#it will look good racing on that dark ass tarmac

[topnotchquark]

Joining the war against the vr46 racing team livery on the side of vr46 racing team livery

[otonymous]

Caught Between a Wall and a Hard Dick (Grayson) (DC Nightwing - NSFW) - Kinktober 2022

Description: 

(First posted on Pa*t*reon (pls see link in pinned post)! - early access Sept 25/22)

Kinktober 2022 Prompt #1: STUCK IN A WALL (aka kabeshiri - yeah, I had to look this one up LOL)

Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language and mature themes - reader discretion is advised.  Potential trigger warnings include: outdoor sex (in a sense lol), being stuck in a wall/"glory hole" type situation, some bits faintly wavering towards dub-con, mentions of masturbation, brief mention of edging

Word Count: ~3700 words (I promised myself I would keep these to 1500 words max.  Didn't happen.  Story of my life 😂)

Author's Note:

Hello lovelies!

Hope October is treating you well so far! 💕 Since we are dealing with more mature topics (Kinktober being the name of the game and all 🤣), please check out the warnings listed above!  That being said, please know that this fic is absolutely ridiculous, and I laughed myself silly writing it.  All in all, a good time was had.  I hope you will have fun reading this one, my friends!

-XOXO, Otonny 🥰💕

PS: Please suspend your disbelief and just imagine for one hot second that triple woven kevlar can be ripped by the bare hands of one super horny superhero.  Thanks! 🤩🤣

“Okay, on the count of three.  One, two, three!“

“Ow…ow!  Ouch!  Stop!  Nightwing, stop!”

“This isn’t working.  Thank god Batman isn’t here to see this.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if Batman were here in the first place.  He’d use the door, like a relatively normal person would, not try to show off by somersaulting through a hole in the wall.  Stop laughing, Dick!“

“All right, I’m sorry,” Nightwing wheezes in between peals of laughter, broad shoulders shaking as he tries to catch his breath.  “To be fair, no one told you to follow me through the hole.  Also, ‘Batman’ and ‘normal’ have no business being in the same sentence together.”

“I thought I could make it.  Clearly, I was wrong.  Damn these birthing hips!”

You struggle some more, kevlar gloves gripping onto brick for purchase as you attempt to push, pull, do anything to free the lower half of your body from the wall it was currently stuck in, your ego now thoroughly bruised in light of your previous declaration that you could do anything Nightwing was capable of doing.

So when tonight’s training consisted of you keeping up with him as he raced across the rooftops of Blüdhaven, you followed close behind, fighting to keep your breath even and steady as you ran, swung, flipped and jumped, doing so well at keeping pace that even you were surprised until Nightwing jumped — no, glided — through a hole in a wall on the rooftop of an apartment building, his form so perfect, he made it look like child’s play, so easy that anyone could do it…

…or so you thought until you got stuck, reality hitting hard in the form of a vice-like squeeze about your hips by brick and cement that refused to budge.

And now, your ass was literally an easy target, vulnerable and exposed to the dark night beyond while the upper half of your body fumed at one costumed Dick Grayson, still snickering in the stairwell of the decrepit apartment complex.

“Okay, so I need a bit more training before I can come out patrolling with you.  I get it.  But can you please stop laughing and help pull me out before someone comes?!  I don’t want to have to fabricate some weird sex fetish to explain why I’m wearing a mask and cape.”

“All right, just relax.  I’m moving.  Guess I’ll have to use the door this time.”

Dick draws out of sight and then you hear a click and thud, the heavy steel door echoing down the stairwell though Nightwing had done his best to let it close softly behind him.

You can sense his approach: the faint vibrations of his footsteps on the tarmac, the quiet rustle of limbs heard so faintly through cracks in the wall one might have missed it if one hadn’t been trained to listen.

You imagine Dick, his blue eyes behind the mask trained intently on your ass and you cannot keep a sudden rush of heat from rising to the surface of your skin, cheeks burning in a way you wanted to think had absolutely nothing to do with how close he was likely standing to you now, the sharp V of his hips level with your jutting rear end, scratching his chin as he contemplated how best to free you short of blowing up the wall and waking up everyone in a three-mile radius.

“Hey Nightwing, everything okay out there?” 

You try to keep your voice as low as possible, but cringe at the way it still echoed in that stairwell, the acoustics absolutely perfect for a Black Canary performance.

“Ahem, uh, yeah.  Just, uh, trying to figure out the best way to…dislodge you.”

“Not to seem ungrateful or demanding, but could you please hurry it up?  Believe it or not, this position’s not exactly comfortable.”

And it was true.  Just not necessarily in the way it would seem.

