#impromptu flying lesson

[savanir]

A fight between Danny and Skulker within the ghost zone carried them to a section that Danny wasn't familiar with. It was near a floating island that was overgrown much like Skulker's that the two of them suddenly got ambushed by a third party.

The new ghost seemed more interested in fighting Skulker than Danny, and he didn't hesitate at all to pull out a green glowing serated knife and a matching gun. Their snarling and growling was like nothing Danny had heard before and the insults were also a lot more vicious than what Danny ever heard from Skulker.

It was clear to Danny that these two hated each other.

"Whatever!" Skulker twists mid aerial dodge into Danny's direction, "This isn't over whelp, I'll have your pelt next time!" Skulker shouts before promptly flying off.

The new ghost then approaches Danny, all the while sneering at Skulker's retreating form. Talking with the new guy is... uncomfortable, Danny has to carefully navigate the conversation because it seems like the slightest thing sets him off, aka the guy's masked eyes start glowing brighter and get this smokey effect, and the belt of bullet shells he's wearing over his shoulder catches fire.

But Danny learns that the ghost goes by Ravager and that he's the son of the greatest mercenary there is, was, will be (according to him of course).

Danny also learns that Ravager finds his close combat skills to be atrocious and offensive to look at, "your hand to hand is shit. No wonder you're dead," and the next thing he knows he gets dragged towards the floating chunk of land for an impromptu cqc lesson.

Ravager shows him various fighting skills at a cleared stretch of land nearby a half demolished building that looks like it might have been a T shaped tower at one point.

In fact the whole island has the look of a post apocalyptic city, overgrown ruins of buildings everywhere.

When Danny asks, Ravager tells him it suits him just fine like this and with a name like his Danny is inclined to believe him.

Ravager is disappointed that Danny is a hero and some parts of his personality remind him of his younger brother who he rather not think about at all, other parts of Danny remind him of Robin, who he really doesn't want to think about at all.

In the end though, curiosity gets the better of him and he asks Danny if he can take a look around, see if he can find a guy named Deathstroke (very reassuring name) and report back what he's doing nowadays.

Ravager is not happy with what Danny finds out for him.

"So there was this girl and she apparently also goes by Ravager so to be honest, I'm a little confused now"

"He Fucking replaced me!!?!" flames burst out around Ravager as he shoults.

Danny tries to placate, "... okay now, maybe it's more a passing on the torch kinda thing, keeping your memory alive or something?"

"Where is that portal you've talked about, I'm gonna fucking kill him," Yeah this guy is not listening.

"Now that seems like a rash and poorly thought out thing to do, maybe instead-"

But Ravager is done listening and instead he just yoinks Danny with him in his hunt for vengeance.

Meanwhile on the other side Rose is telling Dick and Jason about a spooky white haired meta kid that popped out of nowhere, asked her if she knew where Deathstroke is at and when she attacked him he deflected all her moves as if he'd done it a thousand times before.

[soleilpinto]

Cruising in Papaya: Sparks at the Starting Line ˚‧｡⋆🍁

“Life’s Better on Saturn ” ˙✧˖° ༘ ⋆｡˚ (Saturn, SZA)

Synopsis: Y/N Laurant, a glamorous socialite, meets Lando Norris during a race weekend, sparks fly between the two, but as their feelings deepen, they struggle to balance their secret relationship with their public lives, all while navigating the pressure of the fast-paced F1 scene.

Genre: (Some) Angst, Fluff, Romance

AU: Social Media and Written!au

Pairing: Lando x Afab!Socialite!Reader

Warnings: None

Notes: Welcome to the start of my brand new Lando smau that I can’t wait to work on! The Franco one got really good feedback so I thought why not work on this as well? I hope you guys enjoy reading! As always, don’t forget to like + reblog as a form of support to me and other writers.

Cruising in Papaya Masterlist. (Prev./Next.)

liked by gracieabrams, evejobs and others

laurant.yn upper east sider goes downtown

littlefoxhermes gorgeous girl x

— laurant.yn says you omg

ivygetty 💋

@gridglamore y/n laurant is all smiles in the paddock today. if she’s the new face of f1 weekends, i’m here for it

@formula1glam why does y/n laurant showing up to an f1 race feel like the start of a scandal waiting to happen? 😂

@racingteatime the way y/n laurant blends into the paddock like she’s been there forever… is she about to become an f1 staple or what?

The Miami sun glints off the mirrored glass of the paddock buildings as you step out of the car, your heels clicking softly on the pavement.

Dressed in a breezy white linen dress with delicate gold accents, you feel the Florida heat wrap around you.

A light breeze tousles your hair as you adjust your oversized sunglasses, scanning the bustling paddock.

It’s not your usual scene, but you’re here on assignment—filming content for Richard Mille, one of the sport's luxury sponsors.

As you make your way to the designated filming area, the hum of engines fills the air, a sound both foreign and thrilling.

You don’t know much about Formula 1—just enough to recognize the intensity around you. But you’re not here for the cars; you’re here to do your job with the same grace and precision expected of you in any setting.

Inside the hospitality suite, a member of the Richard Mille team walks you through the schedule.

Your first task is a video shoot showcasing their latest timepiece, shot against the vibrant energy of the Miami paddock.

“We’ll head to the pit lane for the second segment,” they explain, and you nod with a polite smile, even as you internally wonder what, exactly, a pit lane is.

When you’re introduced to a McLaren staff member who’ll escort you around the paddock, you greet them warmly, extending a hand.

“Thank you so much for helping me today,” you say, your tone sincere.

They seem momentarily taken aback by your elegance but quickly recover, leading you toward the garage.

The crew captures footage of you walking gracefully through the paddock, pausing to greet staff and smile for the camera. A mechanic hands you a small, futuristic-looking object.

“This is the steering wheel,” he says with a grin.

“Oh, wow,” you reply, carefully holding it.

“I had no idea they were so compact. It’s incredible how much goes into this.”

Your genuine interest catches him off guard, and he starts explaining the intricacies of the wheel while the cameras roll. You listen intently, nodding at the right moments, grateful for the impromptu lesson.

Later, you’re seated elegantly on the pit wall, the Miami skyline shimmering in the background. The cars roar past, and you can’t help but jump slightly at the noise.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that,” you admit to the assistant beside you, flashing an apologetic smile.

As you step into the McLaren hospitality suite, the last of the day’s filming wraps up. The sun is starting to set, casting a warm glow over the paddock.

Your team moves quickly, gathering equipment and talking through the final shots of the day. You’re grateful for the calm moments now, as the noise and energy of the paddock begin to settle.

Just as you’re about to sit down with a refreshing drink, the McLaren social media team approaches.

“We’d love to get a few more candid moments with the drivers,” one of the team members says.

“Lando and Oscar are available for some content, and we thought we could get a group shot with you—would you be open to that?” You nod graciously.

“Of course, I’d love to,” you say, your smile effortless.

The social media manager gives you a quick rundown of the plans, and soon enough, Lando and Oscar approach, both wearing their team kits, looking sharp but casual in a way only drivers can manage.

Oscar, ever the charming one, greets you first.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Y/N. I’ve seen you around the paddock, but we haven’t really had a chance to talk.” He extends his hand, and you shake it, giving him a warm smile.

“I’ve been so caught up with the filming, but it’s lovely to meet you as well, Oscar,” you reply, your voice calm and kind, a steady presence amid the chaotic energy of the paddock.

Lando arrives moments later, his usual smile wide but carrying a certain twinkle in his eyes. He greets you with a casual wave, but his gaze lingers for just a moment longer than usual.

You catch his eye and offer a friendly smile, completely unaware of the subtle tension building in the air.

“So, are we ready to film some magic?” Oscar says, trying to lighten the mood, his grin contagious.

You agree, letting the social media team direct you into position, arranging you, Lando, and Oscar for the group shots.

The team starts rolling, and as the cameras flash, Lando notices the way you stand, the ease with which you interact with everyone around you.

The way you talk, with that grace, without a hint of pretension. It’s nothing like what he’s used to, and yet, there’s something magnetic about you.

He can’t quite place it, but something in the way you laugh softly at Oscar’s jokes has him drawn in.

After the photos are done, the social media manager suggests a candid video of all three of you chatting.

You start discussing the race, asking them about their preparations, but Lando can’t focus on the questions. He’s too intrigued by how poised and composed you are, even in this chaotic environment.

Your voice is calm and thoughtful, and the way you listen to him intently makes him feel like the only person in the room.

“You know, it’s refreshing talking to someone who’s not trying to get the inside scoop or, you know, make a headline,” Lando says with a half-smile.

“You’re just... easy to talk to.”

You smile at the compliment, your eyes meeting his, and you simply respond, “I think it’s important to just enjoy the moment, don’t you?”

The sincerity in your voice hits him in a way he didn’t expect, and for a second, he forgets that he’s still wearing his bright orange team kit, surrounded by cameras and flashing lights.

There’s just you—graceful and effortlessly charming—and Lando can’t help but feel a shift in his chest.

Oscar, noticing the sudden tension between you two, steps in with a lighthearted comment to break the silence.

“Lando, I didn’t know you were such a deep thinker,” he teases.

You both laugh, and the atmosphere lightens again, but Lando can’t shake the pull he feels toward you.

As the social media team wraps up, you thank them for the experience, your tone polite but warm.

“It was fun working with you both,” you say, your gaze moving between Oscar and Lando, but it lingers on Lando just a moment longer.

Lando watches you walk away, your posture elegant even as you turn toward your team.

There’s something about you—something beyond the surface level—that keeps pulling him in, and he finds himself wondering just how much more there is to you than what meets the eye.

“Are you okay, mate?” Oscar asks, noticing the way Lando’s gaze follows you.

Lando blinks and clears his throat, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah... just thinking about what she said. She’s got a good vibe.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push it.

“Sure, mate. Whatever you say.”

But Lando’s thoughts are elsewhere, and the idea of seeing you again keeps running through his mind. He knows it’s only a matter of time before you cross paths again.

You set your phone down, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

This was your first glimpse into the fast-paced world of motorsport, and you couldn’t say you minded—not when the Lando Norris was already charming you in ways one could only dream about.

liked by laurant.yn, f1 and 3,125,632 others

lando WWE FUCKIJG DID IT. P1 🏆

oscarpiastri well done man 👏 👏 👏

georgerussell63 Congrats mate!!

The crowd erupts into cheers as Lando crosses the finish line, taking the checkered flag and claiming victory at the Miami Grand Prix.

You find yourself clapping along with everyone else in the garage, swept up in the electric energy of the moment.

The roar of the fans, the team celebrating in the pit lane, and the sight of Lando standing atop his car with his arms raised in triumph—it’s all so overwhelming and surreal.

You’re not entirely sure why you feel so proud. You barely know him.

But as you watch him soak in the cheers, helmet in hand and grin wide enough to light up the entire paddock, you can’t help but feel a tug of admiration.

After the podium ceremony and the champagne celebrations, you find yourself in the McLaren hospitality suite, where the post-race buzz is in full swing.

Lando enters a few minutes later, his race suit unzipped to his waist, hair still damp from the champagne.

He’s surrounded by team members congratulating him, and you hesitate for a moment before stepping forward.

“Lando!” you call out, your voice cutting through the hum of conversation. He turns toward you, his eyes lighting up when he sees you.

“Y/N,” he says, making his way over, his smile as bright as ever. “Did you enjoy the race?”

You nod, a genuine smile spreading across your face.

“It was incredible. Congratulations! That was an amazing drive—you really earned it.”

“Thanks,” he replies, his tone warm but casual. “First time at an F1 race, and you get to see me win. Not bad, huh?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head.

“Not bad at all. You set the bar pretty high, though—I don’t know if any other race will compare now.”

His grin widens, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his expression, something that lingers as he looks at you.

“I’m glad you were here to see it,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost as if the chaos around you has faded into the background.

The moment stretches just long enough for you both to notice it. Your smile falters slightly, not from discomfort, but from the realization that this feels... different.

You were here for work, for a brand, for a world you didn’t belong to, but somehow, this feels like more.

“Well,” you say, breaking the silence with a soft laugh, “I should let you get back to celebrating. I just wanted to say congratulations.”

“Wait,” Lando says quickly, as if he doesn’t want the moment to end. He hesitates for a second before adding, “Thank you. Really. It means a lot.”

You meet his gaze, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like there’s an unspoken understanding between you.

Maybe this isn’t just a fleeting encounter. Maybe this is the start of something you didn’t see coming.

You smile one last time before stepping away, your heart a little lighter as you leave the suite. Behind you, Lando watches you go, his mind racing faster than it did on the track.

liked by lando, juliavalentineee and others

laurant.yn heart in miami x

lettiemng she’s glowing!

— laurant.yn love you!

francisca.cgomes 💋💋

alexandrasaintmleux 😍😍

© soleilpinto 25’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.

Taglist: @bakingpiastries @linnygirl09

[nicawritesandwhines]

About effort vs effortless, to all my introverts out there

Okay, let’s do this!

-

It was too late to bank without appearing like he was running, Azriel landed in the ring a few feet from where Gwyn practiced in the chill night, her sword glimmering like ice in the moonlight.

VS

Elain say to Azriel, ‘Hello.’ Az said nothing. No, he just moved toward her. […] But Azriel only took Elain’s heavy dish of potatoes from her hands, his voice soft as night as he said, ‘Sit. I’ll take care of it.’

And

“I made to move toward [Elain], but someone beat me to it. […] Especially as he gently said to my sister, “Happy Solstice.”

-

"Fine,"he said, and realized a heartbeat later that it wasn’t a socially acceptable answer. "It was nice." Not much better. So he asked, "Did you and the priestesses have a celebration?"

VS

Azriel smiled faintly. ‘Would you like me to show you the garden?’.

And

‘I can help her,’ said Azriel, stepping to the table as Elain silently rose.

-

She [Gwyn] opened her mouth to ask more, but he didn't feel like explaining. Or demonstrating, since that was surely what she'd ask next. So Az jerked his chin to the sword dangling from her hand. "Try cutting the ribbon again."

VS

“ ‘Can you truly fly?’ He set down his fork, blinking. I might have even called him self-conscious. He said, ‘Yes. Cassian and I hail from a race of faeries called Illyrians. We’re born hearing the song of the wind.’ ‘That’s very beautiful,’ she said.”

-

"Again," he ordered, rubbing his hands against the cold, grateful for its bracing bite and the distraction of this impromptu lesson.

VS

Elain sat silently at one of the wrought-iron tables, a cup of tea before her. Azriel was sprawled on the chaise longue across the gray stones, sunning his wings and reading what looked to be a stack of reports

-

Yeah. People who are introverted know how tiresome this type of effort can be. Luckily for us, we have examples of both effort (in Azriel’s own POV) and effortless, the latter being so clear that it’s repeated constantly in the series.

So when I get a post about how Gwyn makes Azriel at ease and they make each other comfortable: nope, babe. You’re getting it wrong.

Azriel is struggling with the personal interaction, that’s why he redirects their exchange to training focused. It’s actually pretty common among introverts, redirect to their comfort zone to make the interaction less draining.

