. “What story?” he demands, pushing his tea away to lean closer. The words held the intonation of capital letters, which means missing information that could potentially blindside them down the line. His respect for Ren’s private business isn’t greater than his responsibilities.

“Not mine to tell,” she says sternly, pinching her lips in disappointment like he should be ashamed to have asked to begin with. “Ask him.”

He snorts. Ren is hardly the sharing type, especially where Hux is concerned. Everything he’s ever learned about Ren has come through other means—and vice versa, he imagines.

She frowns, a question rising behind her eyes. He tenses on instinct. “Anyway,” she continues, shaking her head—and he can breathe more easily again. “My point is, if we’re doing this, we’ll need another forger.”

We. He doesn’t suppress his smile, relief coating his insides. “I suspect we won’t need a forger for this one. A chemist, on the other hand…”

----------------

She doesn’t leave and he doesn’t ask her to. They polish off the whiskey and pretend not to check their phones every ten minutes while binge-watching Star Wars, including the newest releases even their resident space nerd couldn’t finish.

He visualises Ren’s horrified expression when Hux reveals how he and Rey bonded over their shared love for big guns and hot villains in Ren’s absence. Laughter gets stuck in his throat, forming a painful lump instead.

He bids her good night and slinks away into his bedroom to stare at the ceiling.

Barely ten minutes pass before the television switches off in the next room, soft footsteps echoing lightly in the corridor. He turns his back to the door and feigns sleep as it opens and closes—which is a coward’s way, but he’s never claimed to be a particularly brave man. If he were, he would have asked Ren to stop working for Snoke instead of stewing in his misery right now.

Compared to her cousin, Rey’s weight barely shifts the mattress as she climbs in, sliding under the covers without fanfare. He shuts his eyes tighter and allows himself to imagine, just for a moment, that Ren is back.

“I haven’t heard from Phasma in over a month.”

Over a month? Hells, no wonder she sought him out. “Ren and I talked two weeks ago,” he says—realises with a sinking feeling that it sounded like he was rubbing it in. “Closer to three, actually.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much that I could understand. The reception was horrible.” Bits and pieces through constant breaking: Hux, shit, in case, person and, inexplicably, home. “I didn’t get the impression they were in danger—just inconvenienced.” As is often the case with these missions. Snoke’s got a small army of trained private security under his command and he still sends Ren to the most out-of-the-way places.

That Snoke’s hired Phasma as well for this one is a little more concerning, but not overly so. Reckless as they both can be, Ren and Phasma are forces to be reckoned with on the field—Hux would be more inclined to feel sorry for their adversaries.

Rey sighs. “Hope you’re right, Armie.”

----------------

If Mitaka is surprised to see Rey strut about in Hux’s shortest joggers she still needed to fold at the ankles and an old shirt, he politely doesn’t mention it. He and Rey exchange banal pleasantries over coffee and day-old cake while Hux finishes typing up his notes, then they get to work.

Mitaka listens to the briefing with unwavering attention, his fingers stapled in front of him like a front-row student. Like everyone else in their extended team, Mitaka is an experienced, accomplished dreamer—and yet, Hux can’t help looking at him and seeing the fresh-faced cadet Phasma had dragged in ages ago, barely into his twenties and all the more naive for it.

They’ve gotten old—Hux most so.

Once Hux finishes, “If you both are building this time,” Mitaka starts, looking between the two. “Who will be taking point? The Captain?”

Next to him, Rey inhales sharply, her face mostly hidden behind the curtain of her hair. Shame crosses through Mitaka’s face at the realised misstep.

“She’s otherwise occupied,” Hux responds before Mitaka can break into apologies. No need to make this more painful or awkward than it needs to be. “I will be running point as usual, and Rey is here to help with the heavy-lifting.”

Mitaka nods, glancing at Rey with concern before turning to Hux fully. “Where do I sign?”

----------------

They sign a heavily-encrypted stack of documents digitally, sending them through the First Order’s own communication system. The next day, they receive a link to a private cloud service with a convoluted unlock sequence that can be accessed by one device at a time, read-only.

Hux alone works on three different devices.

On the bright side, the project they receive is well-worth the inconvenience. Their objective is to design and build a superweapon out of an extensively described ice planet in the dreamspace, which must be capable of hitting five targets simultaneously and obliterating all affected life forms on them without causing a single non-predetermined casualty. Controlled chaos, if you will. The First Order wants a catastrophe they can tame and leash.

Hux can make it happen.

Whether he can make it happen in eight weeks is a different question entirely.

----------------

Without Ren to drag him away from work, he’s free to divide his waking hours between his screens and the sitting room, which they repurposed into a workshop-slash-dream den. While Hux is a decent architect in a pinch, he could never build the way Rey does—the way she bends the dreamspace to her will and creates cities that feel alive around them. Between the two of them, they have the groundwork laid out within days, quickly moving on to revising the base design according to the specifications in the main file and the numbers Hux runs.

Instead of using pre-mixed batches, Mitaka mixes their Somnacin from scratch on the kitchen table, reworking the formula per the reactions. None he comes up with works to keep Hux’s dreams steady, although a couple seem to ground his control over the dreamspace. Most just turn the dreams into nightmares for everyone involved.

Many of the nightmares are about Ren. Every time they manage to wake up from one of those, he looks at Rey to apologise. She never meets his eyes.

----------------

Unlike the two of them, Mitaka has family to return to and so he does when it gets late, leaving them to eat take-away and talk around the elephant in the room. On the rare occasion they do talk. Even though Hux gets the most shit for his workaholic tendencies, they all are guilty of it in different degrees; most nights are spent hunched over desks or tablets until they come close to shooting each other over the smallest noise or mistake, then they retire for the night.

The bedroom is where the worst fears come out.

“They might need our help,” she murmurs, lowly enough that the words could get lost among the howling wind outside. “They might be injured or—or lost, waiting for rescue. And we would be here arguing about heat transfer.”

“They aren’t.”

“But how do you know?”

He sighs loudly, turning to face Rey. Her eyes are big and eerily bright in the darkness, shining. “Look, Ren and I have been through this before. We’ve got contingencies in place for any kind of emergency—strategies to scarper and regroup as needed, fake identities with paper trail, codes to slip into lines of communication that will find their way to the other’s ear—all of which tied to systems that would alert us both if ever used. So far?” He gestures vaguely to his phones on the nightstand. “Complete radio silence.”

“Well it might be because he’s—”

His stomach lurching, “Don’t,” he bites out. He’s had enough nights contemplating that possibility himself, reasoning himself out of that line of thinking with more effort each time; he can’t handle someone else saying it.

Especially not Rey, whose unfailing optimism has seen them through many a dark spot.

“They will be back soon,” he says with conviction he forces himself to feel. They always do. This is just taking longer than expected.

Rey’s silence rings in the room.

----------------

At the end of the third week, Enric Pryde reaches out to him. His voice is as cold and serpent-like as he looks.

They talk for two and a half minutes—more accurately, Pryde relays his demands for two minutes and rebuffs Hux’s protests for the next half, then hangs up unceremoniously on him.

Fuming, Hux tries to glare a hole into his phone for about as long before going to wake Rey up.

----------------

“What do you mean, they are relocating us?”

Latching his fingers tight to keep from scraping at his already raw palms, “I mean exactly what I said,” Hux grinds out. “They want to move us into some safe house where they will provide us with everything we’ll need for the rest of the project. We don’t have the option to refuse their generosity.”

“They want to monitor us,” Mitaka says on the other end of the line, ever fond of pointing out the obvious. “Can they do that?”

“Would you like to be the one to tell them they can’t?” Hux shakes his head. They are not small fish; but the First Order is big enough to swallow them whole and not suffer for it. He knows to pick his fights. “If you’d like to drop off the face of the earth, now is the time.”

Rey snorts—as much of an answer as Mitaka’s bitter laughter.

“Well,” Rey says, scraping her chair back. “I should pack some clean underwear. When are they coming to get us?”

“As we speak.”

----------------

Before they leave, they make sure to sketch out First Order insignias on every available place. Just in case.

----------------

The safe house is, for all intents and purposes, a veritable villa in the middle of nowhere.

“A little excessive,” Mitaka comments as they tour the place, noting the bolted down furniture and darkened windows, locked conspicuously on the outside. The cupboards and the fridge are well-stocked enough to keep them fed for several months.

There is no mobile coverage.

In fact, there is no wireless connection of any sort. The multitude of devices strewn about in the house are all connected to the First Order’s own network and communications system, which provides access to every archive they might need for the project and nothing else.

The dread coiled in Hux’s guts grows heavier.

So much for his alert systems.

----------------

Progress is much faster with so much information at their fingertips.

Hux is envious of the berths of the First Order databases. Effective as his own methods of gathering intelligence are, his network couldn’t hope to have the same reach as a well-funded PMC—which he could have been a part of, had he not gone freelance instead of corporate after leaving the military.

The idea is tempting, still. He’s ruined for the civilian workforce—has been since childhood, with a father like General Brendol Hux was—but he seeks the structure and order that comes with being part of an organisation. Under different circumstances, he may have considered applying to the First Order after this project.

As their prisoner in everything but name, he wants little more than to be as far away from them as possible.

----------------

Everything they’ll need doesn’t involve a private chef or buffet, but it involves private delivery people who pick up whatever they want, no matter what they want, in a timely fashion. Because they are spiteful opportunists, they order the most extravagant and unreasonable meals they can think of. The food always arrives hot.

Hux marks the potential restaurants for each food item and how long it took to arrive on a small map every time. Just in case.

----------------

Sleeping in the same bed while Mitaka is in the next room feels too awkward, so they don’t. They don’t sleep much in general, either—not with the question of how to power a machine of the Starkiller’s scale without it overheating hanging heavy over their heads. Dreamshare mechanics are a lot more forgiving than their real-world counterparts; if they can’t pull it off down there, they sure as hell won’t make it work topside.

They have to make it work topside, they now know. The First Order wouldn’t have poured so much money and resources into what is merely Pryde’s pet design project.

“They probably have people looking into it,” Rey says, spinning her pen around her fingers with smugness dripping from her expression. He’s not petty enough to dare her to replicate it in the real world, but the thought is there. “Some super high-tech R&D division working on preventing a weapon of mass-destruction from exploding instead of, like, climate change.”

Watching her fingers like the secrets of the universe lie between them, “I don’t think so,” Mitaka responds. “It’s too much of a commitment. I bet they just wait for someone else to figure it out, then steal the designs from them.”

Something flares at the back of Hux’s mind like static, a connection he doesn’t want to make forcing itself into his awareness.

He shakes his head hard to clear it. Even with the dilation, he doesn’t have the time to dwell on things he’s got no control over.

“If you two are quite done gossiping,” he cuts in, smoothing over the blueprints in front of him for effect. “We’ve got work to do.”

----------------

We’re going to take something someone else worked very hard for, was all Ren had said the night before his departure—the only time Hux dared ask about his new job, once it became apparent Ren wasn’t going to say a word about it on his own. It’s such a non-answer that Hux couldn’t tell if Ren wanted to leave him space for plausible deniability or simply didn’t want to tell him.

He still can’t. As a matter of fact, he can’t say for sure Snoke’s job and this project are connected, either; all he’s got is a hunch.

A hunch he desperately wants to see proven wrong.

----------------

Mitaka’s newest blend is the most successful yet. They go down as far as the third level with only minor tremors under their feet—a huge leap of progress, after weeks of the ground swallowing them up whole.

Knowing better than to push their luck, they call it an early night and celebrate by ordering a feast they’ll have to take their time with. With the dinner table and every other horizontal space that could reasonably hold food covered in their work, they sprawl about the sofa set that hasn’t seen nearly enough use over their involuntary stay.

Once their food arrives and Rey realises what he ordered, a soft look crosses over her face. He ignores it. There’s only one place that serves Ren’s favourite food; it makes for a good reference point on his map. It’s not sentimental if it’s also practical.

----------------

He knew, from a logical standpoint, that having access to communication systems meant people could communicate with them and vice versa. On account of the fact that Pryde and the delivery people are the only ones to use it, he didn’t particularly care.

When the name Blysma pops up on the main screen, he realises what a gross oversight that was.

Heart at his throat, he accepts the request with shaking hands, grateful that no one is awake to see him like this. “Hux speaking.”

“Hello, Hux.”

Oh.

Oh, the ever-loving—

“Don’t say my name,” Ren adds quickly, as if he sensed that Hux was about to curse his name six ways to Sunday. “Or any other names. They don’t actively monitor your communications, but we’re pretty sure some keywords are flagged. Best not to take any chances.”

“We,” he repeats dumbly. So many questions are buzzing in his head that he doesn’t know which should take priority. “You and—ah, our mutual terrifying friend?”

Phasma’s melodic laughter rings through the other end of the line. Hux’s heart soars.

“Yeah,” Ren says, a little breathy. “Yes, we’re both here. And fine. The job ran late. Where the fuck are you?”

About that… “I don’t actually know,” he admits, the truth of it settling dark and deep into his gut. Trying to map out their location left him with more questions than answers. “Near the ocean. Far north of the city, I think; but we shouldn’t have crossed any borders.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down,” Ren says.

Irritation rising in him, “We were hardly given a tour guide for the road,” he snaps. You should have been there to take notes, is on the tip of his tongue—he swallows the words. Ren is here now, in a way. They’ve found Hux and the others. The insignias must have pointed them in the right direction; but figuring out how to contact Hux through the First Order’s own systems? That’s all their doing.

Taking a long breath to calm himself down, “How did you contact us anyway?” he asks.

“By calling in more favours than your sorry life is worth,” Phasma says, amusement lingering in her tone. He has never been happier to hear her mocking drawl. “So you had better give us something concrete to work with before we decide to leave you to rot there.”

Racking his brain, he takes a deep breath to ground himself. He’s got to focus. However Ren and Phasma managed to get into the First Order’s systems, they are unlikely to remain unnoticed for long. He needs to make the most of it.

The answer is so simple, he wants to smack himself upside the head.

“At noon, we will place an order for three servings of Bivoli tempari from the Hosnian. Track whoever is delivering it. They should lead you to us.”

----------------

He doesn’t tell the others about it. For one, he’s not fully sure his stress-addled brain didn’t make up the whole interaction—for another, they have a check-in with Pryde scheduled at 3, during which they’re going to disappoint him again with their lack of progress regarding the overheating issue. They are on thin ice as it is; he can’t take a gamble on the quality of the others’ poker faces and risk attracting Pryde’s suspicion.

At exactly noon, he contacts the delivery people and relays the order. In his periphery, Mitaka and Rey share a look.

Once he takes his seat again, “I thought the Hosnian was eat-in only,” Rey says.

Hux shrugs. “They said everything you’ll need.”

----------------

He orders something different from the Hosnian at the same time for the next four days, just in case. Mitaka is too polite to protest, despite the cuisine clearly not agreeing with him.

Rey eyes him suspiciously every time but says nothing, waiting for him to come to her instead of forcing an explanation out of him. He appreciates it more than he can put into words. He can only hope she understands.

----------------

Dying in an explosion ten times in a row tends to throw a wrench in group morale.

Unwilling to kill themselves just to wake up in the safe house, they wordlessly agree to wait out the timer. The burnout has settled deep onto their bones; Pryde’s implicit threats after every check-in don’t help their mental state, either. If Ren and Phasma hadn’t made contact, Hux might have considered taking his chances with a desperate escape attempt instead of sticking around to see what punishment the First Order would dole out for their inevitable failure. It might prove the better end, at any rate.

“I am going back to my children after this,” Mitaka says with more conviction than Hux has been able to muster up about anything in months. “I don’t care what happens. I don’t care if they kill me for it—I won’t die without seeing my family again.”

“We are not dying,” Hux reassures him. With three real-world seconds to the scheduled kick, he explains everything—Ren and Phasma making contact, the bare-bones of the plan and Blysma’s carefully vague progress update texts, the precautions they’re taking to keep Mitaka’s family safe should something go wrong.

Mitaka cries silent, happy tears at the news. Rey gives Mitaka a warm smile and pulls him close.

“That’s it,” she tells Hux, rubbing at Mitaka’s arm in sympathy. “I’m not letting her take a job without me ever again.”

Raising a brow, “You would be announcing to everyone in the community that she’s the best leverage against you,” he points out, not unkindly. He understands the sentiment—truly, he does—but it’s woefully impractical. Not to mention the kind of commitment it would take.

Her eyes gleam, smile turning secretive in that way he’s learned not to trust. Reaching into her pocket with her free hand, “I was already going to do that,” she says airily, taking out a small, velvet box.

Ah. Fair enough, then.

----------------

Hux is above lying to his employers.

Rather, he likes to think he is. Dreamshare, sophisticated as it may be at its heart, is an underground science—as such, it attracts a certain crowd. In a community where lying through one’s teeth is a survival skill, Hux knows to look someone in the eye and spin a tale truer than the truth as well as the next crook; he just prefers to tell the truth as long as it will leave his head connected to his body.

As it happens, this is the last scheduled check-in before the deadline. Giving Pryde bad news now would be signing their death warrant.

When Hux reports their success, Pryde smiles. The sight haunts Hux’s nightmares for days.

----------------

Blysma’s communication request comes the night before the grand plan, unscheduled.

His mind racing with possibilities, he grabs the tablet sitting on his nightstand before the notification wakes the others, accepting the request with, “Hux speaking.” As far as he’s concerned, there’s nothing left to talk about. Phasma has already laid out all she could of the plan without tipping off the First Order; a recap now would do more harm than good.

If this is about a last-minute change—well. Adaptability is another survival skill in their line of work.

“I missed your birthday.”

Hux blinks at the screen in his hands. “I—yes.” By a couple of months, at this stage. Where did that come from? Surely Ren didn’t realise it only now? “If you contacted me to wish me a happy belated birthday…”

“Of course not. I—uh, I called to hear your voice.” Hux’s lungs tighten, all too aware of his heartbeat. “Since we never finished our conversation.”

Their conversation. The handful of words Hux has been turning over in his head for months, to no apparent meaning or answer.

He’s bloody desperate to ask and finally, finally find out; but they’ve waited this long. They can be patient a little longer. “This is neither the time nor the place,” Hux says, as gently as he’s able, biting down on the instinctive Ren at the end. Now would be the absolute worst time for a slip-up. “Whatever it was, you can tell me tomorrow. In person.”

“That’s just it,” Ren mutters. “The last time I tried to tell you, we kept getting cut-off until signal completely went away and I thought, it’s fine. I’ll be back in a few days, I’ll just tell him then. In person.” He laughs, a breathy, bitter sound. “But then…”

But then Ren couldn’t get back until a few weeks after—and when he did, Hux wasn’t there anymore.

He clears his throat to get out the lump lodged there. “Then you’ll just have to be there this time,” he says firmly—his point man voice. “Because I will be, and I won’t accept any excuses.”

After a long beat, “Yes, sir,” Ren says, a smile in his voice. “See you on the other side.”