[thespineoftherighteous]

more more more more aftg show bloopers (p 4?? I think?) whoop whoop de fuckin whoop

Neil's actor being a huge Duolingo dork and in the behind the scenes while the other actors are fooling around between takes you can often see him with his head bent and hear the little 'ping!'s coming from his phone

also during late night shoots, as it gets closer to midnight he always has a point where he's like SHIT my Duolingo streak. and then just blocks out everyone while his fingers fly over his screen

(fans make compilations of him proudly showing his Duolingo streak to the camera and the number grows as the seasons progress)

(he definitely is the kinda bitch who cares more about maintaining the streak than actually learning languages)

actually omg while we're on the topic of languages

Kevin's actor tenderly reciting his French lines to Matt's actor and Matt's actor is just smitten. and he goes "say something else, love" and Kevin's actor strokes his cheek while saying another one of his lines and Matt swoons

(then Kevin's actor turns to the camera and goes "I just told him that he's a disappointment and is going to get his ass handed to him by ravens if he doesn't do exactly as I say" and, from the ground, Matt's actor goes "hell yeah you did. talk dirty to me any day of the week you sexy, sexy man")

coach's actor is always swearing to the point where they implement a swear jar...really it's just something for the kids to jokingly rag on him about, but he goes with it, and every so often they'll empty the jar to buy the cast and crew pizza

they're filming outside at night and it's cold and in between takes Matt's Aaron's and Renee's actors are all huddled together for warmth and Matt's actor gets pulled aside to get his makeup touched up and the other two just shriek at the absence of his heat and catch up to him to tuck themselves against him again

Andrew needs to snap his fingers in one scene but everyone finds out that day that his actor doesn't know how to snap so he has a little impromptu snapping lesson and of course it turns into everyone else trying to one-up each other with their snapping abilities

Nicky's actor telling everyone what he's going to steal from set (will literally say"[about Allison's bathrobe] damn that shit soft as hell. Ive been needing a new bathrobe actually. I'm stealing this" or "I'm stealing this lighter/bandana/sunglasses/etc") but because his humor is so dry everyone thinks he's joking. until months later. when the prop department can't find shit

Renee's actress is doing something completely mundane but Neil's and Allison's actors start narrating what she's doing like they're in a nature documentary (always with Australian accents for some reason??)

"and our specimen now reclines herself vertically on a piece of furniture us humans know as 'a desk.' this clearly less-developed creature seems not to understand the purpose of such an object. but given that this is her first time outside her natural habitat (the jungle) her lack of familiarity with modern technology is to be expected"

Renee's actress: *flips them off*

"ah and here we witness one of the most common behaviors of this specimen. specialists have dubbed it 'flipping the bird,' and explain it as a nonverbal expression of affection" "oh fuck off"

photo from another cold night-shoot and it's of Matt's and Dan's actors, she's standing in front of him zipped up in his hoodie, just her head poking out and they're having a conversation with other castmates like it's the most normal thing in the world, looking the very image of the couple they play

so much glorious content from shooting the dorm sleepover scene. the most popular thing to come from it is a picture from after they wrapped where the cast and some members of the crew had moved even closer to each other amid all the blankets and are asleep on top of each other

Andrew's actor will sometimes actually eat the ice cream he's given instead of just pretending to eat it, and halfway through the scene he casually mentions that he's lactose intolerant and sends the crew into a worried frenzy

if you haven't clocked it yet, these bitches are competitive. and one day, one thing led to another, and soon a bunch of the actors are all being filmed having a plank-holding competition. Dan's actress is the first to drop and she gets booed at for it because "you're an ex-stripper where tf is that upper body strength?"

she flips them off and goes to sit on Kevin's actor, hoping to squash his plank, but instead he starts doing push ups with her on his back. she grins

(Rikos actor wins that competition btw. and Neil's actor goes on a rant about "we succumbed to the ENEMY? a RAVEN? your characters would be ashamed of you" (he also lost?))

Allison's actress pretending to do a get-ready-with-me using all the stuff on Allison's vanity

Wymack's actor falling asleep in The Dad Pose™ when they're shooting a scene on the bus. and everybody gathers in to take pictures

when Kevin and Neil get all up in each other's faces their actors will pretend like they're going to kiss each other

not really a blooper but just all the actors for the foxes and the ravens mingling together in between takes and it looks so wrong

give me all the actors constantly taking the piss out of their characters

for ex during a scene where the monsters are in the car on the way to Edens, Nicky's actor looks towards the backseat where everyone is in character and goes wow what a fun crowd we are you'd never believe we're about to hit the club

night shoots are a. struggle. for Dan's actress. and the others love to take videos of her just standing on her mark with the most spaced out expression on her face

Andrew's and Neil's actors are shooting one of their typical intense, deep scenes and after one take, as soon as "cut" is called, Andrew's actor grabs Neil's face and starts serenading him with the song that's been stuck in his head all day

Renee's actress getting scolded for sneaking snacks into her costume

when Nicky's actor messes up a line (and he's the least likely of everyone to do it) he starts spewing Spanish

Andrew's actor constantly teasing his brother and Katelyn's actress whenever they have scenes together

like the two of them will just be talking together in between takes and Andrews actor will be behind the camera recording them and saying shit like "look at that MINYARD RIZZ" (or he'll use their actual last name) "hey btw [Katelyn's actor] I taught him everything he knows"

that scene where the foxes are rushing out of the dorm to check on their destroyed cars and Matt's actor just faceplants (Neil's actor: "wow. the dedication")

in one scene or other Allison's actress is drinking an iced drink and during one take she just keeps calmly shaking the ice around in her cup until one by one everyone cracks

in one scene Allison's actress is wearing sunglasses. and in between takes she lies down and on camera you can see Kevin and Matt's actors whispering trying to figure out whether or not she's sleeping because they can't see her eyes

Aaron's actor always using Neil's actor as a pillow during car scenes because they're always next to each other and they're actually hella tight irl

the kids love to steal any props that coach's actor needs to use (pens clipboards etc) before they start rolling just so they can watch him try to subtly fidget trying to find his prop before they get to the point in the scene where he actually needs it

all the actors just taking pictures together in the most brutal settings on set.

like Neil's makeup has his face all busted and everyone wants a selfie with him. they all have a photoshoot with the trashed cars. they have another one in front of the "happy 19th birthday junior" set. Neil is tied up at The Nest while they change his hair and Jean's and Riko's actors take selfies with him. another photoshoot with Neil handcuffed in the police car. all these settings in terrible scenes and the actors are in front of them with grins and peace signs

they're terrible.

[ordering-milk-at-a-bar]

Can you, maybe possibly do more winx club/fairy! Reader with the chain drabs- 📍(idk if any anon has this emoji but I want it.. whatever they mean)

Yeah, you can have that emoji. Of the people who have asked to be certain anons, none of them have used that emoji. I haven't come in contact with these emoji anons that much, but from what I can gather, they're used to mark a recurring fan who prefers staying anonymous.

--

“I think I see your problem here.”

Now you were by no means an expert on teaching magic, but when Hyrule came to you asking for advice, how could you possibly say ‘no?’ In a way, you were the best person for him to ask. While all members of the Chain have come into contact with magic - and even used it themselves - it was through magic items or fairies (which you were a little horrified to learn they often caught in bottles). Hyrule was the only one to actually harness magic and cast spells.

The two of you were similar in many ways: both of you learned about your magical heritage much later in life than others like you, there was the fact that both of you could transform (even if, like all other fairies of his world, he was much smaller than you), and the fact that you both felt different from the people you grew up around due to your magic.

“You’re trying to force the magic out, but at the same time you’re stifling it.” You spoke as you came closer, letting Hyrule relax his hand. “That kind of polarising pressure doesn’t allow the magic to flow correctly, which could lead to your spell backfiring on you. Believe me, it’s not good for your ego.”

You laughed a little at a memory of some of your first spells going wrong. You have no idea how, but you somehow messed up a spell that would change the colour of your hair. It was literally the first - and easiest - spell they taught you at Alfea and you managed to turn your hair into a technicolour nightmare.

But it seemed like your impromptu magic lesson had to be put on hold.

"[Name], my grappling hook got stuck in a tree and I can't pull it loose." A whiny voice caught your attention. "Can you fly up and get it?"

You know, sometimes you wondered if it wasn't such a good idea to tell these boys about your powers.

"Can't Wild climb up there and get it for you?" You ask a little annoyed. "I'm a little busy right now."

"But I wanted to show Wild a cool trick with it. If I go asking for his help, it'll be embarrassing."

You couldn’t say ‘no’ to that pleading look. Wind’s expressive face had its funny moments, but his puppy dog eyes were like weaponized guilt. Shooting Hyrule a look that said “sorry,” you received a small “it’s fine” in return. You’ll continue your training later.

You let out a sigh, looking up at the tall tree Wind was pointing at, “alright. But if this happens again, you’re on your own.”

“Deal!”

In just a flash of light you had transformed into your fairy form, wings out and fluttering to lift you off the ground. Following the rope, you found the hook stuck high in the branches, not only caught by the tree, but also by the rope itself. The whole thing was a giant knot looping around itself, one that you found hard to see where it began and ended. “Geez, Wind, how did you even manage this?” You groaned as you began pulling the problem apart.

“I was practicing a trick, but it went south.” The boy shouted from below as both he and Hyrule watched you work.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

After what felt like half an hour, you finally managed to untie the thing. Letting out a sigh of relief, you grabbed the metal hook, looped the long rope over and around your shoulder and flew down onto the ground. “Here.” You handed the grappling hook over to a very enthusiastic looking Wind.

“Thanks!” Wind then immediately turned his head away, rushing off somewhere else. “Hey, Wild! I can show it to you now!”

“Kids, am I right?” You laughed to yourself.

“Yeah.” Hyrule chuckled. “I don’t know where he gets all that energy from.”

“Now, where was I-”

You hadn’t even had the chance to detransform before someone shouted your name again. This time it came from Four’s corner of camp, where he, Wars and Legend were busy at a makeshift forging station. “We need a stronger, more stable fire over here.”

“I was doing just fine.” Wars shot back at the small smith. “You asked for a stronger flame and I gave you one.”

“I said a “fire,” not a “blaze!” You nearly singed my eyebrows off!”

Guess Wars really wasn’t quite as good with his control with the Fire Rod as he thought. Whose brilliant idea was it to use a weapon meant for combat for forging, instead? But then again, who asks an Enchantix fairy, a fully fledged Guardian Fairy, to be a living furnace, as if that’s somehow better? Probably the same kind of person who asks that same fairy to get a rope unstuck from a tree.

And the smithing group had devolved into a petty argument while you weren’t paying attention. Maybe this could be your out, let you finally get back to Hyrule. But if you were a betting girl…

You turned your eyes to Time, Sky and Twilight who were sitting around a small fire, watching a kettle of water start to whistle. “Let me guess, you’ve got a request for me, too?”

The oldest thought for a moment before giving you a cheeky smile. “No, but I’m sure Wolfie would appreciate an eye-in-the-sky helping him during his patrol.”

Yeah, it was definitely a mistake to tell them about your powers.

--

[frostyharbor]

F!READER/JOHN PRICE ■ EXPLICIT ■ IN-PROGRESS

SUMMARY:

You're a junior diplomat at the American Embassy in Bucharest. Even as tensions with Russia threaten to boil over, by the very nature of your job, you're more of the "ask questions first, shoot never" type. It's too bad military men don't really follow the same creed. tags: slow-burn, canon typical violence, minor character death

CHAPTER THREE, 9.6K

He may not be a God-fearing man, but in the lightning-charged dark, he feels the vague stirring of premonition. You're asleep for most of this one, but the world keeps turning in the night. Ozone is restless, the hunt is on in the city, and John Price takes a fall. But you can be a glorified babysitter for him, right?

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On the threadbare couch that the 141 filched from one of the empty breakrooms, Scarecrow is reading softly from his dog-eared copy of the Book of Psalms. His deep voice is confident and sure; he doesn’t stumble over the lines or mispronounce any words. He has the air, rather, of someone who has recited the same passages many times before.

And he has—Ozone can attest to that.

“He will not let your foot slip— he who watches over you will not slumber.” He licks his thumb and forefinger and turns the thin page. Crane is stretched out on the floor in front of him, leaned back against the couch and lazily cleaning his rifle. The kid's the lone Brit of Whiskey team. He and Marlin, the other SAS lad, are rookies to the 141 and had been split up to distribute their inexperience evenly.

“The Lord watches over you— the Lord is your shade at your right hand; the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon at night.”

Ozone hums from where he’s picking through what the fridge has to offer. He isn’t a religious man—never has been, really. But he’s been listening to ‘Crow read from his sacred little books for so long that the sound of the words has become soothing white noise.

His own preferences aside, Ozone's found that most soldiers he's met during his service have at least some inclination toward spirituality. Some of them, like Scarecrow, are devout southern boys who were raised in the shadow of the Church, learning the lessons from the Good Book every Sunday. Others get converted somewhere along the way. 

Then there are others still who are part-timers, living fast-paced lives of indulgence only to pray when the bullets start flying and they're faced with the inevitability of oblivion.

No atheists in foxholes, and all that.

“The Lord will keep you from all harm—he will watch over your life.”

“You sure about that?” Crane snarks—but very quietly. Not quietly enough. Scarecrow taps the side of his head with one socked foot in admonishment.

Crane swats the offending limb away irritably. “Kicking your subordinates? I don't think that's very Christian of you.”

In turn, Scarecrow makes an obscene gesture that absolutely isn’t very Christian of him. Ozone smirks.

After waiting to ensure his recitation won’t be subject to further interruption, the sergeant turns pointedly back to the page. “The Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.” He marks the passage and snaps the book closed.

“This is the word of the Lord,” Ozone concludes absently (he isn't such a heathen that he's ignorant to the traditional call and response).

“You don’t say that after reading from the Psalms,” Scarecrow chides as Crane automatically answers with a shit-eating little grin, “Thanks be to God.”

Having found nothing in the fridge and not feeling up to a second helping of whatever impromptu sermon Scarecrow is probably cooking up, Ozone slips away from their chatter and into the darkened hall.

At night, the interiors of the building are usually weakly lit by the thin shafts of moonlight that break through the windows. Tonight, however, the storm reigns. Thunder growls outside, and the rumble of it sneaks through the hallways to vibrate somewhere behind his ribcage. The bare floors and walls are thrown into sharp relief every few seconds by flashes of lightning. Wind batters the roof and the sides of the building, but other than that and the sound of thunder, the world is eerily silent. It feels a bit like he's stepped into a cliché old horror movie.

Catching the shadow of his reflection in the rain-lashed window, Ozone has to stop himself from flinching.

He may not be a God-fearing man, but in the lightning-charged dark, he feels the vague stirring of premonition. Like the world's about to tilt off its axis.

He isn't afraid, not exactly. Just...keyed up. Trying to ignore the prickling at the base of his neck, he turns into the bay that he shares with the other NCOs. Price, the lucky bastard, gets his own space—perks of being the top dog. As far as he knows, Ghost, Archer, and Peasant all bunk together in the next room down the hall, but their schedules are so vastly different that it's rare to see them together at once. The quarters are empty now, everyone who isn't in the breakroom currently concentrated in Old Town.

Everyone except for Peasant, who Ozone knows is lurking now up in the 141's hidden nest.

Creeping up to his own cot, he dons his helmet and shrugs the standard-issue black poncho over his head. Rifle slung comfortably across his chest, he ventures back out into the hall and mounts the stairs.

Only a firm grip on the door handle keeps it from flying out of his hand when he steps out onto the roof. In the storm-blurred glow of the streetlights, he can see the surrounding trees swaying in the gale. The wind catches the ends of his poncho, plastering it to his arms and legs as he fights to get the damn door closed. When he finally gets it latched, cursing, he yanks his hood down over his eyes and scurries over the open top of the building to the shelter of a parapet wall. Peasant is crouched there, a black outline against the dark-cloud sky.

The lieutenant doesn’t flinch when Ozone creeps up beside him, rain sluicing off his hood in tiny streams. He's forsaken his bulky layers and stripped down to his rain jacket, and Ozone wishes he had had the foresight to do the same. But the wall provides relief from the worst of the wind and he finds he can fetch up comfortably in the space left by his CO.

“Anything?”

The older man shakes his head, displacing a torrent of rainwater and raising his voice to be heard over the wind. “Nothing but me out here.” 

Overhead, thunder snarls. The light from the main road fails to penetrate the darker side streets, and Ozone reaches under his hood to pull his NVGs down.

“Ah, don’t bother,” Peasant advises, indicating his own. They've been tossed - apparently in a fit of pique - on top of his other abandoned gear. “Rain’s fucked ‘em.”

Ozone can see immediately what he means; the lenses are fogged. He reaches to wipe them with a gloved hand and curses. Now they’re bloody fogged and streaked. Anything he might have been able to see is obscured anyway by the rain. The downpour turns the night vision to static, every raindrop becoming a shooting star.

He flips the goggles back up and glowers into the storm.

This roof is the highest vantage point in the compound; on a good night, they can see well past the perimeter of the wall and to the surrounding streets and fields beyond. Good for the Captain's intended purposes; now that the grunt work of cleaning had been taken care of, the real task could begin.

With Bravo and Echo teams stationed in the heart of Bucharest, Peasant and the men of Whiskey team - Ozone, Scarecrow, and Crane - trade shifts to keep an eye on the perimeter. They're not guarding the embassy, not technically, but are merely watchers on the wall. Waiting for the car that lingers slightly too long near the gate or the vehicle that circles twice. Ready to report any such visitors to the men lying in wait in the city beyond. 

The radio on Peasant's chest is silent and untouched. No news is good news, but Ozone still inquires.

Peasant lifts one shoulder carelessly. "Haven't heard anything since they left." He gives Ozone a shrewd look out of the corner of his eye. "What's got you so antsy tonight?"

The storm. God. Or lack thereof, he's fucked if he knows. If he starts a philosophical debate here in the middle of the night, Peasant will think he's gone completely 'round the twist. He keeps his concerns to himself and only mirrors the other man's shrug. "Tired of waiting around, I guess."

That earns him a snort of disbelief. Highly perceptive teammates are useful against enemies, but annoying to deploy with for any extended length of time. "You've been doing this too long to get pre-op jitters."

Christ. Can't tell even a little white lie without getting clocked the instant he opens his mouth.

"There's too many people around."

Peasant raises his eyebrows and nods, conceding the point. Outside the wall, a car drifts by on the waterlogged road. They both stiffen, but it only passes on without cause for suspicion.

"Nothing to be done about the personnel," Peasant says. "Embassy got rid of everyone they could spare already. Wish they would have taken Surace with them, though," he tacks on as an afterthought.

Ozone grunts in agreement. The old man might be a civilian, but his mind is impossibly sharp. Very little escapes him, and he’s too stiff-backed to be cowed into silence. Already he had cornered Garrick in one of the buildings to try to get a read on their motives. More than once, Ozone himself had felt the weight of his icy stare like a dagger between his shoulders while walking over the lawn. 

Their saving grace thus far has been the fact that Surace and his deputy consistently vanish for days at a time, taking extended trips abroad to soothe the feathers ruffled by Russian officials.

As he surveys the embassy, his eyes catch on your office window and he remembers the conversation of a few hours prior. 

You, the little canary Surace had appointed to keep an eye out in his place, were out of your depth.

Your overture with the care package had been clumsy but might have passed for goodwill. Setting some of it aside to use as bribery? An obvious lure, but one they had been willing to bite on. Bored soldiers will take anything sweet.

Most telling had been the sudden turnabout from disdain to friendliness. Which isn’t to say that you’re outright friendly now, but you’re not happy keeping your distance anymore, either. You had gone out of the way to welcome them into your office, kept bumping into them out on the walk. The explanation could be innocent, but he smells marching orders; been on the receiving end of them often enough to recognize when they've been issued to someone else.

Ozone is rather fond of you nonetheless; at least, in the way a brother might fondly tolerate an irritating sister. You’re clever and witty—brave, even—and have shown more spine than some of the men he's served with. While you're no Jack Surace yet, Ozone can see the imprints of the man in your mold. One day, you'll be a true force to be reckoned with.

Until then, you're a junior diplomat in over your head. But a soldier, if nothing else, can admire tenacity in the face of steep odds.

Plus, you're just fun to rile up.

His and Scarecrow's earlier comments about auditions had been deliberately coy; designed to lure. You had turned away from the window fairly quickly, gathering up your things under the guise of outrunning the worst of the storm, but Ozone had practically seen the gears in your head turning.

Wondering how to best relay the new information to your master, no doubt.

You're no real threat, he's sure. But it's good to know who talks to who, so he'll let you chew on what you learned tonight for a while. And if Surace starts hounding them over it, they'll know for certain who's whispering in his ear. 

But that's a matter for a later time. An uneasy silence falls between him and Peasant as they look out into the storm.

Both waiting for the next roll of thunder.

------

“Bravo 0-7, this is Bravo 7-1.”

“This is Bravo 0-7. Go ahead, Johnny.”

“What did one raindrop say to the other?”

“…tell me.”

“Two’s company, but three’s a cloud.”

Gaz snorts—John sees his shoulders shake briefly— but otherwise doesn't move from his position. “Unbelievable.”

John reaches for his radio without thinking. "Keep the bloody comms clear."

"Heard."

"Yes, Cap."

He readjusts into his position, keeping his eyes on the busy pub below. Through the front window, he can just make out where Archer and Rook stand at the bar. Archer is pretending to laugh at something Rook said, leaning back on the bartop with a completely casual air. They're in public and dressed down in civilian clothes, but both have discreet mics and tiny push-to-talk buttons concealed in their palms. 

"Lighten up, old man." That's Archer. John can see how his head is turned like he's addressing Rook, but he's really speaking into the wire hidden under his collar.

John huffs. "Old man?"

Soap chooses that moment to bravely pipe up again. "Now who needs to keep the comms clear?"

He mulls over that for a minute, lets about a dozen creative possible replies drift by, and ultimately decides that any additional response will just rile everyone up further. He chooses instead to let a dignified silence speak for itself.

Can't blame them for being on edge, really. When the op had been decided, they had taken the forecast into account, but no one had predicted it would rain quite this hard. Pishin' it doon, as Soap would phrase it. Even that, John thinks, is putting it lightly. He's picked a relatively sheltered spot for himself on the roof with a clear view of the street, but the wind is pervasive. It howls down off the rooftops, bringing stinging rain with it. Whips around corners and down the collar of his waterproof jacket, soaking him to the skin.

John doesn't like it. The storm makes it difficult to see everyone's positions, and already he's had to ask for clarification twice when he couldn't hear a message over the gale. Things are already difficult enough to track when the action gets started, and the weather will only complicate things. But there's nothing to be done about it now. He's given the order to communicate all movement clearly and to keep alert, and that's the best any of them can do.

Bloody miserable, this.

And that's without even considering the pall that hangs over the entire city. The crowds had begun their slow return to the streets after the end of the rioting, but there's still a nervous tension in the air. Civilians press together in herds, like that'll save them, and they look twice at anyone who appears to be even vaguely suspicious.

On their way into the city, they had passed several of the buildings that had been damaged in the protests, their broken windows still boarded. Some of the more spirited townsfolk had tagged the boards with slogans in support of the RNF, the bright red spray paint as vibrant as blood against the grain of the wood.

Un glas ei mai așteaptă și sar ca lupi în stâne!

Adevărații patrioți răspund la apel!

They're professionals, and it'll take more than graffiti to rattle them. But John would be lying if he said the messages hadn't stuck with him, burning red against his eyelids.

Still, the rhythm and routine of the job had settled their nerves, with each man being happy to take their assignment to get the ball rolling. John and Gaz are up on the roof, watching over the street and the entrance to the pub where intel has placed their target. Archer and Rook are the eyes inside; they won't approach their man, but they'll be able to see who he meets and watch for what exit he uses. Soap and Marlin, only lightly armed, are blending in down on the street, waiting to corral the target into one of their nearby vehicles, where Ghost sits behind the wheel.  Royce is positioned out of sight on the other side of the building, watching the back entrance. The other SUV is parked in the mouth of the alley there.

It makes John's skin itch to make Ghost a driver when he could be putting the man's skills to better use. But the mask is just too conspicuous, and keeping visibility low tonight is more important than ever given the city's current state of fear. Ghost had been coaxed down to one of his black surgical masks and a tightly-drawn hoodie, but the black greasepaint around his eyes would still draw attention from a mile away.

Besides, Marlin needs the practice. The lad's still a bit wet behind the ears and burning with the desire to prove himself.

“Bravo 0-6, be advised.” Speak of the devil. Ghost’s voice cuts over the comms sharply. The warmth of his earlier banter with Soap is gone. Across the street, John sees Gaz's shoulders straighten almost imperceptibly.

“Mihalache approaching the front. Alone.”

John spots him quickly. Anton Mihalache is a slight man dressed in plain clothing, slipping through the sparse crowd without drawing much attention to himself. Though he's taken care to make sure he blends in, he glances over his shoulder before he enters the pub. Must be aware then, on some level, that he could be followed or watched.

His subtlety had extended to his support of the RNF, but he had overstepped himself a few times too many. The CIA had taken notice, and now the want him brought in for a nice little chat.

As he disappears inside, John sees Soap and Marlin adjust their positions, moving closer to the door. Soap's voice filters into John's ear. "Bravo 7-1 and Echo 6-1 are on the main door."

Gaz's outline shifts as the man reaches for his radio. "This is Bravo 6-2, in position."

Last to check in is Royce, but he confirms his position on the other exit.

Everyone in place, everything as it should be. Yet the rumble of thunder puts John on edge. Makes him instinctively grip his rifle a little harder.

With nothing left for the men outside to report, Archer immediately picks up the thread of communication inside. "This is Echo Actual. We've got eyes on him. Table near the east wall." Through the window, John watches as Archer and Rook split up to take flanking positions inside the pub, one near the front entrance and the other near the back. "Met up with two others already there." He rattles off succinct, yet precise, descriptions of both men. Ghost sounds off, affirming that he's taken down the information for later.

From there, it's a waiting game. John doesn't mind - gives him an opportunity to think of more contingency plans in case something goes wrong. They'd had time earlier in the week to survey the main road and the various side streets and alleys that branch away from it, but he sweeps over his surroundings again now. Takes stock of where a spooked target might run and where they might be able to go to cut off any escape.

As the minutes slip by, Archer and Rook both provide infrequent updates where necessary. The others on the street reposition periodically to keep their cover, moving with the crowd when they have to only to circle back to their spots when they can.

The wait also allows for the packs of tourists and locals to thin out. With the weather, that hadn't been much of a concern to begin with, but as the night deepens and the storm grows in intensity, the last of the stragglers begin to hurry home with their coats pulled tight around them. After an hour and a half, the street is nearly empty. Fewer witnesses, fewer potential casualties if things get dicey. John feels some of the tension begin to bleed out of his frame as the circumstances begin to turn in their favor.

A swift alarm from Archer has him straightening again. "Target is moving to exit now. Main door."

"This is Bravo Actual, the other two?"

"Still at the table. Target is alone."

He doesn't have to tell Soap or Marlin to be ready; they're already practically on top of the door. Marlin, in particular, bounces on the balls of his feet. John checks him sharply. "Steady down there, lads."

The rookie stills. At the same time, Mihalache walks out into the rain, pulling up the hood of his jacket and looking around before stepping onto the sidewalk. Soap moves in from behind, cutting him off from escaping back into the pub. Marlin approaches from the front. There's a moment where the two stare directly at one another, only separated by a few feet. Mihalache hesitates.

John curses - the man had seen something he didn't like. His back was up. "Take him!"

Marlin lunges, quick, but Mihalache is faster. There's a very brief struggle - the rookie's managed to get a hold of Mihalache's jacket - before the target sheds the coat like a snake, turning to flee up the street. Marlin abandons the jacket at once, giving chase with Soap hot on his heels. 

Fuck. The mission rapidly unraveling, the formal radio communication quickly breaks down into essentials-only.

"Stay after him, Soap, Marlin." John himself is already moving, boots sliding over the rain-slick tiles as he tries to stay level with the target on the ground. Many of buildings in the area are packed tightly together, and, in most cases, going from roof to roof only involves stepping over from one ledge to the next. John's thankful for that now as he flies across them, his only vague concern the twinging in his knees. "Gaz, stay on the other side of the street in case he crosses back over. Royce, get Archer and Rook. Circle ahead with Ghost to cut him off."

A half-dozen affirmatives sound in his ear.

Below, Mihalache's heels skid on the cobblestone, and John thinks that maybe luck is on their side. But the bastard rights himself at the last possible second, sprinting off the main road and making a break for one of the dark alleys.

"Shit!" Marlin's voice is strained. "He's going up!" John looks down over the edge of the roof in time to see Mihalache launching himself up a metal drainpipe a few buildings ahead. The man moves easily, climbing quickly up towards the roof. Right behind him, Marlin begins to follow.

Mihalache gains the roof at the same time as John himself vaults onto it. He takes one look at John and flees in the opposite direction, bounding over the rooftops like he had been born in the air. "Marlin!" John barks into his mic, the name coming out in a ragged gasp as he works to close the gap. "Get back down on the street, cut him off if he drops back down!"

Marlin's already moving up the drainpipe, stung by failure and desperate to make up for his mistake. "I can follow him-"

"Get back on the fucking street!" John doesn't have time to soothe hurt egos or wait to see if the command is followed. 

Ahead of him, Mihalache glides over the roofs and increases the distance, scaling chimney stacks and jumping between ledges with apparent ease. John is holding his own, but he's not as young as he used to be. He feels keenly every old wound, every bit of stiffened scar tissue that's accumulated over the years. 

The distance between the buildings is beginning to widen. Every longer jump to bridge the gaps costs him. A particularly rough landing where his feet nearly slip out from underneath him sends a painful jolt from his knees all the way up to his skull. John stubbornly shakes it off and wills himself to move just a bit faster.

Always a little further...

At the last rooftop, Mihalache skids to a halt. The space between this building and the next is too far even for him to cover, and the distance to the street two floors below is enough that he can't be certain that he'd survive without serious injury. John sees him frantically look about for another way out. On the side of the building, an old fire escape leads from the roof down to the street below. John spots it first and alters his path, already moving to cut Mihalache off. There's nowhere else for him to run.