“Sleep well.”

[incoherentbabblings]

Timsteph #4 dialogue please

Fic Ask Game - “How long have you been standing there?” “Longer than you’d like.”

FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF FLUFFFFFFF.  Also see here for Steph’s dress.

“Stephanie?”  Bruce asked, knocking loudly.

Stephanie looked down from her little pedestal at her mother, who was making final adjustments to her dress.  Some piece of lace had come a little loose, so Crystal was tying it back down.

“Yes?”  She called, about the step down off her perch.  

Bruce opened the heavy wooden door, dark wood creaking under foot.  He poked his nose around, noting Crystal on her hands and knees, then his pale blue eyes trailed upwards, taking in Stephanie in her dress.  She was turned at her hip watching him expectantly, which only served to show off the wedding dress.  Long, not quite ivory white, A-line, with the kind of sleeves that made it look like she was wearing a shawl.  A plunging v shaped back, because “people need something interesting to look at during the ceremony” and detailed with a large lace pattern bodice and train.  She wasn’t yet wearing any jewellery; and she had opted for no veil.

Not the extravagant ballgown of someone who suddenly came into a lot of wealth would buy. Not the overtly slinky number others had pegged her for.

“Can I have a quick word?”  Bruce asked.  Stephanie nodded and he entered, carrying a flat black box.  Her eyes widened as she caught it, but Bruce only smiled at her in a way that awfully reminded her of Tim.

Bruce took in Stephanie’s appearance, noting that she looked awfully soft and warm, half like a fairy, with her hair in a thick braid around a large bun, loose hairs sweetly curled.   Crystal grunted as she went to get off the floor, her mother of the bride outfit restricting her movements.  Stephanie instinctively leant down to help lift her.  Steph was rewarded with a kiss and a soft goodbye, and Crystal left to grab her seat.

Once Crystal exited, Stephanie remained on her little stand, partly so she could remain level with Bruce, partly because her legs were shaking from nerves, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to step down without face planting.

“You have your earrings?”  Bruce asked.  She nodded, tilting her chin over to the dressing table. A gift from Bruce two years ago, a twenty first birthday gift.  Small little diamond pear drops.  

Her and Tim had opted for the wedding to be in the gardens of the manor.  Out of sight of the general public, and safe for their friends to be out of uniform.  She was currently occupying one of the countless spare rooms in the building.  If she crossed the hall and went into Damian’s room, she would have been able to look out the window and see the growing groups of people, and a very nervous Tim, waiting for her to trot down the stone stairs.

“Just that pair.  Thought a necklace and bracelets might be a bit too…much.”

She wasn’t sure Bruce would really care about her talking about accessorizing, but he smiled. He was very happy today. Which… good.  Good!

“Maybe, but Damian had the idea for something in your hair, since you’re not wearing a veil.”

“Dami?  Really?”  She laughed.  “Surprised he was paying attention to all of Cass and I’s conversations!”  

Bruce just hummed, then changed the subject, which was typical Bruce, underplaying his kindness.

“You look very beautiful Stephanie.”

She blushed, not sure what to do with herself.

Bruce stepped closer and took the lid off the box.  A trio of combs were nestled in the black velvet.  She stumbled off her little block, holding tight to his forearm to steady herself.  He was a solid brick to hold onto, reassuringly present.  She smiled broadly, teeth gleaming, at the freshwater pearls and flowers decorating the combs.

“Thank you.” She said sincerely.

“You’re welcome.”  He put the box down, and one by one slid the combs into her braid, creating a chain of glimmer in her hair.  He moved his hands down, to rest gently on her shoulders.  She may have been imagining it, but his eyes seemed a little wet.

She had to ask, before she could let her anxiety get the better of her.

“You are okay with this, right?”

“With what?”  He asked.

Me being your son’s wife, was what she wanted to say.  Instead, she settled for a more benign question.  “Walking me down the aisle.  I’m not… Since I’m not your—”

“You are in every way that counts.”  He said, in that firm tone that brokered no argument, for it was so solid in its opinion that it could only be taken as fact.  It was so certain, that it elevated her unspoken fear.  

He squeezed her shoulders and she smiled tight lipped at him.

“I’ll see you downstairs.”

“Yes, sir.”

She made him laugh, and as a reward she received a kiss to the forehead.  It was so quick she may have imagined it, but there was no way Bruce would have moved so close if not to gift her with one.  

He stepped away, looked her up and down once more.  Stephanie threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin, playfully letting him appraise her.

“Good enough?”

“Always.”

Her expression froze, and Bruce left the room. She watched him go, breathing a quiet huff of a laugh to herself.  Her mind raced, trying to think of future ways to make Bruce so sentimental.

Babies sprung to mind immediately.  Endless amounts of babies.

Bruce shut the door, leaving Stephanie to catch her breath and grab her bouquet.  Nearly time to go.

Bruce turned around to see Tim in the corridor in front of him, uncomfortably close.  His eyes were very wet, like he was about to start blubbering.  Bruce turned white, knowing that Tim had probably been peeking through the keyhole.  

“How long have you been standing there?” 

Tim smiled mischievously and whispered, voice a little warbly, “Longer than you’d like.”

He hugged Bruce tight, like he was sixteen years old again.  Bruce returned the squeeze and Tim grunted.  

“Thank you.” 

[blue-mood-blue]

She looks just like her brother.

Jane knows that’s what they’re thinking. Every time someone glances in her direction instead of staring at the ornate box they’re all gathered around in the noonday sunshine, she can practically hear it, whispered silently into the air around them: Oh, she looks so much like him, what a shame, how awful that she didn’t make it back in time. She doesn’t pay them any mind; she’s not here for any of them.

The strange pair standing together at the edge of the crowd, though, hanging back - they catch her attention. Jane’s never met them, but she knows exactly who they are. Duck told her things, little pieces of whole he wasn’t ready for her to see yet, so she knows Aubrey Little and Ned Chicane. If everyone else is only glancing at her, Aubrey is staring with a stricken expression and Ned is looking at everyone and everything else instead of her.

More importantly, she knows why they’re here and why they haven’t come any closer. 

To Aubrey’s credit, she tries. Jane sees her creeping closer after the casket is in the ground and people have started to leave, waiting patiently behind Jane to introduce herself.

Jane decides to save her the trouble. “Aubrey Little, right? Duck mentioned you a couple of times.”

Aubrey hesitates, and Jane guesses she was caught off guard. “Um, yes! Yes. You must be Jane. I’m so sorry —”

“You’re part of that... neighborhood watch thing, right? Keeping the town safe?”

Her hesitation is longer this time, weighted. Aubrey says a lot by not saying anything at all, and it’s the answer that Jane is looking for.

Duck was a shit liar, but sometimes he could slide by the truth if it was close enough to being honest. Sometimes he’d tell her just enough. “Had to visit the hospital,” he’d say, without saying how bad the injury was or how he’d gotten it. “There’s something weird going on in Kepler and the police could use an extra set of eyes,” he’d explain, without ever mentioning if the police agreed with his assessment. Jane had known for a long time that Duck was doing something dangerous, she just didn’t know the details. And she hadn’t even thought of trying to stop him, because if Duck was voluntarily doing something dangerous, it meant someone was in danger.

She should have stopped him. If she’d come back sooner, if she’d been here when it happened... but she didn’t, and she wasn’t. She got on a plane after his last phone call, all veiled worry and forced calm, telling her that if anything happened and she needed better answers, she should find someone named Mama. “You won’t need to but... figured I’d mention it, since I won’t be able to call for a little bit.” The implication that something might happen was enough to bring her home so she could ask Duck about those better answers directly, and by the time she got to Kepler he was already gone.

And this Aubrey Little knows more than Jane does about why her brother is in the ground and not filling her in on the local gossip. And maybe it isn’t fair - it definitely isn’t fair - but that makes Jane hate her, just a little bit. “Yeah, he told me. Not nearly all of it, but I’m gonna find out the rest.” When Jane turns to look at her, Aubrey looks pale. Even guilty, maybe. “Were you there, when it happened?”

“I —”

Jane shakes her head. “You probably shouldn’t answer that, actually.” Jane turns around to leave, well aware that there is more of her brother left in the forests he loved so much than in this patch of meticulously maintained lawn of headstones. “See you around, Aubrey.”

When Jane glances to where the two of them had been standing together, Ned Chicane is already gone.

Jane has a dream that night that she’s talking to a woman made of light. The woman seems to know her brother, but Jane has never seen her before. She calls Duck a warrior, which seems inaccurate, and she calls him merciful, which sounds a lot more like the Duck Jane remembers.

“I do not know if you wish to continue your brother’s fight, Jane Newton,” she says. There’s something in her voice that speaks of old grief, and Jane has the strange thought that this woman will miss Duck more than half of the people at the funeral who offered her empty condolences. “You do not have to. But his sword is yours, should you choose to accept it.”

Jane is about to tell the woman how insane the thought of Duck carrying a sword is, but she wakes up in his apartment instead, surrounded by half-packed boxes. There’s a sword on the ground next to her, and she’s sure it wasn’t there when she fell asleep.

The sword is looking at her - she’s sure of that, even if she doesn’t know what makes her think so. She doesn’t know what compels her to pick it up.

“Jane Newton, I presume.” The voice comes from the sword, the sword that has a mouth that she can see now that it’s moving, and she almost drops it. “My name is Beacon. You, now you have the spirit of a warrior. You would wield me in battle, would you not Jane Newton? Your brother never did use my full power, pacifist that he was...”

The sword says it like an insult, and Jane squeezes the hilt as if anything she could do to it would actually hurt a metal object. She remembers the coroner’s hesitating, uncomfortable report, spoken with long pauses as if Jane might change her mind about wanting to know how Duck died. Every detail was followed by a silence as if to say are you sure, do you really need to know, wouldn’t you sleep easier if you let me tell you kinder lies. Jane kept asking for the truth, and she barely slept at all that night.

“My brother died fighting, didn’t he?” Beacon doesn’t answer and she shakes him, aware that it’s a useless gesture. “What more did you want from him? He fought, and he defended people, and he died. That’s not enough of a warrior for you?”

Beacon is silent for a long moment. Finally, quietly, he admitted: “Yes, Duck Newton fell in battle.”

Jane takes a deep breath. She reminds herself that she already guessed as much, but it’s different to know for sure. “Yeah. So, I don’t want to hear you talk shit about my brother. I don’t need a fucking sword, and I’ll throw you in the river to rust if you start with that shit again.”

She might be imagining the hint of respect in his voice when he says “Understood.”

Leo finds her a couple of days later, when she’s unlocking the door to Duck’s apartment. He doesn’t have any more answers than Minerva does, can’t tell her the why or how of any of it, but he points to Beacon and tells her that he can teach her.

“I’m not an expert but I know a few things. Better than nothing, right?”

He’s one of those people Jane almost knows, the kind she’s seen around but probably hasn’t had an actual conversation with in years. Duck was always better at that kind of thing than her, was always around to remind her of names that had slipped her mind. If she was going to do this, if she was going to stay and protect these people, she was going to have to get better at that. She couldn’t be Duck, but she would have to make the effort.

Jane takes him up on the offer. It’s... surprisingly good for her, actually, to swing Beacon and take her anger out on targets. Leo seems to get it; Leo just gets a lot of things, a lot more than she would’ve given him credit for on first impression. 

“I’m sorry about Duck,” he tells her eventually. They hadn’t talked much about Duck before then. Jane’s pretty sure Leo didn’t know how to start the conversation. “You’re brother was a good guy. He’d be proud of you, you know.”

Jane likes to think she knows, but it’s good to hear it from someone else. It’s good to be sure.

When Jane finds Mama, she’s on the porch of the Amnesty Lodge. Mama sees the family resemblance and the sword on Jane’s hip, and she doesn’t have to ask why Jane is there.

She does ask if Jane knows the details of how Duck died, and if she’s sure. Jane is sure, and Mama doesn’t question her resolve. She just tells Jane the truth, hands her a patch, and welcomes her.

Jane sits beneath the trees for a few hours, staring at the patch. She wonders how Duck felt when he was given his. She could guess, she could ask the other members, but she couldn’t talk to Duck so she’d never really know.

“This probably isn’t exactly what you wanted, when you told me to talk to Mama,” she says to the empty air. It feels like he’s there anyway, the way it always does when she’s in the forest. “I’m sorry. But I have to - you probably felt like you had to at the time, didn’t you? I bet you were thinking about everyone else but you.” She sighs and leans back against the tree. “I’m gonna need you to help me, Duck. I’m not as good as you. I’m not as brave. I need your help if I’m gonna do this.”

A breeze rustles the branches, and Jane smiles.

Jane is waiting for Ned when he unlocks the Cryptonomica. He freezes in the doorway when he sees the shape of her leaning against the front desk, Beacon gripped loosely in her hand.

“Hey Ned, how’ve you been?”

He closes the door slowly. “I’ve been... fine. Reasonably well. And how have you been, Jane?”

“Could be better.” She’s worked hard, to let go of the anger and the hate. It’s working but it’s working slowly. She’ll get there - she’ll have to, if she’s going to fight monsters with these people. “Have been better. You and me need to have a conversation, Ned.”

Ned flinches, but he doesn’t make excuses or try to run off. That’s progress since the last time she’d seen him. “What about?” Ned makes an attempt to sound composed, but Jane isn’t fooled.

“What do you think? I want to talk about Duck.”

“Jane --”

“Just listen, Ned. Just shut up and listen, for once.” Ned shuts up, and Jane sighs. “You were there, right? That’s what I hear. He wasn’t alone - you and Aubrey were there.”

He hesitates before answering. “Yes. We were there.”

“But you were distracted, both of you were. You’d lied to Aubrey and she was upset, and neither of you were on your game. And when it was go time, when whatever that thing was went after my brother,” she pauses, taking a moment to breathe. Her voice had been getting loud, angry, and she needed a second to not go there. “When that thing went after my brother, neither of you saw. And it killed him.”

“Jane, I’m so sorry.” He sounds sincere. When Jane looks up, there are tears on his face, and she’s thrown. He has changed - the Ned she knew didn’t cry for people.

“Are you?” He’s about to answer, but she cuts him off. “Are you really? Because if you’re really, truly sorry, Ned Chicane, that shit will not happen again. You will have my back. Aubrey will have my back. And when we’re facing a threat, the only thing that matters will be protecting each other and the innocent. That’s what you can do for my brother.”

“You?” Jane turns enough so that Ned can see the patch on the shoulder of her jacket, and he stares.

“Me. I’m going to finish what my brother started. Now, I’m going to have this conversation with Aubrey and then we should all be on the same page. Can you do that, Ned? Can I trust you?”

Ned looks up when she asks, his expression as serious as hers - the expression of someone who’s lost someone and feels the loss keenly. Jane realizes, for the first time, that Ned and Aubrey were more than Duck’s teammates. They’d been friends. Duck was missed all over Kepler, and here too.

“You can trust me.”

Jane sheathes her sword and holds out her hand to shake his. 

[ultrakeystotheheartblog]

Not So Alone (Part 2) (Teen Titans x Reader)

Part 2 of 2

Request: Requested by multiple people.

“Uhm, your teen titans imagine was?? so great?? I would totally love a sequel omg (only if u want obv)”

“Omg please I just read the fic and want a sequel too so badddd you don’t have to if you don’t want to but I’d be super hype to see it and read and scream because the first parts great” - @laneygthememequeen

A/N: I’m back! I’m not dead! And I am definitely going to  write an update some time soon to explain everything that’s happened, but for right now I’m just gonna go ahead and say thank you again for all the positive comments and support that the first part received. I wasn’t expecting so many people to enjoy it, so I was over the moon at the response. With that said, I hope you all enjoy this part too ♥♥♥ 

(PS: This was the imagine that got the most votes, so the final part for my Jason Todd fic will be coming next! And, uh, It’s already turning out like a novel guys, prepare yourselves).

Warning: Swearing. Little bit of angst, but mostly a whole lot of fluff.

*********************************************************************************

You can’t help but feel that something is not quite right today.

Things are quiet.

Too quiet.

There’s no bouncing music or flashing video games, no arguing, no laughing, no daily echoes of training or disastrous calamities unfolding in the kitchen. No doting, friendly teammates to regale you with their presence (as what’s been the norm for the past few weeks while you’ve begrudgingly, slowly, began to heal from your injuries). No, the Tower is practically, for lack of a better or less ironic term, dead. And has been for most of the day—a husk of boredom and loneliness and one too many pieces of cold, leftover pizza. 

Not to mention that looming cloud that’s followed over your head, a suspicious kind of quiet that’s been pressing in all around you like a swarm of invisible hands, seeping into the very foundation of the room. It’s been keeping you teetering on the edge of a pinpoint for literal hours—your fight or flight response practically grinding its teeth in preparation for an inevitable...something. And all the while you sink further into the entertainment room’s monstrous, curved couch and try to focus on ‘relaxing’.

Ha.

You’d be more relaxed if you knew where everyone disappeared to.

But alas, you do not—no matter how much the urge to snoop is (and you so want to snoop), because that’s not what friends do. At least, you think it’s not. You have to admit, it’s been a long time since you’ve considered anyone a friend, but you’re trying. Trying to let go of the past. Trying to be vulnerable. To be good. To be open. And you very much find yourself liking all the ensuing, chaotic changes in your life recently. But you’re rusty and unsure, and always, always, waiting for some other shoe to drop.

You don’t want it to.

You really don’t want it to.

But sometimes you wonder if it would give you some sort of relief from all the waiting—if that metaphorical shoe just got it over with already and put its ugly, metaphorical foot down. So you could breathe without all this pinchy, backwards kind of guilt you’ve been storing up inside for years, waiting to finally punch out into the world like a nest of angry wasps. Like you should feel bad for wanting to be a part of something....something more. 

You’ve always hated just waiting for something to happen. But here you are now; alone, completely over-thinking the meaning of life, and left to stew in a concoction of sulky feelings that leaves you nauseous in a way you’ve worked so hard to forget.

So.

With your sore legs propped up onto the coffee table for comfort, you just continue to glare at the blank TV screen and watch your faded reflection in the shine of the glass, biting bitterly into the last of the pizza crust from the plate balanced in your lap.

ZuZu (as declared by Star the morning you’d first woken up—words tripping in a rush of excitement and a stream of breathless chatter about some sort of inspiration from an earth movie—while she gently sits the little creature into your lap with a ceremonious flourish of her arms) flops onto their belly to find a more comfortable position beside you. 

Their front legs tuck underneath their bulk, long, spiked tail curling around their body in looping circles, before they come to rest their head on your hip, staring intensely at the leftover crust between your fingers.

They’re about the size of a small dog, heavy and wide, with the hybrid body structure of some sort of lizard and a...well, a bear. Their face is coated in silky auburn fur, snout ridged and twitchy, large heavy-lidded, expressive pink eyes set deep in their sockets. The majority of their torso and back legs are scaled and shiny, while three stripes of that autumn colored fur zigzag down their back, their front legs thick and capped with massive fuzzy paws and hooked dark claws. But the most distinctive features are the large, pleated creases of skin which usually lay folded back against their head and neck. 