As he makes to close with the man, John radios out one final time. "On the fire escape in an alley off of Lipscani. Be ready for him below." He barks out the nearby landmarks for the team to use for reference. Then, he's on him.

Mihalache’s hesitation has cost him the distance he’d gained earlier; by the time he spots the fire escape and makes for it, John's already there to meet him. But it's here that John's exhaustion finally catches up with him. The metal is slick from the rain, and the years have long since worn away any of the anti-slip paint that would have been applied. John's feet slide out from under him, and the rest of his body follows.

He flings out a hand as he goes, closing his fingers around the target's forearm in a vice grip. The man shouts, twisting away, but John will be damned if he lets him go now that he's got him. If he goes down, Mihalache is going with him.

There's a horrible moment of weightlessness as they both fall, enough time for John to tighten his grip and brace himself for pain. The metal stairs will not be kind.

His target lands first, absorbing the worst of the fall. Even so, the force of the impact punches the breath from his lungs and sends a shockwave of pain all up and down his left side. His wrist, pinned awkwardly beneath him, gives with a dull crack that's audible even over the sound of the storm. As they tumble down the steps and to the intermediate platform above the sidewalk, the right side of his face scrapes against the metal. Mihalache struggles, trying to break his grip, but if there's one clear thought John has over the pain, it's that he can't let go. 

Snarling, Mihalache brings his hands up to John's throat, taking advantage of his stunned stupor. Unwilling to let go of the man's arm and unable to use his other injured hand, John takes advantage of his greater weight and rolls them to the edge of the platform. For a moment, they teeter over the next flight of stairs. Mihalache attempts to roll them back away from the edge, but he's not heavy enough to move them both. Gritting his teeth, John twists and sends them both sprawling again.

The pair spill out into the cobblestones. This last drop is enough to jar Mihalache free from John's hold, and the target stumbles away to his feet.

John is slower to rise; it's all he can do to struggle to his hands and knees.

"Don't!"

Mihalache only flashes him a smug look. He's in as rough shape as John, but he's got the benefit of youth on his side and takes the beating well. John is done in, now - blood drips into his eyes from the abrasion on his face, his wrist is thrumming steadily with pain, and his ribs and back feel like he'd been hit by a freight train. He's not going to admit that he's been beaten, but Mihalache sees defeat clearly in his hunched figure and bloodied face.

What the man isn't counting on, however, is for Soap to come barreling around the corner of the alley. The sergeant had kept pace with them throughout the entire chase and, unlike John, he's relatively fresh. 

Again, Mihalache is forced to run. His retreat is almost instantly cut off when one of their SUVs pulls up at the other end of the alley. Here, Mihalache's speed works against him. He had almost made it to the main road when the car pulled up, and is now moving too fast to backpedal to safety.

One of the car doors swings open - Archer and Rook are waiting in the back seat. They don't even have to get out of the car. Their target's momentum carries him forward into the side of the SUV, and it's a simple thing for them to reach out and pull him the rest of the way in. 

Coming up behind, Soap slams the door after Mihalache, trapping him inside. Royce hits the gas pedal, and the SUV squeals away into the night, leaving behind only the sound of the storm and the remains of the team.

Mission bloody accomplished.

John allows himself to sag against the wall of the alley and closes his eyes. It had been a steep price for his body to pay, but no cost was too high to bring in a valuable target. Mihalache has ties to the RNF, but it's his Russian connections that truly interest the 141 and CIA. Familiar names, names they've been chasing for years, had leapt out from his file from the moment John had read it weeks before.

Someone lays a rough hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. "Fuckin' hell, none 'o that now."

John opens his eyes blearily to see Soap hovering over him. Behind him, two newcomers splash down the alley to meet them. Gaz and Marlin - the latter looking terribly guilty.

Soap pats his shoulder again in a bracing sort of way. "Gotta keep our eyes open, aye, Cap? Stay with us." He touches the radio on his chest as Gaz bends over John to get a better look at him. "Ghost? The target's secured. Bravo Team and Marlin are waiting in the alley with Price."

Gaz's face is creased with concern as he takes stock of John's injuries. "I'd ask if you're broken, but that's pretty obvious."

John stubbornly struggles to a more upright position. "'S not as bad as it looks." The wrist is fucked, there's no getting around that, but the pain in his side and back is already subsiding to a dull roar. His face might have been scraped up, but his head doesn't feel any worse for wear, and he counts himself lucky to have escaped the fall without a more severe head injury. 

As a driver, John knows that Ghost believes the fastest way to a destination is usually to just plow through everything in his way, and therefore isn't surprised to see the other SUV come screeching up mere seconds after Soap hails him on comms. Gaz and Soap gingerly help John to his feet, and Marlin hastily scrambles to hold the door open as the two sergeants wrangle him into the front passenger seat.

The other three pile into the back, Gaz already looking up directions on the fastest route to Royal Hospital from their current location. Ghost peels away from the curb, tempering his aggression behind the wheel only slightly out of care for John. 

"No hospital," he mutters as his head lolls against the window. His protests go ignored, and he's left to watch the streetlights blur into solid lines as they fly up the empty street, each light distorted by the the rivulets that race down the glass.

------

Mark Valentine, one of the mid-level officers from Public Diplomacy, texts you as you're walking in the door the next morning. You're already beginning to feel a bit harassed; the puddles on the sidewalk had been much deeper than they looked, and the result had been wet socks and pants soaked from hem to lower shin.

M. Valentine (PD): Did you see my email? You: Just got here, give me a minute.

Sloshing over the muddy tile floor in the entryway, you consider sending something sharper. Something along the lines of no, Mark, it's 9:00AM and I just bloody walked in but let me drop everything to read your email, but you hold yourself back in the name of inter-office comradery. The Public Diplomacy sector is usually a massive aid in helping the political officers determine the current social atmosphere of a state, and it won't do to get on their bad side. 

You toss your phone to the desk as you walk in, calling out good mornings to the various coworkers already logging in. The talk in the office is about what you would expect after last night ("Did you hear that thunder? Crazy.") and you can join in a few conversations just by nodding your head or adding vague commentary while you get yourself arranged for the day. Your head is still filled with the conversation from the previous evening, and the mental image of four men disappearing into the dark. 

You wonder if they found their man, and if you'd dare to ask given the opportunity.

The email Mark sent is sitting a few rows down in your inbox. A creature of some habit, you don't go to it right away, starting at the top and working your way down. There was to be a meeting among the remaining political officers later in the day. You mark down the time and location in your calendar. Delete. Next. A memo warning the staff about flooding near the gate. Noted. Delete. Next. And so on.

By the time you get to Mark's email, most of the chatter in the office has died down as everyone gets to work digging through their own correspondence. When you open it, you're a bit confused. It's a Reddit link of all things, linking to the r/bucuresti subreddit. It's one of those links that includes a preview in the body of the email itself, so before you've even opened it, you can see the title.

KIDNAPPING IN OLD TOWN???

You're not sure what you expected, but it isn't this. Leaning back, you frown down at the screen. It's certainly newsworthy if true...but why would Mark send it to you, unless it was an American citizen? Even then, it's more of a consular issue - the safety of American citizens abroad falls under their purview. But you suppose it never hurts to be braced for the potential political fallout of an incident.

Without being able to explain why, you glance over your shoulder before you click the link, like someone is going to appear at your back.

After the browser opens and the page loads, you're greeted immediately by a grainy video followed by a wall of comments written in Romanian. A little Would you like to translate this page? bubble pops up in the upper right-hand corner of your screen.

"Why, yes, I would," you murmur, clicking to accept. 

While the page translates, you watch the video. It's short, a little ten-second clip that loops back to the beginning once it's finished. It shows a dark and rainy street - the post is dated for early this morning, so you suppose it must have been taken sometime during the storm - and what's going on isn't immediately clear. You think you see a dark vehicle screech into the frame, and then a blur - a person running up to the car? - streaks by. One of the car's doors swings open, and the blur disappears inside. Another blur runs up behind the first, closing the door after them. The car peels away and the video ends. You watch it again, squinting at the screen and pausing the playback every couple of seconds to try to get the full picture.

As the car - a black SUV - pulls into the frame again, you blink. The implications of the scene cause goosebumps to break out over your arms. You can't really tell, but...didn't the guys leave in a car like that last night?

It doesn't have to mean anything. Special forces doesn't exactly own the market on dark vehicles. But the video and the caption combined with Scarecrow's words (looking for a man who can sing, he had said) are all together enough to make you believe that you know exactly what this user witnessed. A sense of foreboding crawls into your stomach, curling up and making a home there.

You scroll down to the caption of the video.

I live near Lipscani St. in Old Town. Bedroom window faces an alley. Storm woke me up and I got my phone out to film some of the crazy lightning outside. Can't believe I saw this - happened right when I opened my window! Two guys, idk what they were doing, were having some sort of fight on the fire escape on the building across the alley. They fell down to the street - one looked like he was kinda in bad shape, didn't get up right away. The other ran to the end of the alley. THEN, another man showed up and took off after him. That massive black car pulled up right when the guy they were chasing made it to the street...Couldn't really see with the rain and all, but it looked like the guy who was running away got pulled into the car. The guy chasing him closed the door behind him, then BOOM they were gone. All happened in like five seconds. Couldn't start recording fast enough to catch the fight at the beginning but did the best I could. Never seen ANYTHING like this before. Who are these guys? RNF? Or maybe some of those Americans that came in from Constanta? Thoughts???

Holy shit. Biting your lip, your re-read the caption again. One looked like he was kinda in bad shape. Which one could it have been? The video isn't detailed enough for you to be able to tell who the second man was who came in from the other side of the alley, and there was no way you could see who was driving the car. 

The post has generated a modest amount of interest already, and even as you start reading, new comments begin to appear. In true Reddit fashion, most of the top comments are sarcastic and doubtful, criticizing everything from the quality of the video to the sanity of the poster.

giving_overseer: What are we supposed to be looking at, exactly?

tatteredlongevity4702: If you close your eyes and spin around three times, it kind of looks like what his caption says

giving_overseer: HAHAHA

KnavishlyGripping: Increase your screen brightness and go frame by frame

giving_overseer: gee, thanks, that explains everything /s

positivelydeliriouspathos: Sounds like you need to go back to sleep, OP.

Typical social media discourse. You roll your eyes, but are partly thankful that no one seems to believe that any actual kidnapping took place. You can only imagine the level of backlash that would occur if the locals thought that a foreign army was invading their streets to pluck up their friends and neighbors. Still, as you scroll through the comments, an increasingly large part of you is irritated. These men are supposed to be covert. The best of the best. What were they thinking, getting themselves filmed like this?

Towards the bottom of the page are the more controversial comments, some of them having been downvoted into oblivion. The tone rapidly shifts from light-hearted ribbing of the original poster to meaner, more hostile threats. The more you read, the wider your eyes become.

antique_imprisonment: Called it. You all glazed these NATO pricks when they came in because you couldn’t handle a little protesting. Now they’re snatching our people off the street like they own the place.

HolisticCollision: Hope the RNF smokes these guys

literateby-election6172: WE WILL STAND AS WORTHY SUCCESSORS

WellVersedFoyer: “A little protesting” my brother they were trying to burn our own buildings down like yeah fuck America but can we not fuck up our own shit

nearly_unfinished_philosopher: Thank you this is scary but lets not pretend that the rioters weren’t just as bad

throwaway6082014546: Are we really “bad people on both sides” -ing this? Innocent Romanian citizens are getting kidnapped by fucking war criminals, come on now

WellVersedFoyer: Who said that guy was innocent?

coarse_scholarship: In all seriousness, why did we stop protesting when these guys came? NATO is NOT the Romanian Police.

PM_ME_YOUR_FUNCTIONS: Because the US thinks they own the rest of the world

literateby-election6172: This is what the RNF is talking about. They are NOT the bad guys here for wanting to protect the country from foreign invasion!

KnowledgeableEmbroidery: Can't believe people are still yapping about burning buildings. There was ONE fire in Old Town that was contained in a trash can

hideous_illustrator: Don't forget all the embassy windows smashed in… 

thespookydonkey: Where’s the US Embassy anyways? Didn’t see it downtown?

hideous_illustrator:  up in băneasa

plushacreage_4: They're next. 

You scoot your chair a few inches back from the desk, staring blankly at your monitor and trying to process what you had just read, and calculating the likelihood of it spiraling out of control.

If you were the type to leap to the worst possible conclusion every time someone made a threat against the United States, you'd have spent all your time abroad jumping at shadows. But the words they're next stand out starkly against the white page, the black ink seeming to bleed out of the screen. An icy finger of dread ghosts down your spine. 

You had been irritated before, but now you're furious. This is more than just a potential scandal - even if the video isn't clear enough to prove anything, the RNF can still use the rumor to drum up hatred against Americans and their allies. The rioting might have calmed down since the military reinforcements had rolled in, but these comments make clear that the organization's supporters are still around. And they're still angry. And angry people, you've learned, are liable to do anything.

This is going to get someone killed.

For a moment, all you can hear is the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the steady ticking of the clock mounted on the wall. The idea of moving feels like you're about to set off the landmine that's just been dropped into your lap. But you have to do something.

Seething, you print out the post and comments to have a physical backup of the page. Just in case. While the printer warms up, you forward the email with the Reddit link to Jack; he's in Ukraine now with Chris and - if he's kept to his schedule - will be in meetings all morning, but at least the post will be waiting for him whenever he gets the chance to look.

"Printing a book over there?" One of your coworkers jeers playfully when you get up and cross the room to the where the printer is finally beginning to cough out your pages.

Trying to play it casual, you laugh. It sounds high-pitched and nervous to your own ears, but you don't think he notices anything. "You know Jack - always giving us something to read."

That is true enough at least, and no one else challenges you on it.

The last page printed and stapled, you're turning back to your desk when someone cries out a greeting.

"Morning, Sgt. Garrick!"

Your pulse spikes, like he's someone who knows and you're about to be apprehended of wrongdoing. You turn around in time to see the sergeant duck through the door, giving the room a boyish smile as he comes in. With the exception of yourself, almost everyone in the room is at least ten years older than he is, but you swear you can hear one of the women give a heartfelt little sigh.

He gives a cordial greeting to the rest of your coworkers before approaching you. Your stomach tightens - you're still holding your printout.

From the moment he arrived and first shook your hand, Garrick has been nothing but polite to you. How far will that politeness go if he sees what you're holding?

I haven't done anything wrong, you think stubbornly. Someone sent me a link and I opened it. It wasn't your fault they had gone and gotten themselves filmed. But all the same, you feel they wouldn't be pleased to know that you're snooping around in their operations. Trying to be as subtle as possible, you turn the printout so it's facedown against your thigh, hiding its contents.

If Garrick notices, he doesn't say anything. He's innocuous enough in his approach, sliding his hands in his pockets and looking distinctly non-threatening with his neutral expression and easy-going stance. "Alright?"

Heart pounding in your throat and infected with a potent mix of anger and anxiety, you try to think of the blandest reply you could possibly make. "Can't complain."

An awkward silence stretches out between the two of you, like Garrick is waiting for you to keep up your end of the conversation. When you don't offer anything more than that, he changes tactics.

"Heard you gave out candy last week and I missed it."

Candy? What is with these guys and the fucking candy? When you had initially made the offer the week before, you hadn't expected it to be drawn out like this. The pages practically burning a hole in your palm, you gesture to the filing cabinet with your empty hand. "Second drawer down, take whatever you want..."

As your voice trails off, he thanks you and moves away to your desk. But you're not watching him anymore. Someone else has followed him in, broad frame filling the door and looking like death warmed over. It's Captain Price.

If the caption of the video had been true, you had already known that one of them had taken a fall. Even so, you don't have to fake your surprise as you take him in. His right arm is in a sling, the limb cradled gingerly against his torso. One side of his face looks like it had been scraped raw, like he had been dragged hard against a rough surface. And though his gait is even when he walks in, it's a little too deliberate, like he's trying to walk without favoring one part of his body over the other.

The captain takes in your shock with a grim little smile. He gestures to his arm with his good hand. "Training accident."

Right. "Some training," you quip lightly, not sure how else to respond. Saying I know exactly how that happened probably wouldn't go over very well.

He hums and makes no other effort to reply. Now that he's given you (a completely inadequate) explanation of his injuries, the smile slides off his face and his expression returns to what it had been when he walked in. Annoyed. There will be no playful winks or friendly jabs today, it seems.

His annoyance annoys you. Why even accompany Garrick if he's just going to stand there like a thundercloud in the middle of the office? 

Speaking of whom, the slamming of the filing cabinet reminds you that the other man is still around. Garrick wanders back over to where you and Price both stand uncomfortably. He doesn't have any candy.

"Didn't see anything I liked," he offers by way of explanation. "But thanks, anyway." He claps Price - very lightly - on the shoulder. "I'll just leave you both here to chat for a bit, alright?"

You frown at him. What?

Price seems equally put out, but not surprised. 

"Hang on a minute," you start to object, but Garrick gives you a friendly wave and sets off back into the hall without waiting to hear your protests. 

Staring after him with your mouth open and arms hanging limply at your side, you try to make sense out of what just happened. If you were a more paranoid person, you'd think they somehow knew about the Reddit post. But that would be impossible - you had just learned of it yourself. 

After he leaves, the office is silent. A quick glance around the room reveals that everyone is staring, mostly at Price, not even bothering to cover up their eavesdropping by pretending to work. The captain also does a cursory sweep of the office. It's almost funny how the quiet becomes oppressive under his scrutiny. You've tried his look before - brows pinched, mouth set in a thin line - to little effect. But a chill frosts the air when Price turns his focus to the rest of the room, and your coworkers cringe away from his attention like he's just dropped a live grenade.

You're not immune to the weight of his regard yourself, but you don't flinch when his gaze returns to you. "Fancy a walk?"

He's not really asking, but in the interest of keeping up the pretense, you smile and nod. With him looking as banged up as he is, you don't think you could refuse him, anyways. "Sure. Just let me lock my computer."

The relief at beating a hasty retreat to the sanctuary of your own workspace is short-lived. After tucking the printout away among a stack of other documents in a locked drawer, you reach for your mouse to sign out of your computer and freeze. When you had forwarded the email to Jack, you had clicked into your sent folder to verify that it had gone through. The preview of the post - goddamn title, username, video thumbnail and all - shows clearly in the body of the sent email, and would have been perfectly visible to anyone who had walked behind your desk in the last five minutes.

There's no way Garrick wouldn't have seen it.

"Coming, Miss?" Price asks from the doorway, looming large in the frame. 

You want to put your head in your hands and tell him to piss off. But the presence of your rabidly curious onlookers means that's not a possibility.

So you lock your computer and stand as gracefully as your anxiety will allow, pausing only to shrug on your jacket. His shitty attitude apparently doesn't get in the way of him being a gentleman as he stands aside to let you cross into the hall first. 

The moment you're both out of the hearing range of your coworkers, he sighs. It comes out like a disgruntled growl. "I've been grounded."

"Come again?" You blink up at him, trying to keep pace as you stride together down the hall. "Thought you might have grown out of that by now."

"Grounded as in medically non-deployable," he elaborates through gritted teeth, his brows drawing together in irritation. Even in the midst of your confused panic, you can't help but smirk a bit at his expense. He gestures again to the sling. "I'm out of commission for the next few weeks, and Garrick's under orders to keep me out of the way." He spits the last words like they taste foul on his tongue.

Reaching the end of the hall, Price moves to open the door for you, but you beat him to it. Chivalry or not, you don't expect anyone who's injured to go out of their way for you.

Outside, the skies have cleared and the sun has risen enough to burn away the morning dew. The shallower puddles have begun to dry up. Though a cool breeze tugs at the sleeves of your jacket, it's an overall pleasant day to have after such a storm, and you turn your face up to the sun and take a deep breath.

After a moment, Price's words catch up to you. You glance up at him to find he's already watching you. His face is softer; some of the frustrated tightness has left his jaw, and the furrows in his brow have smoothed themselves out. Heat rises to your cheeks and you look away, pretending to be intensely invested in the squadron that's doing drills on the other side of the compound. "Shouldn't you be resting, then?"

"Probably." You can tell he doesn't really care about what he probably should or shouldn't be doing and get the feeling that he's accustomed to ignoring medical orders. Shoving his good hand in his pocket, he stares out across the lawn. There's a tension to his mouth that suggests he wants to say something but is holding himself back. Wind rustles in the grass, and the sound is like static in your ears.

You wait to see if he'll bend. Doubt that he will.

But he does. His words are slow and halting, but he speaks nonetheless. "It's...difficult for me to sit back while everyone else does the work."

Now that doesn't surprise you, and you take a few seconds to think on how to respond. When Price had asked you to accompany him for a walk, you had thought you would be fending off uncomfortable questions, or perhaps that you might be dragged into an interrogation room. Instead, you find yourself in the awkward position of having to defend a man you hardly know from himself. "It's not a bad thing, to rest." Especially when you've just fallen down a fire escape. "Everyone needs some downtime every now and then."

He only shrugs, moody again, and you roll your eyes. Men! It's like dealing with children. 

As the conversation has gone on, it's become apparent that he isn't here to ambush you into a confession. You're so relieved that you even almost forget that you're angry about the post, burying that in the back of your mind for a later time. The tension in your neck and shoulders beginning to unwind, you cross your arms. "And where exactly do I come into all this?"

Is it your imagination, or do his cheeks turn the barest shade of pink? "The others are all busy." He tugs at the edges of his hat to adjust it, even though it hadn't been crooked. "Wanted someone to watch out for me, make sure I'm not overdoin' it."

"So they picked me." How ludicrous. You barely even know each other.

Price gives you a heavy look out of the corner of his eye. "No. I picked you."

He comes out with it like it's the easiest thing to admit in the world. But you look back at him, gobsmacked. Now, why would he go and do that? As if he's suddenly hyper-aware of your scrutiny, he fiddles with his hat again before quickly dropping his hand to avoid the tell.

"Why?" You ask, the whispered inquiry just barely rising above the volume of the rustling grass. So soft, he could have pretended to ignore it. You hardly expect him to explain himself regardless. 

But Price doesn't do overt avoidance, apparently, facing the question head-on. He finally looks back at you, his expression intense. "You're very generous." He leans in a bit closer, bending shallowly at the waist. You hold your breath, taking in the abraded side of his face and the darker line of blue that rings his irises. "And I've always had a weakness for sweet things."

The few encounters you've had with him had leaned towards playful, but nothing outright. This, however, cannot be disguised as anything other than flirting, and the suddenness of it almost startles you into taking a step back.

If your face had been warm before, it's positively flaming now.

To hide how flustered you are, you look him up and down with as much disdain as you can muster. "Well, if you went out of your way to ask for my company, then you can at least pretend like you want to be here. It's not my fault you went and broke your arm, you see."

Price looks taken aback, like he hadn't been expecting that. It hadn't been very diplomatic of you, exactly, but you can't find it in yourself to regret it, not when he's been sulking all morning. He retreats back out of your space, and you're sorry for the loss of the warmth you hadn't noticed until it was gone. For a minute, you're both silent. The wind moves in the trees, and the distant squadron marches away, a military cadence floating back to you on the breeze.  

He surprises you by inclining his head just slightly, looking properly chastened. "It's been a long time since I've been pulled from duty, and I'm not handling it well. But I shouldn't take it out on you."

Not technically an apology, but probably the best you can hope to receive. You stoically hold his gaze for a moment before giving in. "No, you shouldn't. But I'll let it slide." You look out again across the lawn before tacking on a cautionary warning. "Just this once."

You suspect that he's not threatened by your posturing if his quiet laugh is anything to go by. 

The mood is still heavy and you cast about for a way to break the tension, hitting on the little joke almost at once. You figure you're owed a little payback for the teasing you've been receiving since Price arrived, and find you're not above kicking him just a little while he's down. 

"Not allowed to play with your friends, throwing a tantrum about it, and you need a chaperone..."

He looks down at you when you peek up at him impishly, raising his thick brows. Your lip twitches before you can control yourself. His narrowed eyes warn you not to deliver the punchline, but you're only too delighted to ignore him.

"...you really are grounded."

------

Left behind on your desk, your phone lights up with a notification. It's an email response from Jack.

What did you send? The link in Mark's email just says that the post has been removed.

------

notes:

RNF: Romanian Nationalist Front

The RNF slogan “We will stand as worthy successors” was inspired by the line “Vor sta ca vrednici următori”/”They will stand as the worthy successors” from "Pui de lei", a Romanian patriotic poem by Ioan S. Nenițescu.

The phrase on the tagged board "Un glas ei mai așteaptă și sar ca lupi în stâne" can be translated into something like "waiting for the order to attack like wolves". Other translations are a little more evocative ("waiting for the voice to attack the sheep like wolves"), but I went with the broader translation instead. It comes from the Romanian national anthem, "Deșteaptă-te, române!", by Andrei Mureșanu. The second phrase, "adevărații patrioți răspund la apel", is my own creation that I used Google Translate for, so I'm hoping I didn't mangle it. According to Google, it means "true patriots answer the call".

Tumblr screwed up the formatting for the Reddit "post" - a version that's easier to follow can be seen on AO3

[pepi1989]

Don't mind me, just crying over this. Meds got me all emotional lol

Game, Set, Love - Ben Shelton

The racket squeaks against the ground as you adjust your grip, watching from the sidelines while Ben gathers the kids around for some sort of impromptu tennis lesson. It was supposed to be a private training session for the two of you, but the moment a group of kids wandered onto the court, Ben's focus shifted entirely.

"Alright, who's up first?" Ben calls, his voice light and easy, as one of the little boys proudly steps forward, gripping a racket almost too big for him.

You can’t help but laugh quietly, leaning against the fence as Ben crouches down to meet the kid at eye level. He's careful as he shows the boy how to hold the racket correctly, his hands guiding the small ones with such tenderness that it makes your heart flutter. Ben looks over his shoulder at you, flashing a wink that sends warmth rushing to your cheeks.

For the next half hour, Ben is in full coach mode, giving out compliments, high-fiving every little accomplishment, and being so damn patient when the balls are flying everywhere but over the net. You just watch, entranced by how natural it is for him to be around these kids, smiling every time one of them shouts his name or shows off a new trick.

"Ben, did you see that?!" one of the boys exclaims after managing to make a decent hit, and Ben’s laugh fills the air, his pride obvious.

"I saw it! You're a pro, buddy."

And that’s when it hits you, right there in the middle of this chaotic tennis court: this man is going to be the most amazing dad one day. The way he’s so gentle with them, so encouraging, so Ben… It's almost too much.

You bite your lip, heart swelling at the thought. When one of the little girls runs straight into Ben’s arms, wrapping her tiny arms around his legs, you know you’re a goner.

Once the kids finally head off the court, still chattering excitedly about their new 'coach,' Ben walks over to you, a bright smile on his face. His hair is messy, cheeks flushed from all the running around, and he's absolutely glowing.

"So," he says, reaching for your hand and intertwining your fingers. "What'd you think of my coaching skills?"

You smirk, leaning in close. "I think… you’re gonna make one hell of a dad someday."

Ben’s eyes widen just slightly, and you can see the way the words hit him, the way they warm his whole expression. He’s speechless for a second, blinking like he’s not sure he heard you right.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, pulling you just a little closer.

"Yeah," you repeat softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "We're definitely having babies one day."

And just like that, his face breaks into the softest smile you've ever seen, a mixture of love and joy and pure excitement. He squeezes your hand, his voice low and gentle as he says, "You have no idea how much I love hearing that."

Your heart races, and for a moment, it's like the world narrows down to just the two of you. Ben leans down, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, and you know, deep down, that this moment? It’s just the beginning.

[bobbinfire]

Wicked/Transformers One Crossover

Okay Okay Okay…

I finally got to watch Wicked (pt 1) recently. And I do see where people on a few random posts have made crossover opportunities between Wicked and Transformers One, obviously placing D-16 as Elphaba and Orion Pax as Glinda. But here me out…what if we have a very different type of casting? To best explain, let me first-

Set the stage…. 

(*waves hands dramatically to cue magical transition*)

We start with D-16. All things considered, his life is perfect. Really. He always does everything right, he is at the top of the charts in anything he competes in, and now to solidify that reality D-16 will be attending Shiz, the top school in all of CybertrOz. He barely steps a foot into the school and is already the most popular mech around. Nothing can ever go wrong. Well, until he is startled by Orion Pax. Pax has a… unwelcome disfigurement (I will figure out that later) that sets him apart from the others. It is because of that, and totally not his shimmering blue crystal optics, D-16 finds he can’t stop looking at him. Luckily for D-16, Orion states he is not attending and is only here for his brother, so he won’t have to worry about ever seeing him again. Later, D-16 tries to approach Alpha Trion, the top professor and head of the sorcery department (conveniently what D-16 is studying). He ignores D-16 inquiries about potentially hosting a class for it this semester, even after bringing back up his paper on t-cogs and their transformative purposes for sorcery. But he is D-16, so he will just have to work hard like always and he will get into that class in no time. Then out of nowhere he notices a well meaning professor over-handling a handicapped bot named B-127 (either he can’t walk or can’t talk haven’t decided). Objects in the room fly because Orion Pax, who as it turns out is the older brother, freaks out. Alpha Trion calms the students down by claiming it was a stunt he performed on his own, but D-16 knows it was that increasingly more mysterious Pax. He tries to approach Alpha Trion about it, only to somehow accidentally volunteer to room with Pax?! For the first time in his life he is not listened to and he doesn't get his way. And it’s all Orion Pax’s fault. Oh and to top it off he is so talented with magic he’s now getting PRIVATE lessons from Alpha Trion. But D-16 will rise above it. He is D-16, so everything will be perfect in the end. Within the first few moments of rooming together though, both of them express their deepest undying feelings for each other: loathing. The two proceed to spend the next few weeks purposely getting on each other's nerves as much as possible. The rest of the student body seems to back D-16 up too. Why wouldn’t they? They are obviously his friends. Orion Pax is unbothered by it, and while he makes it clear how much he hates him, there is the smallest twinkle in his optics each time he pulls a stunt. And D-16 hates to admit it, but he gets the smallest joy from their squabble as well. Only the absolute minimum joy, of course. One day after a class with Professor Ravage (not D-16’s favorite professor, I mean really how hard is it to pronounce his name? It is a D and then 16. Not hard at all) D-16 begins to see Orion Pax in a new light after someone rudely vandalizes Professor Ravage’s board saying “beastformers should be seen and not heard”. Pax stays behind after class is dismissed and helps clean up. While it is not D-16’s job to help, he does feel a stab at his spark from the sadness of the situation. 