A frill, like you remember seeing once, adorning a lizard from some travelling petting zoo. It’s supported by long spines of cartilage connected to each side of their jaw bone, and when spread to encircle the entirety of their head, is lined in pink and filled with bright orange scales.

Beast Boy called it a ‘deimatic display’ that first day, a behavior or reaction of patterns and colors used like a defensive bluff—akin to beady eyes on the back of a moth’s wings or selective changes in the body pattern of a cuttlefish—manipulated to startle, display a warning, or distract predators. But it seems ZuZu is able to use it a bit differently—a slight alien twist to the reaction, which allows them to communicate solely through a language formed by varying flashes and multitudes of color. 

You’ve all been scrambling to figure out the meanings behind each display lately, trading yes or no questions with the creature at any given point throughout the day, before documenting any noticeable details in the Tower’s staggering, inexhaustible database. 

Red, you’ve found quickly, suggests that they’re annoyed, or angry, or generally, exceedingly, unhappy about something. Yellow, on the other hand, simply implies content in the most peaceful sense. And pink? That’s become their version of taunting—something smug and annoyingly self-assured, which seems to be their more….colourful version of resting bitch face.  

You grunt at the heavy weight of ZuZu’s head as it presses more firmly against bruised muscles and skin, hidden away beneath the cozy, cotton sweatpants you’d wrestled from the bottom of your closet. It doesn’t keep you from slipping deeper though, into the clouded memories shrouding that first dreamlike morning after finally waking.

Robin—grinning, more relaxed then you’d ever seen him, and already lying back in his spot beside you on the bed—had leaned over when Star finally took a moment to find her breath, voice dipping low as he casually filled in the most obvious, glaring blanks in her story. He explained how they’d come upon ZuZu while rushing you back to the tower for medical attention—left behind by their master, defensive and shaking, and hidden away beneath the burning hot rubble from unlucky buildings crushed during the Jump City attack.

You can vaguely recall those creatures and their part in the invasion, as you hold the curious, unwavering stare of your new housemate. You pinpoint a fuzzy recollection of hundreds of similar alien hybrids, large percents of them being used as cannon fodder against the city’s responding defense—some sort of attack dogs or bloodhounds originally breed for what seemed to be an unparalleled sense of incoming danger. And a lethal aptitude for sniffing out and marking targets, even in the most extreme of circumstances. All to make the invading attack’s that much more…. precise. 

Equally as shaken and heartbroken, both Starfire and Beast Boy insisted on giving little ZuZu a home, one without the need for cold masters and needless sacrifices.

Robin admitted that it took some convincing to get him to agree, but that he caved to them rather quickly, like the truly soft-hearted dork you know he is on the inside. The one, you’ve been noticing, that is no longer carefully tempered behind masks both metaphorical and literal (like those you’d learned to cultivate for yourself, to ensure your own survival among the flocks of good and evil in this world)—all veils of enigmatic charm and cool leadership, strategy and logic.

(While for just as long, you had mused, you refined your wall of sarcasm and teasing, and strained, plastic smiles. Even as fate saw it fit to laugh and thrust you into the role of cosmic punching bag in both a figurative and literal sense).

Because Robin is never really one to deny a safe haven to someone, especially an orphan, in need.

And it’s not too hard to understand why.

It’s one quality you’ve only caught glimpses of, before the attempted invasion and one too many near-death experiences changed everything.

Your once positive opinion on lizards.

Your practical, humanly limitations regarding the ability to eat your weight in cold, cheese pizza.

Your mostly cynical take on all the possible wonders of this life.

Your team and their conduct—their outreach of friendship, their measure of trust and willing openness towards you.

Your place among them.  Your.... the need for the permanence of those masks.

All while you’ve been learning to come to terms with this warm, slowly blossoming….strange feeling of finally belonging.

ZuZu shifts to find a different angle, and then they’re sliding their head further into your lap, situating themselves just underneath your hovering hand. Your sullen gaze darts down to examine them again in the cresting evening sunlight, their lithe body bathed in an orange light that softens the harsh lines and edges of bluish-green scales, until they’re all but glittering like some magnificent, stain-glass fish below rippling water. 

Shit, they’re so wonderfully unique, maybe too much so, for a world that tears down all that’s different in the name of fear (and this you know all too well). They’re intelligent and hardheaded, and kind of an absolute dick if you’re being honest. But you can’t help but feel close to the little creature, and hope, however possibly (awfully) misguided, that it’s at least somewhat mutual. After all, for all their rough edges and guarded, worldly acceptance, they were learning to fit in here—just like you.

The flash of a long, forked tongue startles you from your thoughts, and you catch sight of it in your peripheral, snapping out towards the piece of half-eaten crust in your hand before you can even process where it’s suddenly emerged from. You jerk away clumsily on reflex, letting the crust plummet back to the plate in your lap as you lean to the side, trying to avoid the persistent little alien. You hoist the plate up and out of their reach at a safer distance—though not without a twinge of pain that bursts like fireworks in your shoulders. 

You glare down at them in admonishment.

Well then.

Earlier sentiment revoked, actually.

ZuZu narrows their intensely bright eyes right back at you, their frill rising from their neck like the hackles of an angry dog. The trim pleats of skin folded there flutter in anticipation before finally sweeping open with the rippling, fluid grace of a hand-held folding fan. The pretty scales lining the exposed frill change colour almost instantly when they hit the open air, flaring a deep red when you stick your tongue out at ZuZu in an act of childish defiance. 

Yeah, someone’s no longer a happy camper now, are they? Well, join the club, pal.

You can’t always get what you want. Because no matter what you do, life just likes to screw you in the—

It takes a total of three, distracted seconds.

The offending tongue snaps out at an impossible length to hit the surface of the plate. It’s like some cartoon frog catching a fly that’s far enough out of reach to be considered natural, the appendage wrapping around one end of the half-bitten crust, before proudly reeling it back down into a waiting mouth. Their jaw snaps shut again with an audible click of teeth, and they swallow their prize whole and much too slowly, flashing you a fanged smile that gives you the creeps.

Or you do, you find yourself bitterly amending in the wake of defeat, especially when you’re a terrifying space gremlin with freakish mouth biology. Why are you even awake again today?

You sag into the couch cushions with an unexpected wave of soul-weary tiredness, a full body and mind exhaustion creeping upon the fringes of your being, though you’d been fighting it off rather successfully for most of the month. 

You lower the empty plate to sit on the surface of the coffee table—while grumbling under your breath about the reigning injustice of such snack-stealing gremlins in your midst—and lean even more precariously forward. Much farther than you normally would consider doing without others around, but you persist in you reach, getting a good grip on the propped up crutch you’ve left leaning against the table. 

You struggle to your feet then, deciding to leave the main living room to find something more productive to do (rather than wallowing and getting your food pilfered from beneath your slowly healing, broken nose). ZuZu watches you silently from their cozy napping spot, gaze tracking you as you begin to hobble around the couch on your way from the room. You toss a half-hearted, parting wave to Starfire’s first adopted friend—a chunky, gooey, mutant moth larvae dubbed little Silkie, snoring away beneath an open side table near the couch.

It’s good going, until something unexpected flutters down from the ceiling with the grace of falling snow—just as you’re about to cross the threshold into the hallway. Your gaze follows the swirling path of the shiny, red and black length of foil as it lands near your feet. A candy wrapper.

Huh.

Strange.

You pause in your journey and peer down at it for a moment, bewildered enough to take a full step back before finally looking up to retrace its fallen path.

And okay, so in hind sight, you kind of wish you hadn’t left the couch.

A single, suspiciously green, bat drops like a stone from the ceiling once it’s seen, swooping down over your head with a panicked flutter of leathery wings. You shout and unashamedly curse like a drunken sailor, ducking in surprise to further avoid the little needle talons that brush across the top of your head. Beast Boy turns human once he clears your form and hits the floor, once again completely, frustratingly, naked when he hops up to his feet. 

He tries to quickly console you, only to jump back in order to dodge the fear-driven swing of your crutch.

“Hey! It’s just me!!” He exclaims, hands held out towards you. You sling your cast over your eyes and wonder just how bad it would be if you bleached them clean of the searing, full-frontal image that lingers just behind them.

“WEAR PANTS.” You demand in alarm.

“They’re not comfortable!” He complains. Eyes still tightly shut, you shake your head and gesture wildly at him, throwing out your plaster covered arm to wave it around in loose, frantic circles. “PANTS!” You insist in a higher voice. “Fine!”

He mutters something else, low and displeased under his breath, and then goes to dig out a familiar non-descript bag you’re used to finding at random—usually full of extra clothes and stashed around the tower, or other frequent hangout places around the city—hidden away within the grassy, potted plant next to you both. You choose to ignore the obvious sass he’s exuding in protest, cracking open an eye just a bit to make sure he’s following through. 

He smoothly tugs his purple and black uniform free from the depths of the shiny leaves, wrangling on the bottom half with a pout as quickly as he can, and before you know it, he’s already shrugging the fabric up over his narrow shoulders.

(Though to your satisfaction he’s careful of the stitches still lining his spine). You sigh in relief, “Just—oh my god, what were even you doing up there in the first place?!”

Beast Boy works his mouth in silence as though he can’t find the right words to explain at the moment, bottom canines glinting as he squints up through the fluorescent lights and tosses the empty bag to rest beside the plant. He seems to be thinking hard about his answer (you hope), his gaze dropping to you after a few seconds of awkward, disbelieving silence. He shrugs, apparently deciding it’s appropriate to simply respond with a pair of finger-guns and a strained grin. “....hanging around?”

…..

You think you’re starting to miss those dragon-tailed, sumo alien’s from space-hell.

Your shoulders slump as the pent up energy from your frustration and sudden scare seeps from your body all at once. You groan, lifting your crutch up to point at him, the tip barely brushing against his chest. “You’re dead to me.” You proclaim lightly. Beast Boy rolls his eyes, and after securing the clasp on the back of his suit with a small chuckle, reaches out to gently lower the makeshift weapon. “Oh, come on—”

You don’t wait for him to finish, moving to hobble around him and retreat to your room. You shouldn’t have gotten up today. Nope. Call it a bad feeling. Something is going on around here and you are getting the hell out while you can. He slides into your path immediately, cutting of your escape with a smooth glide across the hardwood flooring. You narrow your eyes, shuffling to move around him again. He meets you like before, lunging closer still with each attempt to counteract your movements. You huff and stare him down, feeling like a Spanish bull in the ring, ready to charge the moment you see an opening. “BB, move.” You warn lowly.  

He throws out his arms to either side of him, blocking your way when you take a threatening step forward. “Can’t do that.” He chirps, puffing out his chest to seem more confident in his current position, while beginning to look as though he’s starting to regret his life’s choices, what with the way you’re gaze is cutting into his very soul. (Positively icy. You’d practiced that, rest in peace).

But he doesn’t move.

You frown and glare at him suspiciously, forcing your heavy limbs to cooperate with you for a moment. You take a step to the right, and as expected Beast Boy mirrors your movement, but your body isn’t as fast as you remember it. And he knows it. You careen to the left to try and complete your fake-out, but Beast Boy anticipates the slow sway of your body, following the uneven momentum like a puppet on strings to block your way yet again.

 He reaches out to steady you when you wobble, legs shaking with the sudden quick strain on your knees, and you wince at the flair of pain. Crappy broken body. You shake him off angrily, more upset at yourself then at him, and strike your crutch against the floor with a wave of strength (propelled simply by the heated frustration you feel festering in your chest like icky, wriggling worms). “Beast Bo—Gar, I’m serious.” You hiss in annoyance, ignoring the ricocheting twinge of pain that shoots up into your shoulder at the action.

“Believe it or not, so am I!” He defends, hands flying to his hips.

“Debatable.” You snap back.

“Rude.”

“Twenty bucks on (Y/N).” A new, deeper voice declares with obvious amusement. You spin to face the living room again, Beast Boy peeking around you to get a better view. Cyborg and Starfire are standing before you, having appeared out of thin air and quiet as can be, the latter of the duo looking as though she could just burst with excitement. More than usual. Cyborg’s gaze cuts to you when he notices the way you’re staring at her in confusion, putting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently to sooth the absurd tremble of her body. 

Okay. Double suspicious. 

They’re dressed in casual clothes; Starfire in high-waisted, purple shorts and a stylish pink sweater that hangs off her shoulders, her wild red hair tied back into a ponytail and her feet bare, smile wide. Cyborg is donned in sweatpants and an old blue and yellow football jersey you think might have seen better days once, newly buffered limbs gleaming under the lights. Beast Boy pursues his lips and squints up at his friend when he catches sight of the teasing smirk Cyborg trains on him.  

“Thanks, dude.” He responds as sarcastically as he can. Starfire spins to face Cyborg with glee, hands clasped in front of her.

“Friend Victor, I too wish to attribute money to the outcome of this argument.” She reveals enthusiastically, leaving you to trade an exhausted look with Beast Boy at the spiraling situation. Cyborg’s grin grows larger, and he winks at you both before giving Starfire his undivided attention.

“Okay.” He relents, staring down at her curiously. “Bettin’ on (Y/N) then?”

Starfire pauses, nose crinkling as she considers the question. “Can I not take part of the betting for both?”

“No, Star, it doesn’t really—” Cyborg begins, sighing with reluctance when she only continues to look up at him expectantly. “You know what? Sure.” He amends with a shrug, rubbing at the back of his head. Starfire claps her hands excitedly and laughs, her feet lifting from the floor in her in a rush of elation.

“Glorious!” She exclaims. You almost miss it when Cyborg turns away from her, but you’re able to barely catch the sly way she throws a wink at you too, the quick gesture leaving you reeling in amusement.

Oh shit, what a hero.

You can definitely appreciate a good swindle win you see one. And that was great.

You slump against your crutch and chuckle tiredly, massaging your forehead with the tips of the fingers peeking stiffly from your cast, before raising your arm up to draw their attention.

“Alright, seriously, what’s going on with you guys today? Where’ve you all been? Some secret club within our secret club?” You question fervently, on a  new mission as you hobble closer towards them. “I have to admit, I’m kind of offended if that’s the case.”

“Oh, you know, out.” Cyborg says much too casually and unhelpfully for your liking, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweats. Simultaneously, Starfire responds much too quickly.

“In my room!” She declares loudly, unable to stop herself from flinching at the sharp, wide-eyed look Cyborg cuts her. She mouths an apology at him and flashes you a sheepish smile, tapping the tips of her index fingers together.

Oh, something is definitely going on. Not on my watch, secret keepers of the crypt.

You squint at them, “Sure. I’ll believe that. But why do I suddenly have a five-foot-furry shadow? One who doesn’t seem to know the concept of the word shame?”

Beast Boy gasps as though he’s never been so insulted in his young life (okay, so you may have possibly taken it a little too far that time. But in your defense, there’s a lot of stressful things going on right now, and the bat thing may have thrown you a little too far over the edge), scurrying around you to passionately wave a random, uh, peace sign in front of your face.

Wait, what?

“Five-foot-two.” He stresses firmly, wiggling both fingers for emphasis. You lean your weight on the single crutch keeping you gloriously upright, reaching out to tug his hand down with a groan.

“So not the point, batboy.”

“Hey! Bats are cool!”

“Ha! You know what else is cool?” You question sarcastically, nestling your casted arm against your chest as you lean forward to regard him with an arched eyebrow. “Not scaring the living shit of a person who’s already legally died twice from heart failure.”

Beast Boy concedes to your logic with a grimace, no doubt fighting off a burst of vivid memory on the subject.

“Point taken.” He agrees.

Cyborg pads over to you with a muffled laugh, giving your upper back a hearty, friendly slap that propels you forward a few steps. “Aw, B.B.’s just doing his job. Lighten up, (Y/N/N).”

You stumble with a strangled sound and work to regain your balance yourself through burning muscles, gripping the handle and uprights of the crutch as tightly as you can. You always forget how strong he is. And sometimes, though not often, so does he. Cyborg winces, flexing his fingers while he graces you with an apologetic smile. You raise an eyebrow at him; eyes locked intently on his face, as though you could simply reach into his mind and know all with a simple blink, and subtly tilt your head towards Beast Boy.

"And that means I can't leave one single room?"

"It was more to keep you busy." Cyborg admits with a grin that makes you all too nervous.  

Okay, red flag. Were you sweating? You might be sweating. They weren’t the…vengeful type, right? It’s not really your fault you tend to stress eat. Though….

"What are you all planning?" You ask again, unconsciously scanning the corners of room behind them for your two missing team members. Why do you feel like you’re about to be ambushed? Starfire hops forward like she’s stepping on air, looping her arm through yours and shaking it gently as she leans into you. Then she begins to drag you forward the smallest bit.

"Something wonderful!” She responds in that giddy way of hers, green eyes simmering with something impassioned and restless when they focus on your dumbfounded expression—fire brimming from her touch and her very being. She leans in closer and continues in a secretive whisper, which you think was meant to be soothing at some point between her thought process and strange execution. “But you must come to the roof to see it, my friend."

The….roof?

What’s so special about the fucking—

Oh.

….

Sonuvabitch.

To be completely honest, you knew it would somehow end like this. Betrayed by a moment of weakness and reduced to seething shame and broken trust, only to be real-life ghosted and then unceremoniously Mufasa-ed by your own team. A dramatic, imminent doom of Disney proportions. Ugh, what an embarrassing way to go. You really shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning like some normal, model citizen with an inane urge to contribute to society. What an idiot.

Still….maybe you’re just being a little over-dramatic here. Heroes usually have non-murdery morals, don’t they? Which is a big step up from your last group of…yeah….they weren’t even close to friends. Still, you can never be too careful these days. Right? Right.

You pull back from Starfire, trying to sound teasing as you respond, while barreling through your baseless internal panic and sprinkle of sugar-riddled guilt. How do you always get yourself into these messes?

"Is this the part where you throw me from the top? For finishing off the leftover cake without telling anyone?"

Beast Boy’s jaw drops.

"That was you?!"

Of course it was.

You laugh nervously and much too awkwardly to be convincing while you scramble to backtrack, "What?! Of course not!"

It was so good.

Starfire looks kind of horrified at your earlier insinuation about the roof, and she pulls away from you completely, eyes wide and unbelieving. She gasps, "We would never!"

Cyborg’s eyebrow shoots up as he studies your reaction. He frowns, lifting a hand to rub at his chin with an exaggerated sweep of his arm—as though he’s taking a moment to think more deeply about the matter—his metal fingers clunk-ing in the blanketing silence when they meet the thick, metal plate covering it. He sounds playful when he speaks up, and you know he’s not taking the news as hard as Gar currently is. 

"Well, now you've given me a lot to think about." He says slowly, amusement thick in his voice and vibrantly pulsing beneath his already crumbling, disappointed façade.