Oh well time to focus on other things because a royal is coming to attend classes at shiz! Princess Elita-One, a strong willed and goal oriented dreamer. While she can be a little intense and can list off all the codes of conduct at the drop of a hat, she knows how to really enjoy the moment (especially when it revolves around her). She is perfect, D-16 is perfect, so why not make the perfect situationship out of a perfectly timed impromptu dance party. As D-16 gets ready, his friends find an ugly old mask from his relatives that is meant for regal government parties but more looks like a battle mask that has gone through war. They claim it’s so ugly that there is only one bot who could wear it, and that is how D-16 finds himself giving it to Orion Pax claiming it will go with what he wears. He feels guilty about it but tries to dance away his feelings as the party begins. During the time of his life dancing with Elita-One, Alpha Trion approaches his saying he has been accepted into his class and hands over his training T-cog. A t-cog! An object that allows your body to transform and perform great visual and magical feats. Only the top ranking officials and the Prime himself have them. As D-16 tries it on and watches his future change before him both metaphorically and physically, he asks why now? Alpha Trion says he is doing it against his better judgment, but only because Orion Pax said he would quit otherwise. D-16 is about to ask why he would do that, only to realize not only did Orion see the mask as a kind gesture, but you ended up setting up B-127 with another bot for the dance tonight. Just then Orion Pax walks in, looking very unique with his worn mask covering his mouth. Realizing all too late that it was a prank, he begins this weird dance that has everyone staring. Elita points out how well he is reacting and that it’s almost like he doesn’t care. But D-16 knows that underneath that mask is all the hidden sadness that can be seen growing in Orion’s eyes. D-16 suddenly joins the dance, trying to make amends by damaging his own reputation. Instead the dance catches on and both rise in popularity. 

D-16 and Orion are now the best of friends and decide to have each other's backs no matter what. Orion ends up sharing a secret with D-16 about how he feels responsible for B-127 disability, all because their father didn’t want Bee to be born looking like Orion. D-16 reassures him and decides to help Orion by making him more popular. All you have to do is be as cool looking and awesome as Megatronus Prime. Orion is put off at first, but nonetheless their friendship grows. And it feels nice, the word “friends” rolling off of D-16’s glossa. He is popular so he has a ton of friends but…this one…feels genuine. Perhaps more. An odd thing he notices though is Elita-One and Orion Pax acting odd around each other after a particularly sad day of class. Professor Ravage was removed from class and the new professor decided to bring in a baby Dinobot in a cage. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but when D-16 came to Orion, Elita, and the baby Dinobot were gone. The two came back later and that is when they started acting weird.

It isn’t long before D-16 focuses on other things because Orion is going to visit the Prime in the Golden City! The entire class is there to wave goodbye, including Elita who shares another awkward moment with Pax. Clearly it is in regards to professor Ravage’s dismissal, so D tries to make a connection with them by changing his name, since Ravage couldn’t pronounce D-16 right, to Megatron (named after Megatronus Prime himself). His peers cheer his selfless act, but D-16 doesn’t feel better by it, and Elita and Orion seem still in their own little moment. That moment soon ends and Orion is off on the train to the Golden City. Then suddenly he is calling for D- Megatron to join him. Megatron is unsure whether he leapt or was dragged on by Orion but soon they are off to meet the Prime. 

Once there Megatron and Orion travel and see the sights. They party, tour, and Orion gets a special Megatronus sticker for Megatron. They even get a little convenient lore drop that explains how there once were great Primes that ruled over CybertrOz, then they passed away leaving the secrets of the all powerful Matrix to be left alone. Nobody was worthy to control it, until the day the Prime appeared. The two mull over that as they make their way to the Prime. The Prime himself is quite the show off. Sentinel Prime talks about his plans for the future of CybertrOz and that one day Orion will be a part of it, he just has to prove his worth. The next few moments flash by in a blur. Alpha Trion appears and leads the way to where they store the Matrix. The Matrix responds to Orion’s presence. But…something goes wrong. An unplanned outcome of a spell, a plan to use spies to capture the remaining talking beastformers, Orion running, Megatron running after Orion, guards chasing them. More chaos, more ruin, and then…and then, they are alone. Megatron scolds Orion for not filling the rules. What is happening to beastformers, while it does hurt Megatron’s spark, doesn’t affect them and therefore he can move past it. But Orion can’t and Megatron can see that. Orion brings an old jet pack back to life and gives Megatron the offer to leave with him. Megatron wants to…but he can’t. He can’t throw everything he’s worked for just for Orion. He notices Orion trembling so he searches for something to provide warmth. They’re in this old dusty tower though so there isn’t even a tarp to throw on the poor bot’s back. The only thing of warmth and worth is Megatron’s temporary t-cog. So he gives it to Orion, assuring him of his choice and wishing him well. Just then the guards break in and grab Megatron. Orion shouts to focus their attention on him before leaping out a window and falling towards an opening that leads to the depths of CybertrOz’s core. Right as he passes the barrier his jetpack launches him to the sky and he outflies several of the guards. He declares that nobody will bring him down before flying towards the vastness of the unknown surface singing like an Idina Menzel wannabe, everyone declaring he is wicked.

And that is only Act 1.

Hope you enjoyed my rambles. Originally I was gonna do a simple explanation and then I got too into it. I apologize for the horrid grammar.

(I have yet to see anything in regards to Act 2 and I would like to see Wicked Pt 2 as spoiler free as possible)

[straykids-97]

Jackson Wang Drabble 🫧

So, I’ve been listening to Jackson Wang a lot lately and I was at work listening to In My Bed and had a random smutty thought. Could honestly be applied to anyone but for the sake of canonicity it will be about the Mr. Wang.

Strangers?

You’re sitting on Jackson’s couch, enjoying the evening by playing card games and drinking. Your usual Friday night these days.

Various different songs play of the speakers of his tv and for a moment, Jackson gives you a sideways glance. You notice, but think he’s trying to read your bluff. Though, that’s not at all what he was thinking or trying to do.

After he beats you for the 7th time, you fold. “I’m done.” You grumble, snatching your drink off the table in front of you. He smiles at you as he slowly takes his drink and begins to shuffle the deck of cards once more. There was a brief pause before he speaks, “This kinda makes me think of the first time I met you.” He reminisces, a soft smile on his face as he looks at you adoringly.

You can’t help but grin back, “Oh?” The night you met was far from a simple night in playing cards with Jackson. In fact, you met him at a club. However, that night ended you with an impromptu dance lesson to one of his songs, In My Head. You both were plastered, borderline blackout drunk. You somehow managed to remember enough of the night and cherished how the two of you must have looked, drunkenly dancing and laughing at your terrible foot work as Jackson tried his damnedest to teach you any semblance of rhythm.

“So, do you come here often?” He asks, gesturing to the room. You cock a confused eyebrow, “Uh yeah. I practically live here.” You snort, twirling your drink around in your hands. “The club? You just not have much of an interesting life.” It dawns on you that he’s trying to roleplay the night you met. After the wave comes over you, you start to play along.

“Yeah well, you see,” you start to explain, “I have this boyfriend who works a lot and I’m just bored. One of my friends invited me out so…” you gesture around the room. “Here I am.” The conversation isn’t exactly what you guys had said to each other at first, but then again, you both were improvising.

“Must not be a good boyfriend if your seeking attention from bored in a club.” He sips his drink and watches you over the rim of his glass, heat in his dark irises. “I think he’s plenty good.” You defend, “he treats me well, he spoils me, he loves me…” you gave your hand, “he’s just busy with work.”

He leans in taking your glass from your hand and whispers, “a man who’s dumb enough to waste time at work and to let you come out without him, must be ignorant enough to lose a beautiful woman like you.” His voice sends chills down your spine as he creeps over your body and wraps his soft lips around yours. You whimper and your hands dive right into his hair, the kiss heating up rather quickly.

Before you knew it, he managed to wiggle you out of your shorts. He’s sitting back in his calves, rubbing his hands up and down your thighs. “I’ll show you how a real man worships their woman.” He parts your thighs and scoots back enough so that his face is level with your groin.

You gasp as he spits, the saliva landing on your damn panties. He gives you that infamous grin as he hooks his forefinger around the hem of your panties. You shudder and he presses a flat tongue to your clot, causing your back to arch off the soft couch. “God- Jack!” You cry out, making a deep rumble emit from the back of his throat.

He wastes no time and immediately presses two fingers into your soaked core, your hands flying to his shaggy licks to grip anything of his. You moan out to God as he causes wave after wave of euphoria.

Finally, he pulls away. His lips and chin are soaked as is the couch beneath you, a mixture of his spit and your juices coat the three surfaces of your thighs, his face and the fabric of the couch.

Panting, you stare down at the man between your thighs. “That’s not how our night ended.” He grins at you as he presses a kiss on the inside of your thigh. “No,” he sighs, coming up to level with your face, “but… that’s how I wanted it to.”

[mockingjaybirds]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60354706

(1972 words)

MockingJaylad

Chapters: 1/3

Fandom: Batman - All Media Types

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Alfred Pennyworth

Characters: Tim Drake (DCU), Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne, Stephanie Brown

Additional Tags: Tim Drake-centric (DCU), Young Tim Drake, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Wiings

3 Times a bird breaks its wings

Little preview:

I mean, in his defense, when you leave a child alone in an impersonal museum of a home like that one for long enough they will run out of ways to entertain themselves pretty quickly and they will find more things to do no matter what. Even if it’s dangerous. Even if it involves climbing up a very tall tree. Even if it’s an impromptu solo flying lesson that is doomed to fail.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

"Bonjour, dear Headmage!" Rook's voice resonates before the hunter appears out of seemingly nowhere, like usual. "Don't mind me, I just couldn't help but need to sate my curiosity. After all, for how long you've been here, not much is known about you. Where you're from, what's the extent of your powers, ce genre de choses (things like that). I'm not the only one curious, even: a little rose mentioned something along those lines during an impromptu visit of yours truly to his Alchemy class."

I believe the asker is referring to a voice line that Riddle has when Crowley drops into Alchemy for a Special Lesson. He wonders what kind of magic the headmaster must use--though knowledge of this line isn't necessary to enjoy this interaction.

Enter; An Unkindness of Ravens.

It's odd, Rook had concluded, that he cannot discern anything meaningful about Crowley. It’s unlike the huntsman to be lacking in information, in details—but when it came to him, it became a jumbled mess. Unknown birthday, unknown home country, unknown past and powers. No records in any textbooks or formal documentation he could find.

All that was known was the name, occupation, height and weight. The bare basics. Hardly anything to work off of.

Rook regarded Crowley with curious eyes carved into emerald crescents. He provided his brightest smile, his warmest voice. He was a hunter laying out a nasty snare for his prey.

“By all means, I invite you to elucidate. I would personally love to learn more of our dearly beloved headmaster and his long and most illustrious career.”

“It seems as though my students have been gossiping about me once again… even my most studious boys!” Crowley mumbled to himself. (Rook’s hypersensitive ears had no issues picking up his words.) “Dear me, I’m too popular for my own good!!”

Then, addressing Rook in full, “I understand that you are all dying to know more about your dashing, intelligent, highly competent headmaster—however, prying into the personal matters of your teachers is not necessary to your pursuit of a magic education. I ask that you grant your instructors and myself our much-needed privacy.

“Adult matters are just that: adult matters! One day you will understand when you, too, get to be of that age.”

Rook's brows pinched ever so slightly. It's as though the briefest of clouds has passed by the sun, drowning out its light--but it returned, the momentary shift imperceptible to the naked eye.

“Je suis désolé,” he said, lowering into an apologetic bow. "I will mind my words when speaking to my superiors."

"Good, good! I shall be off, then. There are important snacks--" Crowley stopped and hurriedly corrected himself. "Erm, I mean important paperwork in my office which I must attend to. Enjoy the rest of your day, my student!"

The headmaster turned and started to make his way out of the courtyard. His back, exposed.

When the arrow came flying at his head, Crowley didn't flinch, didn't move--didn't have to. It froze midair, nowhere near its intended target, then dropped to the ground. A second later, a crystalline shield flickered into view, then vanished again.

Oh là là!

Rook's heart leapt with excitement. His interest, piqued.

Crowley craned his head back at him.

"Oops! Slip of the hand," the huntsman chuckled, not sounding so innocent with his excuse. He made no effort to hide the bow and a quiver he had somehow produced from his robes.

Bait left out to lure him in.

“Careful, Hunt-kun,” Crowley tuts, wagging a finger. “I may be a kind man, but even my kindness has its limits. I assure you, you do not wish to incur my wrath."

The headmaster--it was the same headmaster, harmless as ever, but... His shadow, it seemed to stretch along the path, taking on a new sinister shape. A monstrous raven, beak full of dagger-like teeth and blood-red eyes.

A chilling thrill bolted through Rook.

"That man seems so preoccupied with trivial matters," Riddle had once said. "It's difficult to believe he is a formidable mage."

Non, Roi des Roses. It appears that our headmaster is, in fact, quite the formidable mage indeed.

"... Bien sûr." Rook knelt, laying his bow and arrows on the ground. "You have my word. No more trickery or deception, fufu."

"Excellent! I'm glad we understand each other," Crowley chirped with the twirl of his cane. "Because I am so very generous, I shall overlook this transgression and allow you to be on your merry way."

He taped his lips together and whistled as he walked off. A cheery tune lifted up into the air like a bird taking flight.

Rook silently marveled at the beauty--and horror--of it.

[silvantransthranduiltrash]

I know some people like to think of feanor as a difficult elf from birth to death, but I personally thinks it’s much more tragic (and much more juicy) if feanor was a (reluctant) good brother. (You can pry good husband and dad feanor from my cold decaying dead hands thx).

Like, feanor wasn’t a “nice” elf, especially to his siblings, but he was there when it counted. Sort of a “only I can bully my little siblings” kind of deal where, while he can tug at their hair (not too hard, don’t want to get in trouble with atya (or so he tells himself)) and call them idiots, the moment someone else so much as looks at his baby sibs wrong he already has a 25 step plan to ruin that elf so badly they’ll never show their face in tirion again.

Bby arafinwe will aproach him holding an injured bird, crying his heart out begging him to help and feanor would simultaneously scold him for holding it to tightly and gently take hold of the bird in order to bring it to a healer while arafinwe trails behind him.

Bby Nolofinwe asked him to help with his school work bc feanor, for all that he’s a grumpy little shit, knows what he’s talking about and “like hell he’s going to let any elf in the house of finwe be anything less than perfect”. Nolofinwe just looks excited: “ok, big brother! 😁” absolutely used to his tsundere attitude.

The first time another elf acted untoward to findis despite her being a princess, feanor comes flying out of the left field and decking em. Then proceeds to give findis an impromptu lesson on throwing a punch.

And of course as time went on and things got more complicated, the pressure of tirion + the depression bc of miriel + morgoth + everything caused him to eventually cave. It got worse bc he refused to come to the gardens of lorien for healing because he was afraid he’d end up like his mother and abandon his family.