You wonder when it was exactly—when you’d unconsciously began to find his eagerly outspoken and protective spirit, his overly intense and personal pride (in all manners of technological tinkering and projects), and awful, awful acting, somewhat endearing. Maybe it was around the same time you’d grown rather fond of Beast Boy’s organic simplicity with life or perfectly-timed wit, his endearing, steadfast spirit and dorky, down-to-earth charm (though you would deny any accusation that says otherwise, pretending to find his endless stream of puns nothing but annoying). 

Or Starfire’s unfathomable warmth and, mostly smothering, overzealous passion in all things, no matter how small—a burning, extraterrestrial sun with a warrior’s soul and an open heart. Or Raven’s sarcastic calm and quiet disposition, a hopeful kind of darkness—as encompassing as it mystifying—which brings peace in ways one wouldn’t expect or think they needed. 

Or Robin. Noble and kind, brooding, insufferably stubborn, Robin—with an annoying competitive streak that rivals even you. Your outwardly, fearless friend and leader, a little birdie who keeps you from slipping back into your cold, old ways while still wanting to be a part of something better. To be a Titan. Time and time again. And—

Ah, fuck. You’ve gotten so sappy lately.

Near death experiences are the worst.

You roll your eyes at Cyborg, regardless of that grating, growing itch of sentimentality crawling up from your chest and into your throat like a rock, all the while fighting down the upwards twitch your lips.

"Oh, shut up.” You mutter, ducking your head so he won’t see as you move to hobble past the group back into the centre of the living room. “Even though I'm at my weakest right now, it doesn't mean I won't fight you."

Cyborg drops his arm and laughs, "I don't doubt it."

Beast Boy ducks around him; sparing no time as he shrinks down to the form of a chattering, green squirrel. Without breaking stride, he dashes towards your slowing figure, leaping forward to scale the rungs of your crutch. 

You jump at the sudden weight and list sideways, the vibration of his hurried ascent and the clattering of his nails against metal throwing you out of your concentrated state. You lean back too fast in surprise, catching the back of the couch with the underside of your cast to keep yourself somewhat upright, and wait with a raised brow as he moves to pull himself up onto the crutch pad at the top.

"Besides, you proved you’re anything but weak when you kicked Death’s ass! Multiple times.” He chirps proudly, settling back onto his little hind legs to stare up at you, bushy tail twitching and dark eyes round and glinting when they catch the light. “You're a survivor. Always have been.”

You grin, feeling satisfied that he finally seems to be more…relaxed about your injuries now (as opposed to the annoying, but much appreciated, panicked mother-henning you’d experienced throughout the first few weeks back on your feet). You have a sneaking suspicion Cyborg had a hand in this recent development—bless his beautiful, understanding soul—and you make a mental note to treat him to a pizza night soon. Or just hug him really, really tight in relief.

You heft your cast from the couch to hold out two fingers towards Beast Boy.

"And always will be." You agree. He reaches out with a shrill, happy squeak, tapping a front paw against them in a painfully adorable semblance of a high-five. Starfire joins you by the couch and lays her hand against your upper back, right between your shoulder blades, the swelling heat of it soothing the ache and strain of your poor muscles. Her gentle touch slides up, mindful of the bruises still splattered like patchwork across your skin, until you feel her lightly squeeze your shoulder.

"Very much like the warriors of old from my planet." She tells you softly, a smile pulling at her lips when your eyes dart up to look at her. It’s then you realize that all three of them are now looking at you rather expectantly, attention solely trained on your face as the room falls into an eager kind of silence. One that is quick to twist your abdomen into fluttering, nervous knots. 

Right, you think with a start, there was something about the roof—something they wanted me to see. You hesitate (is it getting hot in here, or is that just you self-combusting?), gaze jumping to each of your friends in turn. They continue to stare you down with purpose, waiting for your consent to be dazzled and thoroughly surprised, before you catch the barest hint of movement in your peripheral vision. You glance down at the back of the couch, wanting to scream your frustration to the sky, when you take in the wide, furry face peering back up at you.

Oh, not you too, ZuZu. You traitor.

She locks those intelligent eyes on you. He glowing pink gaze is intent and reprimanding, and god, you’re actually—silently, awkwardly—getting told off by an adorable lizard-themed care bear, who hails from the far reaches of infinity and beyond the known galaxy. What has your life come too? And the worst part is you don’t think you’re strong enough to—oh, goddamit. Peer pressure is a bitch.

"Alright.” You relent with a groan, throwing ZuZu a pointed, disgruntled look (which she simply counters with a glowing pink frill and mischievous wink, a move that has you breathing deeply to avoid just chucking your crutch across the room in defiance of it all). You turn to gesture at the others, “Fine. Let's get this show on the road then."

Beast Boy leaps down from the top of the crutch before you’ve even finished talking, his tiny shape shifting into the much larger form of a tiger once he touches down (more gracefully than you’d expected him to). He gives a little throaty growl in excitement, circling in place to get his bearings. And then with a sudden focus that makes you laugh, he’s bounding in a rush to slink between Cyborg and Starfire—his gaze already intensely trained down the hallway that leads towards the elevator.

"Sweet! Now you’re talking!" He exclaims with a swish of his tail, pausing only for a moment to throw a look back at Cyborg, the familiar imitation of a fanged grin even more terrifying with larger, sharper teeth on display. "Dibs on the donuts!"

Uh, donuts??

Cyborg groans and scrubs a hand over his face, stepping forward with his other hand outstretched, as if he could keep his excited friend from moving with just sheer force of will. "No! You don't get to just—Gar!"

Starfire tilts her head and watches until Beast Boy disappears around the curve of the hallway, "You have to admire his will power up until this moment." She points out, reaching out to brush a soothing touch to Cyborg’s shoulder.

He gives her a solemn nod in agreement. "...true." "Hi, yeah, still confused." You slowly iterate, when it’s clear they’re going to say nothing more on the manner, and looking hilariously haunted, just stare out into the middle distance like some kind of dramatic dork-asses. You can’t help it though—you want answers. You’ve been officially intrigued (donuts are always a good sign and nothing will convince you otherwise) and that cat-damning curiosity in you can never be quieted for long, so help you.

“Are we still going to the roof?”

Cyborg is the first to shake himself to attention, and he swings around to look at you with a knowing grin that tells you’re probably about to regret opening your mouth again. Probably. You guess?

…..

Okay, so you might be already exhausted enough now, with all this moving about and floundering, moral turmoil, to deal with any mysterious roof meetings and their possible consequences—and there’s no truly hiding it, or just burying it away for future you to worry about come morning (damn, why is past you always such a dick?).

Which leaves you decidedly awash in a ‘My mind is an emotional dumpster fire and all I want is to hibernate for forty years’ kind of way, unable to completely distinguish the nuances of your feelings on anything happening within a 10 foot radius. 

Especially since you’d….broken that quiet morning after the attack, finally reconciling with a screeching realization you’d been pushing back for years—even with all that damaged purpose, all that strength and determination and precious time you’d flooded into looking after yourself and only you, instead of worrying about others and how they might screw with you this time, you’d left yourself open anyway. Unwillingly, accidently, raw—like an exposed nerve adrift in the cosmos and crying out for relief.

Someone in power must have had mercy on you at last though, because you have friends. Good friends who are good people. And you love them in your own rough-around-the-edges way (is that the right word here? Love? You hope that’s the right word—it feels like the right word); but there’s no chance you’re ever going to tell any of them that. It’s become too embarrassing to even think about in your own mind, let alone out loud where they could actually...hear you.

But you’re not going to let all your personal baggage stop you now. Not while there’s the promise of donuts anyway.

Yeah, your priorities might need a little sorting out.

"Come on." Cyborg says, already treading backwards in the direction Beast Boy had gone. Starfire zips past you with ease, cutting around the corner like a fish would dart through deep water.

Her laugh echoes through the hall as she vanishes from sight, "Oh, this is going to be such a joyous occasion!"

Cyborg takes his time to snicker at the nervous grimace on your face. But you valiantly choose to be the bigger person here (no matter how much you want to knock your head against the nearest wall and see if your middle finger still works within the stiffness of a cast), simply rolling your eyes as you hobble to catch up to him around the bend in the hallway. He slows his pace without a word until you’re following closely at his side.

“So why aren’t we taking the elevator?” You inquire, watching as the thick metal doors slide past in your peripheral. It’s then you spot the other two loitering around by the door to the stairs.

The plot thickens.

Cyborg struggles to squash his playful grin, “Occupied.”

“By...”

“A second surprise. Now come on.” He diverts smoothly, waving his hand over the sensor for the door once Beast Boy and Starfire step away to make room for you both. It slides open from left to right with a mechanical hiss, and you peer in to the brightly lit stairwell with a raised brow. The glaring, white fluorescent lights are already giving you a headache.

“How do you expect me to get up the stairs?”

“Easy.”

“Oh, really? Easy? What are you even—”

The world shifts like a seesaw in your vision and you can barely comprehend the next few seconds: the way Cyborg stoops low enough to knock out the backs of your knees, the simultaneous rush of weightlessness—a fluttering, dizzying drop in your stomach that stalls the very breath in your chest—or even the jumbled burst of restrained laughter and disapproving click of a tongue which dissipates almost as soon as it starts. 

And you tip backwards into his arms with flailing limbs and a startled yelp as you’re gently scooped up, hanging shocked and boneless until he swings you up to cling onto his back like some sort of panicked koala. Cyborg laughs more boisterously as you lose your crutch in the commotion, grip loosening in your surprise until it slips entirely from your hold and vanishes from reach, the telltale clattering of metal against ground echoing from somewhere off to the side.

“—goddammit, Vic!” You gasp when the world stands still again, sucking in air for your breathless lungs. “A little warning!”

He simply cups the back of your knees and holds your legs tightly over the ridged, triangular slab of metal casing his hips, slowly straightening to his full, giant height again. It gives you a moment to throw your arms around his neck for safety and squeeze with all your reprimanding might. Cyborg turns to look at you with a teasing smirk you’re all too familiar with, before stepping further into the doorway.

“Comfortable there, Grumpy?”

“You’re the worst.” You announce without any real bite, leaning back to scan the floor for your missing crutch. It doesn’t take you long to realize that Starfire has already rescued it, hugging the dented metal pole to her chest with a look of determination. She catches your relieved gaze over Cyborg’s shoulder and nods as if reassuring you that she’s got everything handled now, gently patting the cushioned padding at the top of the crutch.

And then her eyes eagerly snap to Cyborg.

You can’t see his face from your vantage point, but you think he’s relaying permission with the way he tilts his head towards the stairs. Both Starfire and Beast Boy rocket forward in any case, barely sidestepping around you in their race up the first flight of stairs. Cyborg follows them without hesitation, and you can hardly wait another moment once your little group hurriedly passes the third floor, before the mystery of the roof becomes too intriguing to avoid any longer.

“So...are Rob and Raven in on this too?” You carefully begin, speaking to no one in particular but hoping someone might answer you anyway. “Cause they've been more mysterious than usual.”

"Grumpy and observant. You know…you'd make a pretty awesome detective too—give Dick some healthy competition around here." Cyborg returns in an innocent manner, which you know for a fact is bullshit. So you lamely thump a fist against the point between the heavy, metal plating circling his neck before it tapers down into his chest, and grumble your displeasure.

"Annnd you're dodging my questions, big guy. Again."

Cyborg says nothing this time and simply uses the firm hold he has under your knees to toss you up a few inches, jostling you free from your comfortable koala cling as though he`s trying to readjust your position. Only you know that’s not what he intended at all—evidenced by the irritating way he starts to laugh while you groan at him and shimmy urgently at his back, trying to right yourself from the haphazard tilt you’d landed in.

"Ugh! I miss being able to walk up a flight of stairs like a normal person!" You whine, bonking your forehead against the smooth, climate-controlled casing covering the back of his head, the vibrations of his full-body laughter rattling straight through you.

Beast Boy goes still ahead of the group, front paw hovering above the next step up. That unsettling tiger grin as he turns to regard you is the only warning you get before the inevitable.

"Eh, I wouldn’t trust these stairs though,” Beast Boy drawls with terrifying purpose, “They always seem like they're…up to something."

Starfire pipes up from her place hovering beside you and Cyborg in perfect comedic timing, her eyes narrowed in contemplation.

"Well yes, up to the roof—oh...that was..."

Yeah, Kori. Damn.

He waits in the ensuing, hollow silence of the stairwell for a reaction, gaze expectantly darting from person to person until you don’t know whether to laugh or just get mad.

....both?

Alright, okay, here’s the thing.

Though you may have...secretly....begun to appreciate Garfield’s endless arsenal of jokes and puns as much as that next person (you’ve got a reputation to uphold after all), that....was not so good. 

You’d face palm if you had complete confidence in your upper body strength as of late, but you definitely do not—especially after that embarrassingly sad attempt to escape to your room earlier (feat. the interference of your awkwardly unexpected, five foot-two bodyguard). And you’d very much like to keep securely clinging for your life atop mount ‘Victory’ Stone instead, rather than somehow (ridiculously) finding some way to slip from his back and fall to a more permanent death down the tower’s two-hundred stairway to hell.

So, you’ll just lock away this existential breakdown for another day and move on. Be the bigger person here, again.

....

Or.

"I think I'm starting to miss the coma." You deadpan with unabashed pettiness (because you’d actually had to listen to that with your own two ears), refusing to give him even the slightest satisfaction of a job well done.

Step up your game, Gar.

You can pinpoint the exact moment Cyborg winces with regret for his friend—his chin dipping down, the glowing blue machinery encasing half his skull whirring with a soft, discomforting humming like he’s finally reduced to just screaming on the inside.

"Oof,” He eventually adds through a long exhale. “I've heard better stuff from you, man."

Beast Boy sniffs in displeasure at your less than positive reactions, "Yo, give me a break; I'm still getting over the pizza thing."

You heft your body up straight to stare him dead in the eyes and lift your unbroken arm, wiggling your fingers over Cyborg’s head in a teasing way. "Let it haunt you for the rest of your daaaays~"

You don’t think you’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing a hulking, green, murder cat roll its eyes so hard before. But there it is—in all its uncanny, cartoon-like glory. Beast Boy shakes his heavy head and resumes slinking up the stairs, leaving the rest of you to catch up while he throws another line over his shoulder, in a way you know is meant to be a playful declaration of war.

"Which reminds me...” He purrs slyly, “….what did the ghost say when it arrived at the party?"

Starfire taps at her chin in thought, "Ummm hello?”

Beast Boy’s enthusiasm swells with her genuine attempt, and he turns to coax his best friend into answering as well.

"Not quite. Come on, Cy, this is all you dude."

"Can I get a—"

"Victor don't you dare!"

Cyborg merely hums at your desperate interjection, "Uh-oh full name. That's never a good sign."

"Oh!” Starfire’s expression lights up in a way you’re entirely used to by now, and she leaves your side on the flutter of a giddy laugh, hovering quick up the next few steps. She smiles down at Beast Boy once she reaches him, titling her head as he looks up at her with an animated flick of his tail.

“I believe I know this one. May I?" She quietly gushes, twirling to lounge back gracefully in the air beside him. His head bobs once, long and slow, still flashing that sharp grin.

"Dazzle me, Star."

"Can I get the Boo-ya!!?"

"HA! Yeah, that’s wassup!"

You thunk your head against Cyborg’s shoulder this time, wincing at the brief pulse of pain from pounding metal against skull. "Oh my god, are we there yet?"

"As a matter of fact..." Cyborg mysteriously trails off, hopping up the last step to the top landing of the stairway. You peek up in interest and immediately want a better look when you see that the access to the roof is propped open the slightest bit, squishing your cheek against Cyborg’s as you lean forwards with the anticipation of it all. It’s easy to spot the flickering movement from just beyond the door—shadows moving fast from one end to the other. Is someone already there?

You suck in an anxious breath when Cyborg lowers himself to one knee and releases his hold on you, carefully helping you dismount from your cling, and Starfire is all too eager to return your crutch, pushing it into your arms and waving you forwards. Your friends let you nudge open the door then without another word, following you out as you bravely take your first few steps and—

…..

You think you might’ve blacked out for a moment in shock.

Beast Boy circles your legs as you silently take in the state of the roof, rubbing against them with a gentle brush of his body before he exclaims, "Surprise! Did we getcha??"

You blink a few times to get your bewildered mind working again. Because out of any possible scenario you could have—and did—invent within your imagination….it was nothing like…well, this.

The smell of hot food wafting through the summer-like air reaches you first, and you’re drawn to admire what is definitely Starfire's touch in your unexpected surprise. 

There are two tables set up across the roof directly ahead, side by side and pushed flush against the lip of rectangular ledge boxing in the space. Each wooden surface is filled with cutlery, food and drinks in jade colored bowls and glasses, and adorned with fun, rainbow coloured table cloths—the cheap, plastic kind you’d find from a dollar store—and regal centre pieces among the clutter. These consist of wreaths with beaded jewel strings and alien metal shapes, forms that remind you of branded symbols you’d once glimpsed from the hilts of her homeworld weapons.

There’s a fancy new boom box sitting on the ledge, just to the left of the food tables. It’s silvery and shiny in the late evening light, akin to the small heap of patterned presents sitting below it, or the bouquets of metallic balloons weighed down by sandbags in each corner of the roof. 

Cyborg’s own creative touch is more quiet, but still obvious in your racing mind, reflected in the large blue and white fairy lights the size of your fist, strings of them hooked beneath the ledge and spaced along the entire perimeter of the roof. They remind you of mini lava lamps—slowly swinging, each casing filled with swirling, pulsing energy, casting loops of light and shadow which dance across the sleek stone of the rooftop ground.

Your gaze finds four, dark green bean bag chairs next, moved from the game room to sit in a circle further down the left side of the roof. A neat, tent-like canopy, reminiscent of Raven’s more gothic looking style, is set up over them and affixed with steel piping, made of sheer dark sheets in purple, blue, and black—a cozy, magical lounging spot that makes you long for the calmness and dark that only sleep can bring. 

You slowly turn to your right, noting that access to the elevator on the other side of the roof is surprisingly clear for once, the usual pile of rickety telescope gear stored away to make room for dancing. And through an odd urge to cast a look behind you, you easily catch sight of the cute, homemade banner dangling above the door you’ve just stepped through, green and bubblegum pink letters scrawled across a white strip of poster board: Party Like It’s Your Birthday!!

You recognize Beast Boy’s handwriting the moment your eyes trace the first few letters.

It takes you a moment, still staring out at the culmination of your surprise, to realize that it all clashes terribly, although you don't find yourself caring in the slightest. It’s beautiful and endearing and makes sense to you in every way that matters—and you wouldn't have it look any other way.

Huh…look at that.

You're actually getting a hang of this sappy feelings thing.  "Uh, wh—I…what's all this for?" You finally manage to sputter out, once your friends go back to watching you with those barely contained grins and expectant gazes. Even Raven, already in the midst of final preparations, standing by that glorious canopy as she methodically smoothes out wrinkles in the overlapping fabric—both manually and magically—is smiling shyly at you over her shoulder. Her dark, purple-colored eyes are carefully mapping out every hitch in your expression. 

Like the others, she’s dressed more casually than you’re used to seeing around the tower; ripped dark-washed skinny jeans with a cropped tee to match and clunky, black combat boots, a leather choker that looks uncomfortably tight around her neck. But the most unexpected difference has to be when you realize what she’s missing. Her signature, purple-blue cloak has been swapped for a hooded, bomber jacket—black with gold zippers and detailing, and one size too big. It’s so strange a sight that it’s actually….kind of weirding you out a little.

Starfire grasps the wrist of your cast and gently tugs you forward, guiding you further into the organized mayhem that was once the tower’s roof. "The happiest day of birth to you my friend!"

Oh. Oh.

Now this is awkward.

"It's my…birthday?" You ask dumbly. Beast boy’s tiny head, that of an adorably, fluffed up squirrel monkey this time, pops up from the depths of a bowl sitting on the first food table—like some knock-off whack-o-mole game (and wait a goddamn minute, when the hell did he even get there?). His little hands grip the lip of the bowl as he chatters through crunching pretzels.

"Duh! At least yeah, I think so…uh, right?"

You clasp a hand to your forehead when you remember the date and groan, "No, no, you’re right, I think it is. Crap, I feel like I lost an entire year."

Starfire’s whole body slumps at your reaction, floating down until her feet touch ground.

"You are unhappy." She concludes sadly.

Aw, cripes, why are you like this?

"NO! No, Kori, I'm happy!” You hurriedly reassure her, “I just....I haven't really celebrated it in a long time. I never had anyone to..."

They hear your unspoken implication clear enough and offer you sad, little smiles—varying degrees of empathy seeping through into their expressions. Empathy. And not pity. Not judgment. Just compassion from people who understand it all. 

An alien princess far from home who embraces difference and is learning to choose a life for herself, a half-cybernetic football star who had to learn when to let go and walk a new path in life, a troubled half-demon not wanting to be defined by the past or her heritage, a metahuman menagerie of animals fighting the pull of loneliness while still finding strength in his friends, and an orphan circus boy turned vigilante—given not only a second chance to make a difference for others, but unwavering hope as well.

Your own Breakfast Club of heroes.

"Well now ‘ya have us." Beast Boy says with serious resolve you haven’t often seen when it comes to your loyal jokester, the others agreeing simultaneously as he bounds closer in small leaps from across the table. There’s a painful clenching in your chest at their sentiments, and although it feels like you’re on the verge of a heart attack, it’s a good kind of hurt that brings relief to your entire being.

Because thinking it is one thing, but hearing it out loud dregs more emotion to the surface than you ever thought you had—makes it all the more real. You swallow thickly and try to keep composed through another monumental shift in your perceptions.

"I know." You return softly.  Starfire takes your hand and holds it firmly in hers, mindful of the strength in her grip.

"And you are indeed truly....happy?"

Well, that’s a heavy question.

You never truly belonged anywhere, in the past. Too unnatural for everyday civilians, too angry for heroes, too kind for villains. You never understood why no one could just let you be....something in the middle.

But now, you think you’re finally learning that happy is something you can be, even while half-existing in that kind of grey area. So you squeeze her hand in reassurance and take a page from Beast Boy’s book—you attempt to lighten the mood.

"I will be once we get this party started." You tease, pulling away to turn on the boom box and click through stations in search of something party worthy. With that, the others move to disperse; Starfire and the boys already picking through the food tables with interest, while Raven briefly ducks beneath one to retrieve an opaque, plastic storage tote. 

It’s blue and more than decently sized in her arms, but she carries it easily and without a word to the bean bag canopy, sitting (legs crossed and back perfectly straight) to methodically sift through its contents.

Starfire waves you towards the food tables once you settle on a popular radio station known for their mix of genres and artists—a little something for everyone hopefully.

"Come then, you must partake in some of this delicious food. I tried earth recipes." She proudly tells you, scooping up some sort of rice dish to wave under your nose as though hoping to entice you further. It smells pleasant, of grilled vegetables and egg, but all your attention has latched onto a single word that equally intrigues as it concerns you.

“Tried.” You echo, leaning to balance on your crutch and free up your unbroken arm. You press a single finger against the rim of the dish in her hands, lowering it down and away from your face. Starfire looks a little sheepish as she curls an arm around the ceramic, rounded dish and fits it into the crook of her elbow to rest, lifting her own newly freed arm to sweep a lock of hair behind her ear. A nervous tick.

She hugs the dish even closer, “There were…the incidents.”

“Nothing you couldn’t handle.” Raven adds from afar. Starfire leans around you to beam at her welcome encouragement; seeming as though she’s already seconds away from just fly-tackling her into a vice-like hug—a very Starfire act of affection.

Which you should probably redirect now, if you want to keep that beautiful canopy standing.

"Everything smells great, Star. Thank you. In fact..." You select a spoon from the first table and a tiny serving plate, before gesturing in silent question to the dish still in her arms. She’s ecstatic at your offer, extending it to you at once with bright, shining eyes. You carefully ladle out a few spoonfuls of the rice mixture, and with a playful cheers and raise of your spoon, you taste your first dish of the evening.

"Oh shit, that's good." You groan in surprise.

"Oh wonderful, I knew you would enjoy it!"

Beast Boy whoops eagerly from the centre of the second table, crouching among a spread of simple desserts. "Wicked! I call the donuts next!"

Cyborg anticipates his movement before you can, firmly squashing a hand against Beast Boy’s monkey head to keep him from leaping towards an open tray. Beast Boy whines openly at the injustice.

"Dude, come on, be cool!"

Ah, now that makes sense.

Starfire sighs and returns the tasty rice dish to its rightful place, hesitating only to shoot you an apologetic look as she steps towards the commotion. But you just smile in understanding, gesturing for her to go on and deal with the boys before they decimate all of her hard work.

And now it’s probably a good idea to clear the blast zone.

You make a rather slow beeline for the front entrance of the canopy, lowering your body down to sit in the place Raven silently offers you by shifting pointedly to the side—content to be off your feet for a moment. Raven picks up on your underlying curiosity though, the second you glance at the box still under her scrutiny, her gaze cutting up to regard you with the slightest touch of amusement. 

You observe the way she tips her head, a pulse of darkened magic lighting up around the mysterious container, and it slides in a short burst to rest in front of you.

Well, well, what do we have here?

You peer down into the depths and react too late to stifle your gasp.

It’s filled with boxes of classic party games and entertainment, stacked upon each other in neat little towers along the inside: video game cartridges and two portable games devices, a deck of cards, Connect Four, Cluedo, and yep….that's definitely Twister, oh my fuck (you may be a little over excited for this. Which is strange for you...considering you can't even remember the last time you've ever so passionately, deeply, viscerally, wanted to roll out a stupid, colorful tarp and contort your body into unhealthy positions), a wooden board and an accompanying game-piece tin for Checkers, Pictionary, Monopoly, Jenga, Uno, the Game of Life (aaaannd too real with this one actually, might be avoiding that), Guess Who?, Snakes and Ladders, as well as games you hadn't seen since your earlier days of childhood—Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots and Hungry Hungry Hippos (meaning your small child self is living right now).  

Only one person knew about this, knew about your stupid birthday-candle wishes from the short, hopeful part of your childhood that's since been eradicated by harsh realities; the longing desperation to make any kind of worthwhile connection, to know love or be wanted outside of a means to a quick pay-day. 

To swing with others at a crowded park, to play games and join clubs, or have a sleepover with greasy food and late night truths—to be free (and you blame this emotional vomit entirely on exhausted, blabbermouth you, spilling your guts in a tired stupor while sharing stove-top hot chocolate in the kitchen at 3 a.m. Feeling vulnerable when he'd quietly shared his own frustrations with the role of leader and recent disconnect with his father, letting you lament in return about never getting the chance to just…be a normal kid. Something he understood. Something he remembered).

Oh, Dick Grayson.

You are the best of us.

You shake your head clear of any vivid memories, reaching in to unearth the Twister box and hold it up to admire its magnificence in the rapidly fading light. "So.” You start in what you hope is a casual enough tone, exchanging the box for another to seem busy. “You put all of this together, huh?"

She shrugs, "We figured you could use some...fun. After everything that's happened."

You grin and fish out an exceptionally old classic next, pointing the vibrant box of colourful, caricature hippos at her. "I didn't think this was your kind of fun, Rae."

"It's not.” Raven admits bluntly, floating the game from your hands despite your protest and back into the storage container with a challenging raise of her brow. “But I can enjoy the value in it. And in spending time with my friends." 

(You don’t do enough of that. Why don’t you do enough of that?)

"Pfft are you going soft on us?" You say, weakly avoiding eye contact while wrestling away the any more intrusive thoughts and stabs of related guilt.

You watch her fight the beginnings of a smirk, "I could ask you the same question."

"Oh man, that's disgusting even for you B.B!" Cyborg grouses suddenly in the distance, and you’ve never felt so relieved for a distraction in your young life. Your friend is standing in front of the farthest food table when you look over, his hands on his hips and a frown of disapproval trained on something among the mass of dishes and delicious smelling cuisine. 

You find out why when you follow his line of sight, your body and gaze lifting a tad to seek out what’s happened—and you can’t say you’re all too surprised with this inevitable development.

Beast Boy is laying, dramatically draped, across the tray of donuts he’d been denied earlier, monkey toes wriggling to dispel powdered sugar from between them.

"Let me live my life, man." He jokes between fistfuls of sweet pastry. Cyborg makes a grab for him in retaliation and he jerks back out of reach as if fully expecting this outcome, throwing himself to the side in a graceful dodge.

"Halt! Oh please do watch out for the—"

In his flurry of movement—kicking out his legs for momentum and rolling head over feet to a neat stop a few feet further down the table—Beast Boy accidently whacks the side of another bowl near the edge, the dish teetering dangerously on the precipice of destruction.

But Starfire is always quick on her feet. She lunges for the bowl and makes the catch before it can fall victim to the laws of gravity (those you’re already painfully aware of), cradling it safely in her arms and sighing in relief as she cordially lifts it in your direction.

"Do not fear! I have saved the mac of the cheese!"

"Though it has its moments." Raven deadpans, flipping up her hood with a shake of her head.

"Speaking of moments…is this a good time for a dramatic entrance?"

Starfire whirls around unearthly fast at the familiar voice, the echo spiking through the low, near constant beat and rhythm drifting from the speakers of the boom box—none of you having heard a door open or close, or even a single footfall drop onto the roof.

"Robin! You have made it!"

Alright.

You know he’s practically a ninja (because it’s what he’s been dutifully trained to do), but you still think this deserves a hearty what the hell anyway.

How long has he even been standing there?

Though before you can reflect too deeply on the matter, you find yourself bearing witness to Robin’s handling of the fly-tackle hug. To his credit, he takes the sudden, colliding weight like a champ; a short laugh ripped from him at the initial breath-stealing thump, and he stumbles back to restore his balance without falling on his ass.

You can tell that he’s definitely a pro at this by now.

He gives her a generous, friendly squeeze before they part, turning his attention back to the rest of his team. It’s then you fully take in how he’s dressed; slim-fitting jeans, a dark blue tee, a solid, gray flannel shirt over top—unbuttoned and left hanging open, long sleeves rolled up at to his elbows—and red converse. 

His knee is still in a brace, a black watch with a stiff Kevlar strap fastened around his left wrist, its face square and rimmed with silver. And from your place you can even study the state of his dark hair—soft and without gel, but noticeably mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it all day.  

"There's our fearless leader!” You warmly call out, letting Raven ease you helpfully to your feet so that you can welcome your newly arrived team member. You lightly bump your cast against his shoulder once you reach him, and then again just to be annoying when he nudges your arm away the first time (but not without a fond roll of his eyes).

With less distance your gaze finds thin, pink marks left like badges on his skin, the stitches having already healed and dissolved from under his chin and across his collarbone, his blue eyes a little hazy in their focus. 

All in all, he looks tired up this close, in small ways you might overlook in passing—his grin beginning to wilt just at the upper corners of his lips, dropping eyelids and subtle bruising under his eyes, and the barest smudges of oil left neglected on his person; freckle-like specks across his jaw, staining the toes of his converse and the collar of his t-shirt (that particular one looking especially dark and ingrained into the fabric, like he’d hastily blotted at the spot in a rush and then gave up half-way through)—though you wouldn’t guess it from his posture. 

He’s all squared shoulders, a confident lift of his head and a soft, delighted glint in his eyes despite the heaviness you’d noticed before. He’s proud even in the face of exhaustion, so you elect not to bring any attention to it.

“I was beginning to think Batman whisked you off back home for some clown-punching and father-son bonding." You continue impishly, mimicking his mentor’s cowl by placing an index finger on either side of your head. You bounce them up and down in a tease.

"No, that was last month.” Robin reminds you dryly, pressing his lips together to keep from smiling. He jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the open elevator door he’d obviously emerged from. “I was actually just finishing up some final touches on an old friend of yours."

Huh. O…kay?

"Ominous." Cyborg offers before you can voice your own confusion, settling back against a food table with a deviously knowing smile.

Best Boy huffs with palpable disappointment instead, climbing swiftly onto the ledge behind his friend. He scuttles around a portion of the roof to sit beside the thumping boom box, while still taking time to throw out his own affirmation on the matter, before shifting back into his human form and swinging his dangling legs to the beat of the current song.

"Yeah, way creepy, dude."

Robin frowns, “I was being mysterious!”

Cyborg seems to be enjoying this immensely for some reason, leaning forward and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, don’t.”

“Damn. Don’t hold anything back.”

“Do not worry, Robin.” Starfire remarks with a pat to his shoulder, “I still find you the mysterious.”

You try to stifle your sputtering laughter as Robin sighs in defeat, reaching up to touch her hand in wordless thanks. He motions for you to stay where you are then, swiping his finger across the face of his watch. It lights up blue like a touch screen, and something large and humming (a machine?) darts from the inside of the elevator.  

The futuristic motorcycle that slides to a near-silent stop in front of you is like something right out of Tron. There’s a high leather seat and bullet-proof windshield among sleek, rounded black metal and glowing, magnetic green lights. They detail the length of the body like racing stripes, circling around the headlights and up into the shape of a triangle above them, as well as lining the inside rims of its large, treaded wheels (two in front and one in the back). The padded, silver handles poke through the front casing like devil horns.

It’s a familiar, wrenching image—one you could only dream of seeing again after the brutal attack on Jump City.

"Lucy!” You burst out instantly, and much to the Robin’s immense enjoyment, hopping forward in your excitement to reach your beloved cycle. You trace your fingers over the glowing triangle, pressing your palm to the leather seat with stinging, blurry eyes. It feels warm. Alive. “Oh my crap, you resurrected my bike!"

Cyborg gently pats the cycle with pride, "Rob and I spent weeks trying to fix her up. Finally got all the parts working again."

"You—this is—holy shit."

"Glad you like it."

Robin throws an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side, pretending not notice your muffled sniffling like a super-star best friend. "Happy birthday, (Y/N)." He mutters, loosening the fancy watch so he can clasp it around your unbroken wrist in a nimble flourish.

Cyborg pumps his fist in the air when you choke out a disbelieving laugh, victoriously striding to the centre of the roof to proclaim:  

"Well, what are we standing around here for? Let's get this thing started!"

“Oh yes, let us start the celebration my friends!”

“Eh, sure.”

"Party people!" Beast Boy cries out in agreement, finally leaping down from the ledge.

"Alright, Alright. You don't have to tell me twice." Robin chuckles, gesturing for the others to go ahead with the festivities. He stays to hover around you though, and is suspiciously quiet at first, simply stepping around you and your newly built cycle to pluck a can of soda from a food table. He idly brushes away condensation with a broad swipe of his thumb, waiting for the others to further disband around you both. 

When the coast is clear, evident by the way he glances from side to side, he turns towards you with his head down, popping the tab on the can and taking a heavy gulp. You raise a brow and wait, more than aware of his tendency by now to try and constantly torture you with the value of patience. He purses his lips in thought, before he finally meets your gaze with a playful twist to his usual smirk.

“So, hey.” He begins somewhat offhandedly, drumming his fingers across the surface of the table, “We should take a team picture at some point. All of us. Like a…memory of tonight’s occasion—if you want.”

You shouldn’t make it this easy for him—because he’ll never stop teasing you about how quickly you caved—but you find that you truly do like the idea. He just doesn’t need to know how much at the moment. So you settle on feigning tired reluctance, hoping (fooslishly) that he doesn’t see right through you.

“It wouldn’t hurt, I guess.”

“You guess?”

….

It’s really annoying when he does that.

You pout at the light amusement in his tone and follow his earlier path to the table, seizing a donut in a moment of pure impulse from the tray Beast Boy had previously vacated. You feel satisfied when you notice that it’s one of the unfortunate monkey feet ones, and then thrust it into Robin’s free hand. 

He must have been around long enough to see the offense for himself, because his nose crinkles in distaste when he registers what you’ve given him, letting the tainted pastry dangle from two fingers.

Sweet revenge.

You dole out smirk of your own.

“Eat your donut, dick.”

*****************************************************************

It’s well into the evening, sunset colours already fading calmly from the sky, when Robin parks himself next to you on the ledge of the roof, smoothly swinging his legs over and dropping to sit with a long sigh of relief. Huh…it seems like someone definitely had a longer day today than they let on.

And honestly? Mood.

You tap him with the rounded bottom of the crutch lying across your lap, throwing him a cursory glance and a smile in greeting. But he doesn’t respond the way you expect him to, no. Instead, you’re surprised to see that rare, relaxed grin of his already peeking through all of the obvious exhaustion.

"What are you smiling about, Grayson? You're creeping me out." You muse gently, brow arching at the amusement that grows all the more in the curl of his smile. It’s like he’s proudly uncovered some great secret in the time it took you to voice your thoughts, and is now going to make you work for a satisfying answer. Which, you have to admit, isn’t a very unusual outcome when it comes to your friend and his bat-crazy mentor.

Heh.

Gar would love that one.

"Oh, you know…nothing too important.” Robin counters with a non-committal shrug of his shoulder.

Uhhh, yeah, that’s not comforting in the slightest, you decide.

You narrow your eyes at him and poke at his upper arm accusingly, “You’re never really this terrible of a liar usually.”

“Well, usually isn’t now.”

You pause to let his utter nonsense sink in.

“Are all detectives this uselessly cryptic or is this just a you thing?”

“I think it’s a family thing actually.”

“That I believe.” You laugh, gripping tight to the edge of the concrete ledge with one hand as you lean forward to admire the twinkling darkness of the water far below—a beautiful, convoluted gloom in the beginnings of silver moonlight. You catch his lingering stare in your peripheral when you shift, an odd amount of softness there you’re not exactly used to seeing directed your way.