I personally really do view his actions post morgoth being released (mainly the flight of the noldor/kinslaying) as a mental break.

[godblooded]

uh impromptu english bite sized lesson from your local literature graduate:

to compliment someone is to say something nice to them or indicate that you think something about them is pleasant.

to complement someone means that you complete them to a perfect degree.

you pay someone a compliment when you say they look fly.

you complement someone when you look fly and also so do they, thereby completing you both having infinite rizz or whatever the fuck the kids say these days.

(you look fly today.)

[shirohige-pirates]

Hey Doll

CisFem Reader x Thatch

CW: toxic parents, manipulation, The Plan™, smut, mdni, I'll add as we go I'm kind of fly by the seat of my pants on this one.

tag list: @mfreedomstuff @harahettania @clumsyraccoon

Chapter 13: Yes Mother

A/N: This chapter contains physical and verbal abuse. Please proceed carefully.

“I am so sorry.” Thatch says for the third time since he got home. He’s set out the remotes on the coffee table. “I can’t believe I forgot to show you how to work everything.”

“It’s okay, I promise.” You reassure him. You aren’t sure what to do. When Thatch got home he found you napping on the couch. In your sleepy post-nap daze you’d admitted that you didn’t know how to turn on the TV and didn’t want to mess up a setting, and had just dozed off.

Taking a few minutes he walked you through the TV controls. It was easy enough, not too different from what you had at home, but you’d never been allowed to even touch those remotes. It was probably best to experience choosing the channel while you were on your own tomorrow, you didn’t want Thatch to worry more than he already was.

“If you want to rent a movie you can,” he says after he’s sure you’ve got the controls down pat, at least well enough to be okay on your own tomorrow. “Most of the books I have are about food and cooking, but I got one of those electronic deals somewhere. I can dig it up tonight.”

“Please just rest.” You offer a warm smile. “You were at work all day, and having the TV for tomorrow will be plenty. B-besides, I was… I was hoping I could maybe ask for something.” Your stomach knots, but you try to look and sound as comfortable as possible.

Thatch pauses, and his face lights up. “Certainly! Anything you want.”

“I… would like to… go on a date?” You can’t look at him as you ask, but you’re not sure you would’ve been able to do so regardless. It was almost painfully embarrassing to ask, even if the reason was duplicitous, it was something you did want to do with him.

“Tonight?”

“No!” You reach out for him, stopping short and covering your face. He looked so delighted you were worried you were going to break down and start crying. “No, I mean… I mean like, I’d like to see a movie, and maybe have dinner before, or… er… well, I’ve never gone to a play, or… anything.”

“Ah, I see.” Thatch ruffles your hair gently. “A full and proper date then. It would be my pleasure, doll.” He heads down the hall to his room. “Let me grab a shower and change, after dinner I’ll see what I can find for this weekend, okay?”

“Y-yes, thank you!” You raise your voice a little as he disappears down the hall. Sitting back down on the couch you look out the sliding door again.

You cannot cry. You can’t. If you cry then Thatch is going to ask what’s wrong, and if he asks you can’t lie to him. Doing this was bad enough, but if you told him then he could end up getting hurt. Your dad couldn’t harm him directly, but he could find people who would do it, you knew that for sure. Especially after today.

Thatch cooked so much the day before, dinner was an easy affair for him. It was interesting to watch him go through a few different ways of reheating leftovers in order to reheat each part correctly. He talked you through what he was doing, more you think, to fill the silence than anything else. The impromptu lesson was appreciated; you could cook, but not like Thatch, and you never really dealt with leftovers.

Everything was so measured to be sure you weren’t over eating that leftovers weren’t really something that happened.

After dinner, Thatch set up a laptop at the dining table, and looked up some stuff you could do for the weekend.

“There’s an Opera this weekend, and a performance of Shen Yun the weekend after that.” He says as you sit down next to him. “We’d have to leave Friday night for the Opera, it’s pretty much on the other side of the island. Grabbing a hotel room would be less hassle than waking up at 4am to get there on time.”

“The Shen Yun is closer?”

“Yeah, it’s barely twenty minutes from here. See? The Rumbar Theater House is just down the way a bit.” He explains, pointing it out on the little map. “It’s a long production though, we should probably consider a big meal before hand.”

You had told your father one or two weeks, and he hadn’t pushed for one or the other. The distance away from the apartment would be something you were sure he’d prefer, but you were nervous about traveling so far.

“We should do both.” Thatch says after a minute of silence.

“Huh? N-no, that’d be…” A waste, you think. Once your father does whatever he intends to do, you’re sure that everything will fall apart.

“Perfect,” Thatch interrupts your thoughts. “It’d be perfect. We should be trying to spend as much time together as we can. With my job that makes it a little difficult, but if we go on some big dates every weekend for the next couple weekends that would help make up for it.”

“But…” You take a moment, and Thatch sits still until you decide what you’re going to ask.

“Isn’t it expensive?”

He smiles and you feel your chest tighten again. “It’s not cheap,” he admits. “But I have more than enough saved up, and I think you’d enjoy both of them. This way too, you can decide which was more fun.”

“It’s -.”

“It’s not too much, I promise.” Thatch puts a hand over yours. “I’ll get things set for both of them, and if the travel and the Opera is overwhelming, I can cancel the other tickets. How’s that sound?”

You nod. It’s too much, it’s entirely too much, but only because you don’t deserve any of it. You can’t say that, and you’re pretty sure even if you did, he would argue. The only way that argument would resolve would be if you came clean about everything that happened today.

Instead, you sat with him while he booked the other parts of the dates. He gave you choices on a lot of things. Thatch chose the hotel, but let you choose one room or two. You chose one because it would be cheaper, and one with two queen sized beds because you weren’t quite ready to sleep in the same bed. It was the same cost as a single king, so you didn’t feel guilty.

You made plans to go out shopping tomorrow, or Wednesday. Thatch was going to try and get home a little early and if he couldn’t swing it tomorrow he’d manage it the next day. That way he could buy you something really nice to wear, since both events were the kinds of things you could get all dolled up for.

“I have nice clothes.” You insist. There’s no anger in your tone, but you don’t want him to spend more money than he already has.

“You do, and I won’t force you.” He gives you a smile that has the tips of his ears pink. “But the date will be fun for both of us, and… I’d love to give you a gift. You know, for your first real date.”

“Let… let me sleep on it.” You can see the edges of sadness creep into Thatch’s soft expression, but he nods.

“Of course.”

Shortly after that, you’d both gone to bed. As quietly as you could you cried yourself to sleep. The guilt made you feel sick, but if you got up to throw up you were worried you’d alert Thatch. You only had to hold out a few more days and it would be over. Whatever happened, he’d be safe.

Whatever happened to you wouldn’t matter. Not after all this. You didn’t deserve him. You didn’t deserve any of this. The whole match process had been fabricated, you weren’t even supposed to be here.

The only thing you did deserve was the guilt, and so you’d carry it. You knew your place, and your worth. You’d do as your parents asked to pay back all you owed them, and then accept whatever happened.

You slept so hard that night that you barely had time to scramble out of bed and tell Thatch good-bye in the morning. He asked if he could kiss your cheek and you said yes. He told you not to worry, but you weren’t sure what he was talking about, and then he said he’d be home for lunch, and not to worry on deciding about going shopping. He’d open up Wednesday for it, and that would give you time to think on it.

After that, he was out the door and you were in the empty apartment again.

Remembering that he said he’d be home for lunch you decide to eat a light breakfast and then take a shower so you can get cleaned up. Your face wasn’t too swollen, but it would be better to make yourself fully presentable if he was going to be coming back.

It was difficult. Even the “quick” breakfast took nearly an hour. No matter how hard you tried you couldn’t shake the heavy feeling in your heart, and tears kept leaking down your face. Your tears last night were apparently only the beginning, and you wondered if your resolve was so flimsy that this was the result.

You waffled between resolving to tell Thatch, and resolving to not say a word at least a dozen times while you were in the shower. By the time you were done you’d only managed to resolve to stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.

So automatic was your usual process that you had hardly registered that you were back int the main area until you heard the door beep. Your eyes slipped over the microwave clock and saw that it was barely past 9am, there was no way it was Thatch. Fear grips your heart for a split second until your mother walks into the apartment by herself.

Fear is replaced by confusion. You can’t even sort out how to greet her.

Your mother hasn’t noticed the look on your face. She’s been looking around since she stepped in, a wide glee-filled smile on her lips as she takes in the surroundings. Your brain catches up enough to understand she used the key card your father copied yesterday, but her presence is still entirely too surreal.

“Show me around, Doll.” She says, setting her things on the kitchen counter as she walks past you. “This is much nicer than I had expected, I wonder if that old bastard pays for it.” Anger flashes across your face, but it’s long gone before your mother looks at you.

“Show me around!” She snaps and you flinch.

“Yes mother.”

You motion with your arm down the hall that leads to your room, and the bathroom you have. She looks around your room, only opening your closets to marvel at how much space you have in an apartment.

“Goodness! It’s bigger than our house.” Giggling she closes your closet and turns toward you. “His room, Doll, c’mon.”

“I… I haven’t.” You stammer and she rolls her eyes.

“I’m not asking you to lay in his bed, I’m telling you to show me to his room.” She asserts, turning you around and pushing you out of the room. “C’mon now, I’m not going to spend all day in here.”

You stumble a couple steps before you get your pace ahead of hers, leading her down the other hall to Thatch’s side of the apartment. She’s not even pretending to care about the common areas, and you’re certain she didn’t even want to see your room in the first place.

When you get to Thatch’s bedroom door you’re surprised to find it open. The fact that he didn’t even close it while you were here and he wasn’t sat heavy on your shoulders. The pictures of his family lining the hallway walls felt like condemnations with every step.

Thatch’s room was well organized. The king-sized bed was dark wood and dark sheets, with white accents. There were more cooking books in here, a desktop and desk in one corner, and a sense of military service in the way the bed was made and how his closet was organized. As far as you knew neither him nor any of his brothers had been in the marines. Maybe Newgate had just raised them strict in that way.

It would make sense, trying to wrangle and keep so many boys in line like he had. You can clearly hear him saying that he runs a tight ship, or something similar.

“Ah there it is.” Your mother says, looking up at a space high up in the closet. “Doll, go bring a chair in here.”

“You can’t take anything.” You say the words without really thinking, your mother’s eyes going wide as she looks over at you in shock.

“I’ll take whatever I fucking please, you ungrateful bitch.” She replies icily. The weight of your words settle on you as she raises her voice, pointing down the hall as she practically screeches. “GO GET ME A CHAIR!”

The volume, more than the words, has you down the hall in a dash. You grab one of the dining room chairs and carry it into Thatch’s room. Your mother points and you set the chair into the closet.

“Steady it for me, useless thing.” She grumbles, stepping up on the cushion and looking around the top shelf of the closet while you hold the chair steady for her. “Humph, a number pad and no key. Well, that settles that then.”

Stepping back down off the chair you’re relieved to see she’s empty handed. She waves you off to return the chair, and she’s coming down the hall by the time you’ve put it back where it belongs.

“Have you convinced that oaf to take you on a date yet?”

“He’s not an oaf.” You say the words far more quietly than you wanted to, unable to even look at her.

“True, he’s a monster. That brute, you didn’t see his face when he threatened your father and I.”

“Thatch didn’t threat-!” The sharp sting on your cheek was unexpected, as was the force she used. The sharp slap cut lines in your cheek from her fingernails. You put your hand to your cheek, shocked she would leave such a harsh mark on you. Especially your face.

“Don’t you dare talk back to me like that!” Her hand sails through the air again and she grabs your wrist roughly, twisting it until the pain has you on your knees. “Apologize this instant!”

“He didn’t threaten you!” You cry, trying to get her to let go of your wrist. You cry out as she twists it further, her other hand grabbing your hair and forcing you to look at her. The look in her eyes is wild and manic, you can’t remember ever seeing her so angry before.

You can’t remember defying her either, but Thatch hadn’t threatened your parents.

“APOLOGIZE!” She demands and you shake your head. If she twists your wrist much more she might actually break it. “He’s a fucking monster! I bet I could tell everyone he’s beat you, and they’d believe it. Wouldn’t even listen to a pitiful thing like you,” she snarls, a twisted knowing grin marring her features. “So desperate to be accepted by a faked match you let him abuse you. I’ll get your father up here and-.”

“Sorry! I’m sorry!” You wail, sobbing as she lets you go, leaving you to crumple onto the floor, throbbing hand to your bloody cheek. “I’m - hic - sorry, mother. I’m sorry, you-you’re r-right.”

“He’s a monster.” She says and you nod. “Say it, Doll.”

“He is,” you reply, hoping it’s enough to satisfy her. You don’t think you could actually call him a monster and she might really break something if you defy her again.

“Humph. Did you convince him to take you on a date yet?”

You nod.

Your mother hisses, taking a step toward you and causing you to back away so reflexively you’re under the dining table before you can stop yourself. There’s a tense moment of silence and she clicks her tongue.

“Text us the details before you go to bed tonight.” She commands, stepping away from you and heading toward the door. “Fix your stupid face before he gets home.”

“Yes mother,” you barely say the words aloud as she gathers her things off the counter and leaves.

You need to get up and get ice for your wrist. You need to get up and clean the scratches on your face and try to cover them up with makeup. You need to get up. You need to.

You can’t do anything but cry heavy gasping sobs from under the dining table. Almost no sound escapes you, the occasional hiccuped gasp of air dotting the relative quiet. A few painful sobs manage to claw their way into existence and you can’t keep quiet, letting the wretched wail into the air before forcing yourself to quiet again.

When you hear the beep of the door you realize you must’ve been sobbing under the dining table for over an hour. The door opens and you just stay where you are, resigned in having been caught. There was nothing you’d be able to tell him except the truth.

Thatch comes over, and sits down as far away as he can, and still be in your line of sight. You can smell the mix of flour and fruits on him, the soothing smell of honey and sugar from the confections made at the bakery. You don’t know if it’s the warmth of the shop that you can feel rolling off him, or if it’s just the warmth that always seems to be around him.

Most of you is hidden from him, curled up against the central table leg. Looking over at him you can see splatters of different sauces on his uniform, puffs of flour against his yellow scarf that makes it look patchy in places. The look on his face is sorrowful, and painfully kind.

He has no idea what’s happened. He might have an inkling, some idea gnawing at the back of his mind. His sorrow might be in knowing you’re going to hurt him, or maybe it’s just in knowing you’ve been hurt. He wants to be closer, you can tell, but he’s staying back until you give him permission.

How could he be so kind?

So gentle?

So patient?

He should be furious! He should be loud, and demanding, and unrelenting! This is his home! He shouldn’t be coming home to something so unknown. He shouldn’t find you like this. He should be able to have lunch with you, because that was the plan. That was how it was supposed to go. How it should be going.

His voice was quiet when he spoke. Like he didn’t want to spook you. The tone was soft and gentle, full of a pain you didn’t understand. How could two words sound so sad and so loving at the same time?

Especially when they were nothing but cold disdain on the tongues of your parents.

“Hey Doll.”

[pretty-little-candid-blurbs]

Everlasting

Summary: Join James Potter and the reader as they spend a delightful day together in their established relationship at Hogwarts. Amid the castle's magical ambiance, they experience moments of love, mischief, and genuine camaraderie that only Hogwarts can provide.

warnings: hella fluff

In the early morning light, James Potter and the reader woke up together in the cozy Gryffindor dormitory. Wrapped in each other's arms, they exchanged whispered endearments and tender kisses before starting their day.

After breakfast, hand in hand, they strolled through the enchanted corridors, the castle's portraits winking and nodding as they passed. They stopped at the Room of Requirement to have a private moment together. Inside, surrounded by a soft, warm glow, they shared dreams and aspirations for the future, feeling their bond grow stronger.

As the morning advanced, they found themselves in the courtyard, enjoying the sunshine and the company of friends. With mischief twinkling in their eyes, they playfully charmed pebbles to dance in the air, causing laughter and amazement among onlooking students.

Next, they made their way to the Quidditch pitch. James, still the talented Chaser, gave the reader an impromptu flying lesson. They soared through the sky, the wind rushing past them, and for a moment, they felt like they were the only two people in the world.

For lunch, they gathered with their friends in the Great Hall. The chatter was lively, and they all shared stories from the past and plans for the future. Amidst the hustle, James and the reader stole glances at each other, their affection evident in every smile.

In the afternoon, they visited the library, a place that held a special spot in both their hearts. Surrounded by towering bookshelves, they sat close, reading their favorite books together. Sometimes, they'd share passages that resonated with their souls, strengthening the connection between them.

As the sun began to set, James and the reader found solace by the Black Lake, its waters reflecting the vibrant colors of the sky. Wrapped in a warm embrace, they watched the stars emerge one by one, sharing whispered promises and sweet nothings.

As night fell over Hogwarts, they joined their friends in the common room, which was filled with laughter and the crackling of the fireplace. James and the reader shared a private dance, swaying to an imaginary melody that only they could hear, their love shining in their eyes.

Finally, they retreated to their dormitory, where they curled up together under warm blankets. In the soft glow of their enchanted candles, they talked about everything and nothing, cherishing these quiet moments that brought them closer together.

As the clock struck midnight, they exchanged a loving kiss, knowing that the enchanting day they had shared at Hogwarts would be etched in their hearts forever. In each other's arms, they drifted off to sleep, eagerly looking forward to the countless adventures that awaited them in their magical journey of love.

[foggyfanfic]

Love and Fury Deleted Scenes

More deleted scenes, these one a lot more fragmented, they don't come from specific chapter, which actually makes it more likely that I'll find ways to repurpose the dialogue elsewhere.

This first fragment was my second attempt at writing Bruno figuring out the whole Cicero thing, it ends where that chapter would have ended if I had used this (although I was planning to schmancy up the last line before I decided to cut it and prolong the story a little).

“We’re talking about rape, aren’t we,” Bruno finally said, finding it impossible to deny it any longer, “he tried to rape my sister, he did rape Rosalie.”

“Sí,” Reina nodded.

Bruno took slow, deep breaths, he found himself wanting to echo what Félix had said when he found out. Killing Cicero seemed like the only thing that could possibly calm the fire in his blood, quiet the pounding in his ears.

But him flying off the handle wouldn’t help anyone. Félix quite possibly was the strongest man in the village, if he decided to go ahead and kill Cicero, he would probably succeed. Bruno… Bruno would have to be more careful.

“I’m walking you home from now on,” Bruno said, “and you are never, ever going to be alone with him. Never.”

Reina stared at him, eyes wide and lips parted, he wondered idly what he must look like to her. Did he look frightful? Was he scaring her? He hoped not, but he refused to look away from her until she nodded, silently agreeing to what he’d said.

He nodded back, “Bien.”

This scene was replaced by the triplets inviting their SO's to a picnic, it ends where I stole the dialogue for Leandra reading Bruno's palm.

Pffft,” Reina shook her head at him, “who cares what people think. You really need to let loose every once in a while.”

Bruno rolled his eyes, “Easy for you to say, you’re not a fortune teller, people don’t assume everything you say has a hidden meaning.”

“Oh yeah? You sure about that?” she bit her lip, “I could be.”

He didn’t respond, instead he just gave her a flat look and crossed his arms. She giggled into her hand, then reached out and made a grabby motion with her fingers.

“Gimme your hand, I’ll show you,” she said, “the dominant one.”

He hesitated, but ultimately put his hand in hers, slowly stretching the word “Ok” into a whole sentence. It pulled another giggle from her lips and briefly her eyes connected with his, sparkling with mischief.

It always felt so nice to hold her hand.

This one got cut from like... the third chapter? This was the one where I reread it and thought "If Bruno was this willing to communicate with his family the movie wouldn't have happened", not to mention if Leandra was this effective at getting him to communicate it would steal Mirabel's thunder. My number one rule for OC's is they can't fulfill or undermine the purpose of one of the established characters, so I made Leandra more prone to subterfuge than this, and that made me decide to stretch the story out.

Silence stretched between them.

Eventually, he remembered what he was going to ask, “Do you even like Cicero?”

Reina looked at him, her mouth working around silent words, finally she sighed and said, “No.”

“So… but? W-why did you dump that food on Pepa?”

She shrugged, “I told you, I wanted to get her away from him.”

“Why?”

Reina pressed her lips together and squirmed in her seat a little, “It’s complicated.”

Bruno was about to press her for more details, but then the shoemaker came up and started lecturing them both about rhyming couplets while Reina packed up his usual order of soaps and creams. The shoemaker was the only person in town to own the complete collection of Shakespeare, and anyone who wanted to borrow one of his books had to put up with impromptu literary lectures. By the time the poetry lesson was over it was time for the market to shut down. 

Bruno wanted to ask her more questions but she cut him off, “Look, Bruno, I… Does Pepa know you’re doing this?”

“Doing-, well, n-no. Not exactly. I figured the apology will mean more i-if she doesn’t realize I forced you to do it, you know?”

Reina sighed as she packed some of the leftover soap into a box, she started to say something, then stopped herself and shook her head. She finished packing without saying a word, but clearly having some sort of debate with herself.

“Maybe just,” she pushed her chair under the counter with her foot, “tell her you’ve been keeping Cicero away from me. Tell her you’ve been scaring him off for me. See what she says about it.”

Reina shrugged, opened her mouth to say more, then shook her head and shrugged again.

“What- why- what do you think she’ll say?”

“I don’t know,” Reina sighed, she still didn’t know why Bruno didn’t know what Cicero had tried to do to Pepa. She figured that if Pepa didn’t tell Bruno when he brought the monster in question up, then it was officially not alright to tell Bruno, and if she did tell Bruno… then maybe Reina could ask him to stick around. She really didn’t want to end up one of Cicero’s victims.

Leche nosed at Bruno’s hand until Bruno gave him a few goodbye scratches, with that done the dog began plodding off towards home. Reina smiled at the giant pooch and gave Bruno a little wave goodbye.

“I’ll see you around,” she said, sounding a little hopeful.

“I’ll see you on Tuesday,” he retorted, although he wasn’t entirely sure that was true. He was beginning to suspect there was something else going on here. Something that only Pepa and Reina knew about.

He hurried home. Bruno paused long enough to listen for the sound of thunder before turning towards the bathroom. Pepa was stood in front of the mirror, trying to untangle a twig from her hair, she cursed at it and the word was swallowed by the clap of thunder.

Bruno knocked on the doorframe, “Need help?”

“Ah, Bruno, si!” she greeted him eagerly and presented him with the knotted hair.

“Did the evil trees attack you again?”

“Ay Brunito, you tease but those damned things have it out for me.”

“Hmm, maybe,” he drawled slowly, “or, hear me out, maybe they’re getting drawn into the wind storm that’s been following you all day.”

Pepa huffed, “Los cojones! It’s because they have some sort of vendetta against me.”

He chuckled, and pulled the twig free, presenting it to her. The thunder cloud over her head turned into a bright rainbow as her face lit up.

“Well, now you can tell those evil, dastardly, trees that they’ve lost this round.”

“Gracias Brunito,” she grinned as she took the twig and began snapping it into tiny little pieces, smugly tossing the pieces of her vanquished foe into the garbage.

“What has you so frustrated?” Bruno asked as they left the bathroom together.

“Ugh!” Pepa yelled, tossing her hands in the air but not elaborating.

“Ah si, si, I see how that could be frustrating,” he teased.

“It’s this whole thing with Cicero,” she exclaimed, “I don’t really want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it! If I think about it for too long I’ll blow this entire village down.”

Bruno pressed his lips together, then grimaced and took the plunge, “Uh Re- I-I mean Señorita Lopez thought you’d want to know that I’ve been scaring Cicero away from her.”

Pepa froze and the weather above her head changed rapidly. Briefly, the rainbow over her head got brighter, more vibrant, then it turned into a snow cloud. She turned on her heels and gripped Bruno by the shoulders.

“You mean to tell me Cicero has been trying to get to her?”

“Uh si?”

“Joder,” Pepa slapped her forehead, “Of course he would be, I should have known. He probably wants revenge for her warning me.”

“Warning you abou-?”

“Mama!” Pepa turned again and hurried over to their mother’s door, she knocked then pushed it open and went right in. Something Bruno would never have the courage to do.

Bruno stood there awkwardly rubbing at his arm while Pepa and his mother had a frantic conversation. Bruno heard Reina’s real name being tossed around, plus Cicero’s, but the details were lost on him. Eventually, both women emerged from the bedroom, Alma wrapping her shawl around her shoulders.

“Bruno,” she said brusquely, “you’ve done the right thing. I’m proud of you. Keep watching out for Señorita Lopez if you see Cicero bothering her.”

Bruno was equal parts warmed and confused by his mother’s words, and waited a beat too long to respond, “O-of course Mama, but wha-?”

“Julieta,” his mother’s attention was already lost as she hurried down the stairs, his other sister appeared in the kitchen doorway, a mixing bowl cradled in one arm, “I’m afraid I will miss dinner tonight, are you alright cooking for you and your siblings?”

“Claro,” she nodded, “Is everything ok?”

“Cicero,” was the only answer Alma gave, and apparently the only answer Julieta needed. She scowled and looked like she was ready to curse the man.

“Would it be alright if I invited company over to have dinner with us?” Julieta asked instead.

Alma sighed, “Do you mean that boy?”

“That boy” is what Alma called Agustín. She didn’t exactly approve of him, she felt her daughter deserved somebody that could swing an ax without bringing a tree branch down on his head. Still, she didn’t tell Julieta that she couldn’t see Agustín. In fact, after this business with Cicero, Alma was inclined to grant Agustín her blessing. He might be a walking disaster, but at least he was a kind walking disaster that would never (purposely) hurt a fly.

“Si, and Felix,” Julieta replied, her eyes jerked to Pepa pointedly.

“Felix?” both Bruno and Pepa asked with interest. Alma perked up too.

“Oh, claro, Felix is welcome in our home anytime.”

“Bruno,” Julieta turned to him, “will you go invite them to dinner?”

“Um, sure bu-?”

The tea kettle whistled behind Julieta, drawing her back into the kitchen. Alma, apparently satisfied that her children wouldn’t starve to death in her absence, walked out the front door with a promise to be home as soon as she could. Pepa disappeared into her room, saying something about fixing her hair before company arrived.

Bruno sighed in the empty courtyard, “Casita, have they told you what’s happening?”

Some roof tiles nodded at him.

“Care to share?”

Tiles trembled, shutters opened and closed, and furniture moved back and forth. Bruno wasn’t as good at understanding Casita as his mother (nobody was) but he picked up that Cicero was the bad guy in this story.

“Got it, we hate Cicero.”

The tiles nodded again.

Bruno shrugged and left to invite Agustín and Felix over for dinner. Cicero wouldn’t be the first pile of trash that Pepa dated, although he was hopefully the last. Bruno figured if he needed to know the specifics of what Cicero had done wrong, somebody would eventually tell him. In the meantime, he would just have to focus on keeping Cicero away from Reina, apparently.

Alma thankfully made it up the mountain before the sun had set, this time when she knocked on the door, Señor Lopez answered. He stepped aside and immediately invited her in to join them for dinner, before calling for his daughter to place an extra plate at the table.

“Señora Madrigal,” Reina greeted her when she entered the small dining room, “it’s good to see you again.”

“And you, I only wish the visit were under cheerier circumstances,” Alma sighed, resisting the urge to collapse into her chair and instead sitting with the grace demanded of her unofficial station.

“Do you have more questions about Cicero?”

“I hear he’s been bothering you.”

“Do you want me to have a talk with the little cabrón?” her father offered, before apologizing to Alma for his language.

“Well, si, that would be great. But um-.” She trailed off and looked to Señora Madrigal.

“Unfortunately, we don’t currently have any proof of any wrongdoing,” Alma sighed, “and Cicero’s father may retaliate against anyone who makes an accusation without evidence.”

He grunted in acknowledgement and splashed some rum into his cup, grumbling about no-good layabouts, and what they did to such men back in his day. Reina gave her father a fond smile and patted his arm, he briefly caught her hand so he could give it a squeeze, then began grumpily shoving food in his mouth.

Alma raised an eyebrow at his lack of manners, but couldn’t bring herself to disagree with his frustration. It was a frustrating situation.

“Cicero always seems to be hanging around when I go into town,” Reina got them back on topic, “fortunately, he’s kind of afraid of Bruno, so Bruno’s been warding him off.”

“Always been a sweet kid, your boy,” Senor Lopez acknowledged, “you’ll have to give him one of those fancy soaps you make, conejita.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Alma rushed to say, “I’m sure this is Bruno’s way of thanking you for protecting Pepa.”

Reina pressed her lips together, hesitating, she opened her mouth to ask if anyone had actually explained the situation to Bruno but was cut off by her father.

“That boy married yet?”

“Papa,” she hissed.

Alma raised her eyebrows, turning to Señor Lopez with interest, “No, in fact, I don’t believe he’s seeing anyone.”

“Something to consider, conejita.”

“Papa,” she groaned, putting her face into her hands.

Alma shared an amused grin with her host. She wouldn’t be surprised if the man was only teasing his daughter, still, it was something to consider. Thus far, Señorita Lopez had proven herself to be principled, kind, quick thinking, and brave. Brunito could certainly do worse.

“I have asked Bruno to continue to protect you,” Alma said, “in the meantime, I plan to pay Señora Gutierrez a visit while her son is goofing off in town. I will make no accusations, we will simply share a cup of tea.”

“Do you think she’ll tell you anything useful?”

“Perhaps,” Alma thoughtfully pushed her food around her plate for a minute before remembering herself, “Is there anything else you can tell me about Cicero’s behavior that may come in handy? Anything at all?”

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, thinking deeply, “Um, I noticed he spends a lot of time with Encardo Rowe, even though his parents don’t seem to like it. I don’t know, maybe you can get her to complain about that.”

Alma nodded, it was something.

“You should ask Rosalie,” Señor Lopez said, “poor girl spent half a year being chased by the little pervertido.”

Both women froze. He was right of course, this little investigation wouldn’t go far if they didn’t talk to Rosalie, but neither wanted to bring up such a painful topic for the poor girl.

“I-I can be there when you talk to her, it should help.”

“I would appreciate that, gracias.”