“What?” You ask again in exasperation (and maybe a tad more overly sharp than you wanted). He only winks when you turn to get a better read on him, and looking much too smug and unconcerned, tips his head back to study the distant, firefly-like pinpricks of light just now glittering through the encroaching dark above you.

There’s a blissful beat of silence between the continuously wafting smells (of heavy spices and cheese and the lingering sweetness of fancy chocolate) and the nearby ambient sounds of your friends locked in an intense game of Jenga (their laughter and conversation—Raven is definitely on a roll by the sounds of it—the clinking of cutlery and plates, and the low, near-constant pop music blanketed beneath it all), and then—

“Welcome home.” He says quietly.

You stare at him a moment longer; hesitant, flustered, warm—like some kind of utter punch-drunk goober—until your gaze slips mercifully back to the sky, drawn in by the trembling might of the stars far out of reach.

And you let the moment sit within the unexpected, peaceful calm his voice brings, unbroken without a sarcastic quip or cynical remark, just this once. A moment to find value in.

Because this is your family, or….what you’d always imagined one to be.

So, even though you’d never truly been privy to a lot of happiness before this—this tiny, momentous moment right where you need to be; sitting on the roof ledge of your home—you find your own sense of peace in thinking that here and now, if there ever was a happy place in this life for you—

This is it.  

[madamhatter]

koagema inquired: “i’m having trouble sleeping by myself... can you sleep with me?” UNPROMPTED ASKS | ALWAYS WELCOMED | @koagema​

Laying across the couch in the girl’s dormitory, the young Hatter’s head rested down the armrest as her hands were preoccupied with holding a Nintendo Switch close to her face. A small brunette avatar breezes through a stroll through the lengths of flower field she personally grew on her island. A phantom of a smile appears as the Hatter looks over her progress. Redesigned island with her museum, tailor shop, and general store scattered throughout the island and specific neighborhoods in place, divided by wilderness, the naturalistic approach warmed her. 

Beyond the horizon, strokes of purple and orange are brushed across the virtual sky as the sun’s light begins fading, mirroring the course of the day outside of the dormitory windows. An idyllic scene painted in the young hatter’s mind - bliss appearing and coloring the atmosphere with long-sought comfort she wished for so long. However, what completed the scene wasn’t in her line of sight -- it was quite literally under her nose.

Short and curled poppy-pink locks greet her as she finally looks down. Chiaki, in great lengths in her cat mannerisms, lays out in similar fashion like her own. However, what cushioned the back the gamer happened to be an odd point of interest for her -- Sophie’s own chest. While all the more curious as to remember how these arrangements and comfortableness of their positions came to be, the Hatter willed herself to pay little attention to rationality and logic for the evening. 

Already out of common attire, Sophie was comfortably in an oversized green hoodie with mismatched socks of purple and gray. Her locks of dark copper were bunched up into a bun, lazily kept together with several pins as the strands of true silver and dyed brown fell out. She glanced down over her ‘friend,’ inspecting at how strange the situation was all together. For Chiaki, the change and aesthetic of the clothing were usual -- casual and always looks like she was ready to sleep. A too-large shirt for her frame, a rather ironic ‘Resident Evil’ graphic tee when they were playing such a gentle game, conveniently lengthen shorts and long pairs of white socks as both her feet and Sophie’s feet were tangled together on the couch.

For half a second, I look like a normal teenager, Sophie muses to herself, brows raising at the observation. Though she looks down, observing the ever-so-focused Chiaki tapping away at the buttons and holding down the analog stick. Something lingered on Sophie’s expression -- a rare but small smile, a shine in her eyes, and a hidden adoration underneath it all.  And we look like a...

Immediate misdirection needed and the hatter shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut.  The world now dark, she takes a soft breath with her mind taking the forefront. Stop that. Don’t you start with that mess now. It’s nice and quiet. Do not be selfish and ruin it. Forced blink after the other, the hatter swallows the blatant mystery that was their relationship, but she continues on.

Yet, repressing is was going to be a challenge. Elephant in the room aside, she couldn’t help but watch her. Chiaki’s cursing has made its presence anytime the two indulge in these slothful times. Sophie wouldn’t be able to hold back a soft laugh before she quietly inquiring about the current irk in Chiaki’s game and providing encouragement. Soft conversation between the two would occur, the other adjusting slowly against the other, with a cuddle and a mutter under their breath.

And now, the flutter returns to her chest, a veil of rosy now glossing her eyes, as the next breath she takes was a heart-filled sigh...

.....And she found herself to have been locking eyes with Chiaki Nanami. An intensity underneath her cloudy grey gaze, the gamer was removed from her game. All attention only fixed between the two girls on the couch, and the loudest sound was the racket in Sophie’s chest. A stuttered breath as the brunette's joints locked, shoulders spiking. The color of embarrassment surged through her pale complexion, ruining the facade of composure and maturity she had been so well known for. 

Almost snapping her head back, the Ultimate Hatter uses the armrest to full advantage -- locking eyes elsewhere and allowing her reddened face to fade. Why was I staring for such long? How odd of me! I shouldn’t staring! God, she noticed it and must think that I’m more outlandish as is. 

Hidden behind those eyes, what laid in her thoughts, was all too far away for her to comprehend. Guilt panged in her chest and she drew her lips into her mouth, roughly chewing the insides of her cheeks. If she kept it up, she’d sooner have iron flavoring the inside of her mouth. 

“My apologies--” She forces her eyes shut, grip shaking and her right leg twitching. Once more, a forced breath leaves her, resilient to fall apart at this current state. She lifts her head again, yet her eyes slowly obscure what was in front of her -- if she dared to look at Chiaki, she dared to think that her heart would stop altogether. And wouldn’t that be a nice way to go?

However, something greeted the hatter’s ears. The gamer had placed down her gaming device on Sophie’s chest, she had taken a breath (was it because she needed to figure out how to make this scene less awkward or she was giving herself time to think of something to say? Sophie ponders).

<I’m having trouble sleeping by myself... can you sleep with me?>

Both of the hatter’s brows knit together, eyes widening -- perplexion fiddling what already little composure she holds whenever she was nearby the shorter girl. Putting the gaming device gently onto the ground beside the couch, hesitantly and cautious fingers reach out. Warm and hollow fingers extend and brush against the other’s warmer cheeks, Sophie’s brows now lowering and her lips now agape

Sophie Hatter should’ve been used to being winded by the sporadic happening at Hope’s Peak Academy. Plenty of hijinks corroborated across the Main Course students and with most others, like herself, dragged into it, there were numerous scenarios on an endless list of proof that she could recall. Despite this, there were other cases that fell short of Sophie having ever experienced them-- one of them being a genuine attraction.

Index finger fiddles along and twirls a strand of poppy pink lock, worrisome eyes roaming over the gamer’s expression, drinking in every last detail she memorized each time she saw her face. Pools of bright gray, never too stormy or gloomy like rain clouds, yet as calming like rain hitting the glass panes back home. A lingering reminder of sleeplessness, familiar yet well-hidden bags underneath her eyes But, they don’t stain her face like it does to mine. 

Calloused palm now cups across the softness of the other’s cheek, another hand playing along with every strand it could find. She had half the mind to--...

“Of course, Miss Nanami, I know how hard it is to sleep sometimes. Having someone, I could only imagine it can maybe make it easier. I’m not too sure about that, but I’m willing to help you in whichever way I can. Let’s save before we do--” 

Understanding nod aside, Sophie’s cheeks blossomed with a rosy shade and she runs her thumb across the apples of Chiaki’s cheek. A bashful smile emerges, eyes closing, wanting to assure Chiaki in any way she could, wanting to provide in all that she can...after all, that’s all that Sophie Hatter was good for. But, it didn’t sting so much this time around to be used, if it meant to be with her.

As quietly and quickly as the two moved to the Gamer’s room, unable to contain their whispers and sputters of giggles, they both had easily fallen asleep when they laid by another.

Tangled underneath thick sheets, Sophie Hatter could only reminisce the kindness of Chiaki’s touch. What pooled in her dreams were peonies blooming and lavender scenting the air on a open-wide field by a small home hidden in a flowery meadow. 

Her body involuntarily moves, fingers stretching out, reaching out to something. Another softer hand slithered underneath the palm of Sophie’s hand, curling out and in again, occupying the spaces between her marred digits. A gentle squeeze before their hands interlocked again, Sophie’s body returning to peace.

Breath drawn, the slumbering brunette grazed her forehead against a touch she still yearned for -- against Chiaki’s shoulder. Her arm had already rested above the pinkette’s side, holding her close. Sophie’s chest to Chiaki’s back, their breathing slowly and following another in rhythm, pools of copper, silver, and pink mixing together from what little space didn’t exist between their bodies.

All this touch, it was something kept minimal on campus, even when they were awake and alone together. Yet, it was only when their minds drifted and forgotten about the world that their closeness existed in a space that neither of them could yet speak of, but both pined for. 

And it made the dream all the sweeter.

[pennys-th0ughts]

The Bond (Chapter two)

The hot and dark liquid went down my throat as thin small lava rivers going downhill, something that made me rip off the last veils of stupor from an overslept morning. Amara had made some blueberries pancakes and the smell was flooding the kitchen in every direction possible. The soft perfume of the fruits lying on a black glass bowl mixed with Amy’s was making a citric-floral combination that, to me, was a little irresistible. Amara came to me and wrapped her arms from behind; she sank her face in the hollow of my neck and kissed me tenderly. The contact with her soft skin gave me goosebumps and sent a delicious shiver down my spine that made me close my eyes just to enjoy the warmth of her breath. Once she had me at her mercy, she began playing with my hair, interlacing her fingers and pulling locks of it in a way that only she knew it would put me under an unbreakable spell.

– ¿Is it me or are you looking for an exciting way to start the day, princess? – I asked feeling I was losing the battle of restraining myself against her sensual charms.

– I will leave that to your own judgement, Robert – Amy playfully winked at me with her green eye.

She kept massaging the back of my head but pulling my hair a little harder this time. She was definitely decided to make me lose my temper by making the walls of my will to crumble, brick by brick. Amara finally merged her lips with mine, got her hand under my shirt and started sliding it over my chest slowly. The tip of her index finger met one of my nipples and their greeting lasted a couple of minutes. Amy’s circular movements made my chest skin get tense and by the time she let go my already sensible nipples, I was going through a rough boner my pants were hardly keeping at bay. Amara undid my belt and unbuttoned my pants and I immediately felt my underwear expanding, giving some room to my private parts.

– You are sailing in dangerous waters, darling…

Amy shut me up placing one of her fingers on my lips, got her hand under my underclothes and began giving me a delicious hand job. As she started speeding up the pace, as my grouting began to get louder until she muffled the noises with her mouth one more time. Amara was feeling really horny that morning and it didn’t took so long before she took her underwear off and take a sit on my lap. The movements of her waist were intoxicating and delicious, like the finest wine being tasted for the first time by the wisest palate. She was the sweetest wine and I was starting to get really drunk.

– ¿Am I doing it okay, daddy? – She boldly whispered and bit my earlobe.

Every move she was making and every word she was teasing me with were only fuel to the fire she had lit on me and I feared that everything will end up in a very big mess, but she didn’t and kept on going with her naughty little game. Amara was pressing herself against me so strongly that her walls began feeling tight which meant only one thing, she was ready and she was inviting me to cum inside.

– Let it go, daddy – she demanded pulling my hair backwards.

Amy sucked my lower lip and bit it after and that was it. I couldn’t hold up myself much longer and I finally released all the tension of my body to my lower abdomen. Slowly I started feeling how every muscle relaxed and tasty little spasms invaded me, running down from the back of my head to my toes. Same reaction took over Amara’s body. She was exhausted but I could tell in her expression that she was satisfied; she lied down on my chest without leaving her place and softly caressed my cheek.

– That tasted better than breakfast, princess – I dared to point that out in a mischievous tone-. I could get used to this.

Onyx showed up at the kitchen’s door and sat there while judging us in silence with his amber eyes. Then he started washing his face with one of his paws. Amy and I got dressed and picked some of the clothes up that were still scattered all over the floor. We exchanged looks of complicity and laughed since Onyx should be thankful for not witnessing a short conditioned movie minutes ago. Being also judged by a cat during such intimate moment would have been a way too embarrassing experience to bear with.

Outside the streets were being filled by an early afternoon sun and a warm breeze. Spring was just blooming like some wild flowers in the countryside; sparrows were crowding the trees and harmonizing cheerful little songs along with the rest of the nocturnal beings. Another day was slowly coming to an end leaving behind the soft perfume of rosebuds. Amara led the way to the quarry’s lake. She was excited about the idea of taking a dip in those turbid waters with no clothes on and I was starting to be dragged by the same idea.

A pale white moon was high above in the sky, shedding some light upon us, bathing our bodies silently with blueish tones. Amara was in the lake and all I could see were her slim delicate curves moving like the small waves around her. I was enjoying my little private show in silence, capturing every single detail with my blue eyes and sending them right where I wanted them to be. In the distance, Amara looked like a mystic creature, untamed and hussy; the perfect portrait of the mythological mermaid that existed only in child fairytales. Her wet silhouette seemed to be pearled by the moonlight. Suddenly she went for a deeper dive and vanished of my sight. I was started to get worried when few minutes passed and she didn’t come up to the surface. I stood up and began dissecting every inch of the lake searching for her when my eyes turned their usual color to an amber yellowish one. The spectrum of tonalities and shades were clearer which meant that I could easily see in the dark. I was getting in the lake when I finally saw her little head popping out of the water. The feeling of relief made me sigh deeply and smile like a fool at the thought of being so overprotective, but I couldn’t help it.

Amara started her way to the shore and once I had her in front of me, all soaking wet and naked, she wrapped her arms around my neck and rested her head on my chest; as mine rested on hers, my hands holding her waist began shaking. The burning feeling was slowly crawling upwards through my arms as if I was placing them on a bonfire. Amy took my shirt off and motioned me to sit on the grass; then she continued undressing me provocatively without leaving her tenderness behind. I was undoubtedly at her mercy and actually I didn’t mind to be part of her dirty little games that often. Such level of trust and commitment had strengthened even more over time and that, ironically, instilled certain fear in me. The only fear I was afraid the most: losing her.

The look on my face must have been of complete distraction since she had to wave her hand in front of my eyes to make me snap out of it.

– Robert, – she chuckled- ¿you alright?

I shook my head until my eyes got fixed in hers then I took her face between my hands and laid a kiss on her plump lips.

It was an overwhelming hot morning when the end of everything I knew began. A suffocating day that reminded me the hell I came from and how far I have travelled to put it behind, a place where darkness and shadows were the main features of a faceless creature which primary mission was to consume and destroy. I was an abominable entity that survived because I kept on feeding on so many people’s fears and nightmares, I was nothing but a bad seed that successfully made its way and bloomed in-between the human’s mind cracks of insecurity, sorrow and loneliness. I was a rotten fruit and all the darkness a person can barely imagine. I had been designated one mission: to conquer the weak and kill the rebel minds, to infest another world in decay and turn it into a nest for the beast to breed and multiply. I was a messenger of death and death will follow me wherever I go, no matter how hard I try to deny my true nature, it would always remind me what I had been created for.

The blue cover book Amara was holding in her hand flew through the air and its pages got torn up violently ending up most of them scattered on the floor. As the object crashed on the concrete, so did her body with a thud. I saw everything happening in slow motion and the powerless feeling that flooded my body froze me on the spot disabling almost all my motor functions except for my eyes and my breathing, everything else had been shut down like a machine having a malfunction. The chaotic noises came first, later, a deathly silence and finally the indistinct screaming. Amara was crossing the street when the careless driver hit the break but he didn’t make it on time and his reckless intent to cross when the light was turning red resulted in a fatal tragedy for many people. A few got injured because of the shattered glass that flew in every direction and some metallic parts coming from both cars got detached, but only one was killed.

My knees threatened to collapse but I made the effort to not to fall, my eyes were already full of tears and the knot in my throat was chocking me more and more. I ran to where Amara was lying without looking around me. My eyesight was fixed only in one place preventing me from looking anything else. Amara’s body was severely injured and it was easy to see the many broken bones the car crash costed her. Her black hair was dyed in red because of the pool of blood her head was resting on and her beautiful but pale face was distorted with pain. I knelt by her side and got the chance to see a slight smile on her lips before she passed away. That was her own way of telling me that everything will be okay. That was her way of saying goodbye.

I took Amara’s lifeless body in my arms and whispered something to her ear that no one would be able to hear then I picked her up and disappeared using one of the sewer holes taking advantage of the shocked and curious audience still focused on the car crash.

Her body started to get cold but the expression on her face was peaceful, as if she was in some kind of deep sleep. I put her body inside the circus wagon I used to live in for so many decades and closed the narrow door. I sat down at the edge of the small stage and thought for long minutes. I was feeling empty and trapped in my own cobwebs. The desperate sensation was drowning me, dragging me into the darkest and unspeakable depths of madness. For a moment my body felt light as a feather. Suspended in the air by invisible threads, that were tied up to my hands and feet, my limbs began moving on their own making me dance incoherently while a voice very similar to mine started laughing diabolically. “¡Dance, Pennywise, dance!. Pennywise the dancing clown…”

A deathly hauling came out of my throat that forced me to fall on my knees. I covered my ears to stop hearing the guttural voices that kept spinning around me like some kind of dying swarm until the noise became louder and unbearable. There is when I gave up to my most compassionate side and decided to do something I knew I shouldn’t do, something that was punishable by death in case you get to have a soul and if you didn’t then you would surely be condemned to be torn in pieces and live an endless agony until you would be finally gone. I breathed in profoundly and encouraged myself to proceeded. I still had time but I was lacking of the most important component of this body switching ritual, the final vessel for the soul.

Amara had the little bad habit of leaving one of the bedroom’s windows slightly open. I opened it up and got inside trying not to look suspicious and making the less noise possible to not scare Onyx. Once inside I searched for him in the living room. He was peacefully sleeping in his bed next to the fire place. The moon was pouring its light inside the room from one of the windows and it looked like a soft blanket covering Onyx’s carbon black fur. I walked towards the cat and sat down in front of him, then, I gently patted his head to wake him up.

– Something terrible has happened, my little friend, – I lifted him up and fixed my eyes with his. Onyx didn’t turn his gaze away and kept looking at me as if he was capable to understand what I was saying- and I'm going to need your help.

I could feel his tiny heart accelerating and a crystal like little tear rolled down one of his cheeks. A mixture of bewilderment and sorrow oppressed my chest once more; the mortal creature and I didn’t need much more than to look at each other to understand each other. Onyx had finished creating a special bond with me and that was all I needed.

To replace someone’s old body the new one needed to make space for the soul thus it had to die. Amara had died not long ago and Onyx’s body was in perfect shape and healthy, but his soul needed to leave his body in order to Amara’s could take place in it. What I was about to do was against nature laws and every possible human right, but I didn’t care. I was blindfolded by sadness, rage and guilt, to not see it coming. My sense of perception was sharp and got more accurate over the years going beyond of any other kind of human perceptive skill but what happened this day I just couldn’t foresee it.

Onyx was lying down next to Amara’s broken body in complete silence as if he was getting ready for what I was going to do. In his amber eyes there wasn’t a hint of fear but deep sadness. Noticing his restlessness I hurried myself to begin with the body switching process.

– This is not going to hurt my little friend – I comforted him and patted his little head.

I placed four fingers on his eyes closed and two on Amara’s and began singing an ancient chanting which origins belonged to the world of my dimension. I repeated the key words three times, took a red thread and tied up Amara’s hand to Onix’s paw. Suddenly the cat stopped breathing.

Some minutes went by and everything around me was nothing but silence until something extraordinary happened. I lifted my hands from their eyes and Amara’s had turned amber. Another couple more minutes went by until Onyx finally started breathing again and there is when I cut the red cord. In that moment I felt an indescribable relief as if I had been holding my breath under water for a long time. I took the cat in my hands and picked him up carefully; I started slowly rocking him in my arms like a newborn child waiting patiently for him to open his eyes. When he finally did, I locked my blue eyes on his and felt an overwhelming joy warming my chest. And there they were, those beautiful blue and green eyes, those living marbles that stole my heart the first moment I saw them…

I want to thank the collaboration of @sunflowerskissed for helping me picking the name for the cat.

This story was made in commemoration of my little furry friend Taco, who passed away not so long ago.

I miss you dearly buddy 💔

[sapphicalexaandra]

Impossibility Is a Kiss Away from Reality (8/?)

Pairing: Jace/Alec

Rating: E

Summary: “…New York shooting, the official victim count is twe-”

“Wait, what? What did the radio just say about New York?!”

Notes: Chapter 8 of Sense8 AU. The plot thickens...or it’s just angst, you decide ;)

Real?

“Jace? I appreciate your enthusiasm, but we have customers?”

Jace was yanked away from Alec, only to end up back on his seat behind the counter. Damn it.

Simon was in front of him, glaring at him as a small group of girls tried to stifle their snickers a few feet away.

Jace blinked, before covering up his confusion with a smile. “What? It’s a great song, our customers will surely appreciate it.”

He looked at the girls, and they nodded quickly.

“Yes, of course! You sang it perfectly,” one of them said. “We would…would you please sign our notebooks? We’re huge fans of yours.”

Jace’s smile became Cheshire-like. “See, Simon? Make space for the ladies.”

Simon rolled his eyes, but he did as he was told, and Jace gladly spent the next few minutes chatting animatedly and signing his name on things. That was not why he had gotten into the music industry, but it definitely didn’t hurt. He winked at his fans, making them blush, before they turned towards Simon and asked for his autograph, too. Jace just knew that Simon was going to complain to him, as soon as they left, about this being a “shop, and not your personal office!” That should shut him up, instead. Jace laughed when the girls did indeed leave, and Simon only had a goofy grin on his face.

Simon still stuck his tongue out at him, before welcoming the next customers.

It was a busy afternoon, thankfully. With a bit of luck, the shop would survive another month.

“…New York shooting, the official victim count is twe-”

“Wait, what?” Jace blurted out, after waving away the latest costumer. He looked up at Simon, who was reordering a shelf. “What did the radio just say about New York?!”

Simon raised his eyebrows at him. “That there was a shooting? Twenty victims, plus dozens of others wounded?”

Jace started sputtering. “Wha-wai-w-why the hell did nobody tell me?!”

“It’s not exactly the ideal topic before a major show, is it? And it’s been all over the news since yesterday, we thought you knew! Where the hell have you been, under a rock?”

Jace shot upright, almost knocking his chair over, before he almost ran towards the computer at the other end of the counter. His fingers flew over the keyboard under Simon’s widened eyes, but Jace didn’t care. He had opened countless pages in the next ten seconds, and he was gawking up and down at the articles, at the pictures, unblinking.

The place…the formation of the police cars…the view of the Statue of Liberty…the maniac’s face…

It all fit what he remembered of his hallucination.

“Jace?”

Jace ignored him. His hands had stopped moving, and he was frozen in place. “I – I need to go to the bathroom.”

He could feel Simon’s worried eyes on his back as he made his way, a hand firmly wrapped around his phone in the pocket of his jeans.

He swiftly took it out as soon as the door closed behind him.

Alec Lightwood, he typed on the search bar, New York Police.

And there he was. Tall, dark hair, broad shoulders. There were various photos of him in uniform, often accompanied by the blonde woman Jace remembered from the shooting. He was listed among the wounded of yesterday.

Alec…was real? The man Jace had almost got killed. The man who had shown up in Jace’s apartment half-naked, yelling at Jace that he wasn’t real. The man Jace had sang to like never before, danced with and almost kissed. The man Jace had been in the body of, as they…wanked. Yep, that had happened. Jace could still only think holy shit as he remembered it. And as he remembered all the glimpses he had caught of Alec that entire day, or when he had jumped on Alec’s bed, singing with him without a care in the world because he had been so sure it was all just a fantasy…Jace’s eyes were just about to pop out of his head.

Bloody hell.

“Jace, man, are you alright in there?”

Jace cleared his throat and got out of the bathroom. “Yeah. Sorry. I don’t know why I reacted like this.”

“Yeah, it’s so awful. I can’t believe that it just keeps happening…do you need to go home? It’s fine by me.”

Jace shook his head. “No, I’m fine.”

He needed the distraction of work, or his head would truly explode.

But it didn’t, not even when he finally got home. And the next time he saw Alec, sleeping peacefully on his bed, Jace started paying more attention.

He inspected every inch of the room, he touched every surface, and he catalogued every reaction his body received from all of that. Again, Jace thought he felt the vibrations of the objects against his skin, as if between them and him there was a thin veil that he couldn’t quite pierce…

It still far closely resembled a legitimate touch. He was in that room, for sure. A vision could never be this clear, this detailed…and Alec…

Alec drew him in more than anything else. Jace sat down next to him, and he reached for his hand like he had done at the hospital. But, this time, he didn’t hesitate to interlock their fingers, closing his eyes to focus better on that contact.

A raw energy seemed to radiate from their clasped hands. It flowed up Jace’s arm, until his entire body reverberated with it. Jace gulped, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the sensation. He felt the need to open his eyes again, but he didn’t want to let go. He studied Alec’s face more closely. How the light danced on his relaxed lineaments…

How was this possible? How could this be real? How could he be seeing Alec, be near him, feel him in that peculiar way he did? And on such an intimate, deeper level than he had ever felt anything else…

Thoughts he’d had before but he had refused to listen to came back to him.

Alec had felt like an extension of himself…a separate being, but tied to Jace indescribably. When they’d danced together, for instance; Jace had, in a way, known Alec’s movements before he made them.  And what about those doubled, multiplied, synchronous sensations that he – they? – had experienced as they…masturbated? In each other’s bodies?

It all sounded impossible, crazy, yes…but if they were both real, and weren’t imagining it…

Jace was no closer to an understanding, but, for some reason, he accepted that possibility; that what had been happening to him was a reality. He wasn’t a spiritual person, he had never been a believer; yet, something was telling him to give this a chance. And for once in his life, he listened.

He would just…treat this as an experiment. He wanted to explore the situation, he wanted to talk to Alec and see if they could make sense of it together. And he wanted to get to know Alec-the-person, as deeply as he already felt to know the…being. A sound plan to get to the bottom of it all.

Doing the part of the infesting pest, after all, was also kind of fun, he had to admit. Alec got more exasperated at his antics than Jace’s grandmother ever did, but Jace could tell, and not because of any supernatural power, that Alec was actually enjoying his presence. Jace wasn’t that delusional to think that this would be any epic, out-of-this-world romance, but he couldn’t deny neither his attraction to Alec, nor Alec’s apparent attraction to him. And if Jace were to approach the subject, Alec couldn’t deny it either, because he had been the one about to kiss Jace.

But that was probably stretching things a little too far.

Experiment. Observation to draw reasonable conclusions. Nothing more. Focus, Jace.

Amongst the things he consequently added to his mental list; according to Alec’s…sister? Alec had talked in a perfect British accent just as Jace did. That was a third party taking notice of something weird, so it couldn’t just be in their heads, could it?

Another factor was that Alec still thought this wasn’t real. That was something Jace wanted to discuss with him. He wanted to tell Alec to just look him up on the internet; literally, it would be so easy for Alec to find proof of his existence, just as it had been for Jace (once he had thought to do it, that is).

Yet, something in Alec’s expression…the way he said, “It’s been two days! I was perfectly normal before, and now I’ve gone crazy hallucinating you! Yes, this isn’t real,” made Jace bite his tongue. If Alec refused to look past the initial improbability to ground all of this in a tangible reality, Jace didn’t feel like forcing him quite yet. It had been two days. And it was not like Jace was one-hundred percent sure himself that he wasn’t living some kind of fever-dream. Better give them both more time to ease into it, he concluded; this could all very well end as abruptly as it had started, after all.

So Jace merely followed Alec – an Alec who, for all his denial, still talked to him and indulged himself in what he thought was a dream, so there was hope for him yet – to the rooftop of Alec’s apartment building in New York, all the way across the ocean for Jace, and he got to know another side of his grumpy companion in all this weirdness. Alec looked truly beautiful under the dim light of the stars, shadows playing a fascinating game on the side of his face that Jace could see. His eyes shone when he looked into the lens of his telescope, and not because of any outside illumination.

Jace didn’t forget to take note that one part of him, somehow, was truly singing in their shop’s garage to get ready for their next big show…but, apparently, his brain had so much space now that he could still give most of his attention to what Alec explained to him. And he could swear he wasn’t the only one being enraptured by it all.

“You’re late,” Imogen greeted him when Jace arrived at her house for lunch.

“Hello to you, too, Gran.” Jace grinned.

“I swear you have baggier clothes each time, aren’t you tired to always pass as a street urchin, my child?”

“I love you, too.”

Imogen’s lips turned upward as she led him inside the house.

“You didn’t tell me that you were filthy rich. Why the hell do you live in a dump?” Alec whispered into his ear, walking beside him with wide eyes as he looked around at all the sophistication Jace’s grandmother surrounded herself with.

Jace raised an eyebrow, before whispering back, careful to put a little more distance between him and Imogen, “I’m not filthy rich, that’s my grandmother. Now back off.”

Alec rolled his eyes, but disappeared.

He returned when Jace sat at the dining room table. Alec simply appeared on the chair next to him, still surveying everything with clear awe, from the rich wooden furniture to the pure silver flatware.

“How is your…business going, dear?” Imogen asked as she put her napkin over her legs.

“I’d say nicely, and we’ve booked a couple of shows this month, as intro for other bands,” Jace answered casually.

Imogen nodded, before looking at him pointedly. “If you have any problems, you do know that your inheritance is always there for you, right?”

Jace sighed. “Yes, Gran, I know. But I’m saving it for bigger things, which does not include,” he quickly added with a sideway glance, “buying a better apartment. I’m fine with this one.”

“Ah,” both Imogen and Alec echoed.

Seriously, why was Alec, an allegedly real person, so similar to his grandmother? Jace wanted to facepalm so hard at both of them.

Thankfully, lunch was served, which shut them all up for a while. As usual, it was a very grand affair of double courses and the best ingredients coming from all over the world. Imogen would literally die if she ever did anything but the best.

Even after all this time, Jace couldn’t deny that he was still a bit uncomfortable with that. He had grown up with nothing, and suddenly finding himself being the grandson of a high-borne diplomat hadn’t been an easy shift. He also knew that he could never be fine if he allowed himself to be dependent on his grandmother’s money. That was simply not who he was, yet at this point it’d be useless trying to make her understand it, if she hadn’t already done so.

Alec, though, was a whole other matter…Jace didn’t usually share personal information with anyone outside of his circle of close friends, yet there was an itch in him that urged him to share all of this with Alec. To make him understand who he was, and why he wasn’t rich.

If he could only truly talk to Alec, instead of them just accidentally finding themselves in the same room while they were doing something else…Jace was sure that if they ever did so, he’d manage to get through to Alec. If he learned more about him, Alec just couldn’t not see this for what it was, he couldn’t not see Jace as a real person!

“So, this is your grandmother…but where are your parents?” Alec asked him as if on cue.

That, however, wasn’t something Jace would’ve wanted to start with straight away.

“Dead,” Jace curtly replied, and Alec’s eyes widened slightly.

“What, dear?” Imogen inquired.

Jace cursed himself mentally. “I – I’m gonna die if I don’t taste that pork immediately.”

“Who’s the terrible liar, now?” Alec asked, but he sounded hesitant, most likely still registering what Jace had just told him.

Yeah, having Alec pity him wasn’t exactly what Jace had meant to go for. He made sure to glare at Alec to express his annoyance...but he felt himself losing all fire as soon as he met Alec’s eyes. They were indeed creased in a sympathetic way, but they also conveyed a warmth and understanding that Jace was surprised to find. Unexpectedly, Jace felt his eyes sting.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” Alec told him quietly.

Alec was a cop, he probably dealt with similar situations on a daily basis, so there wasn’t anything that personal about the honest concern Jace could hear in his voice. And those words had been repeated to Jace all his life, so there was nothing new about them. Yet, if he thought about the fact that Alec believed he was just imagining everything, and he was still this into it… Jace had to swallow down a prominent lump and avert his eyes to not get too overwhelmed by Alec’s intensity.  

He didn’t know whether or not to thank the fact that he didn’t see Alec again until much later. It was probably better that way, and Alec stayed with him either way; Jace could only put on him his sudden implacable need to clean his apartment after a long while that he hadn’t. He had found this place a long time ago, and it had always served him right, it surely didn’t deserve to be called a dumpster!  

He popped up into Alec’s apartment only once all afternoon. When he realized, however, that people he had never seen – Alec’s friends or colleagues, he figured – were visiting Alec, Jace didn’t feel like staying to investigate who they were. Better if he just kept some distance. Alec was already complicated on his own.

He couldn’t pass on family dinner, though. That was not exactly a very unobtrusive way of getting to know someone, but Alec had barged in on his lunch with his grandmother, hadn’t he? It was only right that Jace returned the favor, sitting right next to Alec as who he guessed were Alec’s mother, brother, sister and work partner came over for dinner. What did Jace have to do anyway…he was so not used to go to sleep at a reasonable hour.

He tried to place a name to each face. Mary, no, Maryse was the mother. Mat-Max was the teenage brother. Easy? No, Izzy was the sister, seated next to the blonde, Lynn…Lydia!

“So, let me get this straight, or…gay. Your partner got together with your sister?” Jace asked Alec with a smirk.

Alec reflexively turned his head towards him, and they were on Jace’s bed, Alec crossing his arms as he spoke, “Yeah. Been two years already.”

“Isn’t that a bit weird?”

“Nah…well, it was at first. They even hid it from me, thought I’d freak out…which I kind of did. But I would’ve very much preferred they told me, instead of finding Lydia in my sister’s bed. Literally, I think most things would’ve been better than that.”

They both chuckled. Jace dared to look sideways at Alec’s profile. “What about your father? Not together with your mother?”

“No. But it’s better this way.” Alec’s eyes met his for a brief second, before he averted them, clearing his throat. “I just…I’ll go back now.”

“Wait, Alec.”

Alec froze, looking back at him. Jace took a deep breath.

“Listen, I’m not saying now, but…I really think we should talk. No pressure, no nothing, but we should try to figure out what…”

Alec closed his eyes. “I already said that I don’t feel that talking a fantasy out would really do anything. I must really go back.” And he did, just like that.  

I’m not your fantasy, Jace would’ve wanted to tell him.

[monstersarealwayshungryrpg-blog]

Name: Gavin Mason Crow Age: 25 Gender: Male Sexuality: Asexual Occupation: Hacker Affiliation: Neutral Faceclaim: Freddie Highmore Status: Taken

The Story

They call you The Hermit, an old soul trapped inside a young body. Others often thrive in numbers, but you thrive in your solitude, desperately needing a place to think on your own, alone but not lonely. It is a rarity for you to venture outside of your comfort zone, a computer and animal at your side are your daily companions. You believe the world is a mystery and while fascinated by it, you are much more intrigued by yourself and those closest to you. You are meticulous and often over-critical of yourself, focusing on the smallest of details, a quality that stems from your past, along with the relentless desire to prove yourself.

Connections:

Justice - There is something in who Justice is as a person that you admire. They seem to encompass everything you wish you could be, but aren’t. You have worked together in the past, only small jobs, giving answers when they couldn’t get them on their own, and even though you know what they do, you are never uncomfortable around them.

Death - Maybe it who he is, or maybe it’s the looks he sometimes gives you when no one else is watching, maybe you are imagining these looks but you can’t help but hold your breath and falter in your words whenever Death speaks to you.

The Chariot - You aren’t someone to make friends, not easily at least, so it was odd for you when the ease of your friendship with The Chariot blossomed. They are almost your exact opposite, spending their life behind a wheel in the real world while you are content with your fingers on a keyboard, but for some reason the two of you just work.

Past:

Gavin was born the third of four to an overwhelmed and underprepared middle-class family. The children were born close together, only four years between Gavin and his older brother and less than two between him and his younger sister. Four under seven was a handful in and of itself, but it became worse as it became obvious that Gavin was lagging behind the others. At first, his frazzled parents just assumed the delayed improvement was just him growing up at his own pace. However, as his younger sister’s vocabulary started to surpass his and he started to pull away even more from spending time with his siblings, his parents realized that perhaps there was something a bit more going on with their youngest son. It was the meltdowns, occurring nearly every time things got too loud or bright, that eventually got them to give up and seek professional help.

He was eight before the diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome was given. To the boy, the diagnosis unsurprisingly meant nothing, not even worth a pause in his current fascination of counting items around the room. However, to his parents this news was devastating, they had maintained hope that this was something “fixable” and not something that would stay with their son for the rest of his life. There was an upside to the diagnosis though, now that they knew the issue steps could be taken to work with it. Through therapy, Gavin did begin to speak more frequently and was starting to get better control over his meltdowns. While still quirky and behind where was “normal” for his age range, he was finally making progress.

By middle school, he was at the same intelligence level as peers his age, which meant that he could join the regular classes most of the day. This may have been good for his education, but it was very hard on him personally. He still had very poor social skills and got obsessive over his special interests. That, in combination with the fact that he came from the special education wing, did not bode well for his social status. He was bullied mercilessly when his siblings weren’t around. His older brothers got in a lot of fights those years, but Gavin did not care about the teasing he got on a regular basis. He just cared about his action figures and finding people who wouldn’t interrupt him when he told them about all that he had collected. Those people were few and far between though, and that, more than the bullying, made him feel like there was something wrong with him.

           High school was a better time. Gavin was still more socially awkward than your average freshman geek was, but at least now people knew better than to mock the guy with Asperger’s. He wasn’t exactly a bright student, but he was average. Until, one day when he was 16, he discovered the love of his life: computers. Obviously, he had seen and used computers before, but the first semester of his junior year he took a programming course and everything just clicked. Code was something that he could understand and manipulate. Unlike other people, he could hold a conversation with a computer, telling it what needed to be done and how to do it and getting the results he wanted. He learned code quickly, once he sets his mind to something it won’t take him long to get it done.

           Computers weren’t the only thing that made that class great though, there was also George. Despite high schoolers being kinder than their middle school selves, Gavin still did not have any friends outside of his siblings. This did not really bother him, per se, but he still was quite pleased by the prospect of having someone to discuss his newfound love with. George did not mind that Gavin would ramble on about the same things that they had talked about yesterday, nor did he really care that the other boy wouldn’t really carry on a conversation about something else that often. They would stay up late coding little programs and turning hacking into a game, taking turns playing the defender while the other tried to get past firewall after firewall. Their friendship forced Gavin to go outside of his comfort zone. It did not take long for him to realize that George was going to do things whether Gavin wanted to or not. So, if he wanted to talk to George about the code that they had been working on the night before, he had to go to the comic book store whether he wanted to or not.

           Once he had graduated high school, Gavin was a bit lost. There was a sudden loss of structure in his life that he had relied on, and George was moving away to go to university. Gavin wanted to follow his friend to university, but just going to the campus tour was enough to show him and his parents that being on site for university was not going to be for him. He ended up in a two year online program for computer sciences. This was the first time Gavin was actually bothered by his disability. He saw his siblings and friend move out and away, while he was still at home dependent on his parents. It was a feeling that he couldn’t fully shake, that he wasn’t “right” like the others were.

           After finishing his degree, things started to look up. His father’s company needed a part time computer tech and he was able to find freelance coding jobs on the side. It wasn’t exactly a high paying position, but it was a stable income and he enjoyed the work. Plus, he wasn’t expected to work face to face with others, most of his work could be done from home and that which couldn’t was usually by himself as well. Eventually he was able to make enough that he could move into a modest apartment for himself, not too far from his parents but enough that he felt more independent.

Present:

           Since then, Gavin has continued to do well for himself. In the five years since he graduated, he has built a name for himself in freelance coding. He also managed to build a name for himself in the hacker communities. Initially, the hacking jobs had been a way to connect with George despite being separated, a sort of competition of who could do the most impressive hacks. They wouldn’t mess up anything, just get enough evidence to prove that they had done it.  As time went on, George took part in this less and less, but Gavin thrived in the environment and continued to share his accomplishments with the online community well after his friend had fallen off the radar.

           It was likely this infamy that had the Arcana knocking on his door late one night. He didn’t want to open the door, but the pounding was so insistent that he feared they would come in one way or another. They didn’t really give him much choice in the matter, simply giving him instructions and a date to have it done by and motivating him with the threat of revealing who he was to the authorities. Gavin may not always be the fastest on the uptake with veiled statements, but he was able to tell that the authorities would not be as amused by his hacking escapades as the other hackers. So, he did the job, and he did it well. It was a fairly simple task, but the mob paid well. He became accustomed to their requests, though he would always refuse their offers to have him join. He is, after all, a freelancer.

Personality:

           Gavin has Asperger’s Syndrome. This disorder affects him in a few different ways, but the main one is his ability to socialize. He can have a hard time socializing, understanding social cues, and properly expressing himself. His speech is more formal than that of his peers, and he struggles to understand idioms and slang. He will take people at their word most of the time, and will have a hard time understand jokes and sarcasm. He can be a bit of a chatter box, and will ramble on about the things that he is currently interested in at great length if given the chance. He has a hard time sorting his thoughts into private thoughts and thoughts to verbalized, so if surprised or nervous he often blurts out whatever is on his mind. Another effect of his disorder is that he does not like changes in his routine, and will often get upset at differences that others might consider inconsequential. Despite being generally free of any outside deadlines and expectations, Gavin will set strict routines and schedules for himself to follow. Finally, his Asperger’s has come with two other diagnosis, general anxiety disorder and sensory processing disorder. His anxiety is well managed with his medication, but the sensory processing will still affect him if put in a situation with too much external stimuli.

           He comes off as rather cold or anxious to those who do not know him. He may also come off as cold to those he does care about, but that is not truly the case. Instead it is just because he has a hard time showing care and empathy. He looks up to people who are able to do what he is not, such as The Chariot who is able to experience the world out in it instead of just from behind the computer screen. He will not pay attention or will get frustrated with subjects that do not interest or affect him. However, he gets overly excited about things that he does care about. He does have anxiety issues that become apparent in situations that make him nervous. However, in the day to day he usually seems content and has a generally positive outlook on things.

[mtg-weekly-recap]

MTG Weekly Tumblr Recap: April 3, 2017

Cat and Jackal Gods | Original art by @isharton

Welcome to another issue of the MTG Tumblr Recap! Thanks to those who have followed us, and now the new-set season is in full swing, we hope to be getting into a proper groove that keeps this thing happening on a normal, weekly basis. For those unfamiliar with what we do, the MTG Weekly Tumblr Recap is a gathering of some of the most notable posts and trends from within the MTG Tumblr community for a given week. For this issue, we will be covering things from the end of March, 2017 through April 3, 2017. If you are interested in joining our writing team, please PM any of our writers and we will add you to our Discord.

1. In-Vocational Training

Art for Wrath of God | Original art by Titus Lutner, 

The new Masterpiece series for the Amonkhet block was revealed earlier last week. These cards inspired much discussion throughout the Magic Community. The new Masterpiece cards are unlike any of the Masterpiece cards that Wizards has released. While Zendikar had Expeditions and Kaladesh had Inventions, Amonkhet will have Invocations.Some of cards being printed are iconic cards, such as Counterbalance, Daze and Wrath of God. They have gorgeous, beautiful artwork inspired by the Plane, however, the rest of the design of the card has brought about some criticism from the community.  The main criticism of the cards are that they are difficult to the read, due to the font used for the letters and the incorporation of “hieroglyphics”. Mark Rosewater has said that this approach was inspired by the Elesh Norn promotional card, that used the Phyrexian language. However, the font and “hieroglyphs” are not legible for some with poor eye sight or other reading impairments, and thus has caused some backlash from the community in regards to this creative choice. @sarpadianempiresvol-viii has also agreed with the majority that the “text is almost unreadable” as well as expressing regret, like others, that the beautiful art is too small to see on the card.

Another main criticism of the Invocations are that they could be considered culturally insensitive. Tumblr user @zoe-of-the-veil has made several posts about this issue. Zoe urges the community to “be aware of this and be careful not to let our enthusiasm for a new set erase these issues and not to let Magic’s #aesthetic contribute to stereotyping and erasing a very real culture.” All in all, there are very mixed reactions of the new Masterpiece series. It is a new approach from Wizards and after Amonkhet is released, the Invocations may have a warmer reception from the Community.

 -- Chelsea, @chelsea-beleren-vess

2. This  Week’s Magic Story Review

Impact, by Michael Yichao

Liliana | Original art by @zomburai

This week we officially kicked off the Amonkhet magic story with the first installment, Impact (written by Michael Yichao, author of Sacrifice, All the cairns of Jund, and Quiet Moments)! The story shows the Gatewatch’s (minus Ajani, the only member who thought charging into Bolas’s private realm without a plan wasn’t such a great idea) arrival on Amonkhet and its… not-so-fun experiences with the local climate and fauna. Yichao juggles the different points of view of the five planeswalkers very well, often switching up the style of narration while simultaneously giving us the possibility to see what’s going on in the planeswalkers’ minds and how they often have very different perceptions (Chandra, for example, thinks the other four are wimps who can’t stand a little heat). 

The first story of a block is always crucial in that it needs to establish a starting point from which to go forward but also needs to provide more than just a “this is where the story will take place” feel, because otherwise it will not be as entertaining as the following installments: it needs to have some action and/or lay out a basis for conflict. Impact accomplishes this not only by having the gatewatch fend off zombies and sandworms, but also by showing us how the journey ahead of them is all but simple: not only were they all about to die without Bolas even lifting a finger, but we see that Liliana has other plans (namely, Razaketh) and Gideon is awe-struck by the presence of Hazoret and, by extension, the other gods (which could lead to some interesting character development on his part). In summary, Impact does a good job of blending fast-paced, action packed narrative with moments of introspection and reflection and a good dose of humor even in the midst of life-threatening situations, and sets the bar pretty high up there for the following magic stories, in terms of narration.

--- Diego, @magus-of-the-color-pie

3. Serpopardon Me?

☆ what a good snake. cat. cat snake? snake cat? … cake??  | Original art by @frigidloki

Serpopards (Which some of us discovered are ‘real’ monsters from the Antiquities thanks to @sarpadianempiresvol-viii​ and Wikipedia) are the big reveal of this weeks pre-spoilers section, and captured the imagination of Magic Fanartists everywhere:

( @isharton​ ) 

( @oketra​ )

( @pepperjaq​ )

( @trans-chandra )

--- Compiled by Diego, @magus-of-the-color-pie

4. Pre-Spoiler Week Spoiler-y Previews!

Renewed Faith | Original art by Wesley Bert

We sit in the eve of a great, new spoiler season, and like always, Wizards cant help but set their phasers to ‘tease’ as they give us glimpses of the new set before the official fortnight of fun. In addition to the polarizing Invocations, a couple of cards have been previewed, including quite a few for the Gideon and LIliana Planeswalker decks, the cards confirmed for the set proper have some interesting new mechanics, showing the return of Cycling as mechanic, as well as introducing Exert and Embalm

Glorybringer | Original art by Sam Burley

Exert is an ability that comes into play when you declare attacking. For the low low cost of not untapping on your next untap step, you can give a creature with the exerted creature a bonus. So far we’ve only seen the card above, so we don’t know much about which colors will have this ability. 

Embalm is another ability word, allowing cards to be copied as tokens from the graveyard, for a mana cost and exiling the original card. The token copy is alway white in color, and always a Zombie (mummy) creature, in addition to it’s other type, but appears to be identical in all other ways. Although the below example is white, it would seem that this ability will not be limited only to that color.

Trueheart Duelist | Original art by Izzy

--- Liam, @coincidencetheories​

5. FAN ART AROUND THE BLOGS

Dark Power | Original art by @diorevoredo 

You’ve no doubt seen some of these making the rounds, but they’re awesome and this here blog’s looking to celebrate awesome.

@isharton gave us a look at Amonkhet from the perspective of a humble brick, while @hirfael took a quote from Impact where Gideon rescues Jace with one hand.

@zurgo-nerdpuncher  meanwhile, couldn’t be more excited about the confirmation of snakes on the plane, and @gemstonechronologist reminds us that fan creations come in many dimensions, with some exquisite fabrications of the Amonkhet Set symbol as a pendant charm

--- Liam, @coincidencetheories

6. Invisible Talker(s)

Invisible Stalker | Original Art by Bud Cook

This week, as with most weeks, there were some great Magic podcasts. Of note, you might enjoy:

TapTapConcede - Loading Ready Run : Notable Magic Tumblr contributor @talinthas was this weeks guest, talking about Kaladesh’s cultural influences, as well as the odd faux pas.

Limited Resources - Marshal Sutcliffe and LSV: A blast from the past as original co-host and current Wizards employee Ryan Spain drops by The Girlfriend Bracket - Erin, Hallie, Kriz and Katie: As this podcast nears it’s 100th episode, the gang talk about the ‘grind’, and other goings on in Magic. The Command Zone - Jimmy Wong and Josh Lee Kwai: Learn some ways to mix up your playgroups game of Commander

--- Liam, @coincidencetheories

...and finally: Amonkhet Tumblr Awards

@mtg-weekly-recap contributor @chelsea-beleren-vess had the idea that we as a community might give some votes on the new set (and new sets going forward) and people have taken to the idea, giving suggestions for a few other categories to make a real red-carpet event. Feel free to let her know any other ideas for the categories you want to see! Also, stay tuned once Spoiler Season is complete for details as to how to vote for your favorites!

Thank you again for reading this week’s issue of the MTG Weekly Tumblr Recap. Hope to see you next week! Interested in contributing to the Recap? Want to keep track of notable posts and trends throughout the MTG community on a given week? Or write a short blurb on a specific topic? Do you just want to make us aware of one specific topic or post? Please PM our main editor @the-burnished-hart or any of our staff writers!

[screensandmelodies-blog]

3 Televsion Shows That Fell Off

By Jared Leal, Anastasia Rafalska and Steven Le

SHERLOCK

By Anastasia Rafalska

“Help me please, I’m on a plane and everyone’s asleep.”

I really like how BBC has interpreted and turned into a movie novels of Arthur Conan Doyle, but honestly, the last episode is just a piece of crap. Some people think it’s a great finish, as Sherlock is revealed as a human, not a detective, but let me explain you something: Sherlock Holmes is the most genius detective in London. He is a legend, he is a person who with just one glance at a piece of paper can recreate an apartment where it was and in seconds determine if there is a weapon in the bag just by analyzing it’s weight, he can predict behaviour of the people couple weeks before.

And now, his character with exceptional intellectual ability is playing in the “real-life quest” done by his sister Eurus, where he was blackmailing by the phone calls from a little girl alone on a passenger plane, where everyone is unconscious apart from her.  I’ m not even taking into account the fact that he could refuse playing this game, as it must be clear to him that something doesn’t add up –the girl doesn’t know where she’s coming from or going, she seems relatively relaxed about the huge passages of time passing between their conversations. Surely he’d be able to deduce that she wasn’t really on a plane, yet he never appears to doubt the veracity of her call, consequently under the pressure Sherlock is almost ready to kill his brother and other people. 

The next important thing: from the second episode we were convinced that Eurus is the most dangerous prisoners in the world and according to Mycroft, she is “an era-defining genius beyond Newton”. She uses a lot of smart words, but if you just take a look on what she is doing during the whole episode, you’ll understand that there is nothing genius or original, there is no sense in her actions.

We love Sherlock Holmes for his deduction, extraordinary cases, unusual things that have a logical explanation, but unfortunately none of it was used in the last episode. 

THE 100

By Steven Le

There were many things in the story of the 100 that captivated us. The 100 is a story based on the post apocalypse of Earth after having radiation spread all over the world killing off mankind like a plague. Mankind had to create an Ark spaceship to send themselves into space to live until the Earth was freed of radiation and become inhabitable again. After 10 long years of living in space, the crew members had made a decision of sending 100 delinquents and misfits down to Earth to ‘test’ if it was safe to inhabit again. Throughout season 1, this plot had captivated many people as we would be following along with Clarke, the leader of the delinquents and see how they would prevail in the trials that await them. From the grounders who were used to the radiation to the surviving humans left in the mountains 10 years ago, seasons 1 to 2 had kept viewers entertained for months.

However, after season 2 was the start of where The 100’s storyline worsened. Throughout season 3 we find out that one of their own went out to look for salvation on Earth, only to become inhabited by an artificial intelligence bot named “Alie”. From this point, the story seemed way more farfetched than it was from the start. Having a mind controlling artificial intelligence infect people’s minds by simply eating a microchip that would attach itself at the back of your neck was just plain unreal and stupid. The affects that this microchip would do to someone was allow them hallucinate throughout their subconscious imagining a city called ‘The City of Light’, where no conflict would happen, and no hate would consume the hearts of man.

However, this was not all to the fall of The 100. After season 3’s crazy plotline, comes the current season, season 4. The plot was briefly touched upon at the end of season 3 where Clarke and the remaining people of the Ark found out that the Earth was doomed to radiation once again. When the problem was explained to their allies, the grounders and the rest of the Arkadian’s, no one had a surprised expression. The Arkadians seemed as though they felt no real imminent danger of possibly getting wiped out by the Earth’s radiation AGAIN! All in all my disappointment with the show currently is that they are lacking in certain details within the story that should be more carefully explained to allow viewers to fully understand the situation at hand. The show should also reveal more emotion as to how distressed our protagonists are feeling towards the current situation in season 4.

THE OFFICE

By Jared Leal

Note: May be difficult to understand without prior knowledge.

Note: I get heated in this one, bear with me and don’t take it too seriously, enjoy…

“Today, smoking is going to save lives.”

The quote by Dwight Schrute (Rainn Wilson) before one of the most outrageous pre-shows I have ever seen, sticks to this day. NBC’s adaptation of BBC’s “The Office” is one of the few shows that I consider a part of me. This comes from its more documentary type of presentation. The setting an ordinary workplace of supposedly ordinary people. The format would include monologues in the form of interviews of each character in between plot points. I’m no nerd, I don’t know if this format has been used before The Office and Parks and Recreation, but it definitely softens that veil of disbelief everyone has when consuming fiction. In other words, it feels real. Mix this with a dry sense of awkward, character-driven humour from its primary comedic engines in Michael Scott (Steve Carrell) and Dwight Schrute, and all I see is my favourite comedy television show of all time.

They glory is there from the very beginning, introducing main characters Michael with his unrelenting but genuine incompetence, Dwight and his arrogant but naïve superiority complex (as far as we think...), and the sustaining unresolved romantic tension of Jim Halpert (Jon Krasinski) and Pam Beasley (Jenna Fischer). This glory is sustained through 7 seasons of wonderful ups and downs that all the characters shared and fought through. Then Michael Scott leaves.

I actually watched the 8th season, the first full season without Steve Carrell as the primary character. Ed Helms’ Andy Bernard takes over Michael’s managing job and the show’s attempts to restore former glory without shamefully replicating it, commence. This season wasn’t good but it definitely wasn’t horrid, but without the driving force of the show, it was evidently missing something. I am actually part of the group of viewers that actually enjoyed Andy and Erin Hannon’s (Ellie Kemper) romance; the previous season setup several subtle but sweet moments which were resolved this season, much to my satisfaction (we’ll get back to this).

Which leads us to the 9th and final season, which I could not bear to complete. I can’t really say how bad it is or even if it is actually bad, but I can say how my optimism was gutted. Introducing a plethora of new characters I don’t care about, this late into the show, is the first mistake. Evidently, I don’t remember their names and don’t have the dignity to search them up, but they were two young office dudes I think. The asshole-ification of Andy was the second mistake: making him act like an ass to his employees and making him neglect Erin (who he worked so hard for) is just not something I saw him doing when he was first introduced in the 3rd season. This of course led to end of their relationship, which I thought couldn’t get much worse until she rebounded onto one of the two new nobodies I mentioned before (for the record, I’m sure they’re nice guys). This is of course is where the thrill was gone completely; actually I stopped before this happened (thanks to Wikia for softening this blow).

So yeah, I guess my disappointment with the show and the fact that I could not receive proper closure to one of my favourite shows of all time got me heated in this post. But the beauty of fiction is that I can choose to stop my suspension of disbelief whenever I want. And I can still enjoy the first seven seasons as I did before because it makes me happy. And I’m crying now, goodbye.

I aint don’t worry.