It wasn’t so much the physical strain of being bent over and stuck that presented a problem; Dick had trained you well enough in the gym and out in the field that maintaining this position for an extended period of time wasn’t an issue.  Rather, it was the thought that his undivided attention was now focused on your ass; that he would have to put hands on your hips and thighs in order to free you from your prison.  Even thinking about this set your nerves on edge, reminding you of the time Dick had accidentally touched your breast in the midst of practicing an aerial maneuver. 

At that time, he gave no indication he had even noticed what had happened, occupied as he was on making sure he caught you before you had the chance to fall to your death on a pile of overflowing trash bins sixteen stories below.

But you, you had burned red beneath your mask, thanking god all the while for the fact that it was too dark for him to really see your face.

Although, you suppose he could with those infrared cameras he had built into his mask…

Never mind.  

You weren’t going to think about that.  And you definitely weren’t going to ruminate on the excitement you felt to have his hand on your breast.  Or how large and manly they looked whenever he peeled his gloves off at the end of a long night of patrolling, right before reaching into the cupboard for a box of sugary kid’s cereal as a snack before collapsing into bed.

No, you were determined not to think of those twilight hours spent lying awake in the room next to his, wondering if Dick could somehow sense your heart pounding through paint and drywall as your fingers traipsed beneath the waistband of your pyjama bottoms to pretend your hand was his, rubbing insistent circles over the wetness that would inevitably pool between your legs every time you thought of him:

Dick Grayson.  Nightwing.  Your mentor and partner in the fight against crime.

NO.

Now is neither the time nor place, you scold yourself, steering your thoughts towards the more pressing matter of why you could no longer hear him on the other side of the wall.

“Um, Nightwing, is everything okay?  Are you all right?!” you ask, panic starting to set in to think that somehow, unbeknownst to you and the upper half of your body, trouble had come calling for your partner and booty.

Though presumably, you would’ve heard something.  The wall did have a hole large enough for a person to slip through (albeit not one with hips that Shakira would’ve been proud of).  And Nightwing was more than capable of taking care of himself in any situation.  So what, then, was the cause of the radio silence?  The fact that you could no longer sense any movement behind you?

“You’ve torn your suit.”

“What?!”

Voice catching in your throat, your strangled reply echoes like a ghoul in the night.  It wasn’t so much your outfit that you were concerned about — that triple woven kevlar could somehow rip without your knowledge.  What you did find concerning however, was the way Nightwing was now behaving: strangely out-of-character.

“Right…” he continues, voice barely audible on the other side of the wall. “…here.”

GASP!

You clap a hand over your mouth, attempting to muffle the sound that escaped the moment you felt his touch: one long finger running along the seam that joined your skintight suit down the middle, sliding down the small of your back and over the curved crevice of your backside to close in on the heat between your legs.

You start to sweat, temperature suddenly spiking in reaction to the weird turn of events — as if the night could get any more bizarre. Holding your breath, you wait for Dick to crack a joke; say something lighthearted to ease the tension like he could always be counted on to do.  Except this time, he doesn’t.  This time, he says:

“This is dangerous.  Your suit is compromised.  We need to fix this.  Immediately.”

Different.  Darker.  Dick’s voice is even lower now in both tone and volume, so much so that you have to strain your ears to hear him. The measure of his words is slow and sure, and it makes you twitch, hips shifting in an animal inclination to wiggle your ass in order to please him.

“Wh-what do you suppose we do?” you ask, palms planting on your side of the brick wall so as to exaggerate the curve of your back.

In your mind’s eye, you imagine Dick’s breath catching — much the same way it did that time he accidentally caught you running naked from the shower to your bedroom because it was laundry day and you had forgotten to replace the towels in the bathroom you shared as roommates.

For a moment, he had stood frozen: mouth open and blue eyes fixed to your bare breasts, the creamsicles he had left the apartment a few minutes ago to procure for the two of you dripping down both hands. And then, he had abruptly turned his back to you, muttering something about chasing down ice cream trucks that didn’t want to stop.

But you had caught it: the desire in his eyes.

Undeniable, like the flush creeping up his cheeks or the tent in his jeans before he spewed “Sorry-i-didn’t-see-anything” and ducked into his room, pulling the door closed behind him with his foot because he was still holding on to two melting lumps of citrus-flavoured ice cream.

It was the elephant in the room.  The big, unspoken cloud that constantly hung over the two of you when you weren’t preoccupied with discussing training plans or the moves of petty criminals and supervillains, a topic neither dared to broach because it would make things way too messy, too complicated…

…too good to be true? 

Was it really too good to be true?  And if so, how good? you can’t help thinking, having left the ball in Dick’s court and waiting with bated breath for his next move.

“I think there’s only one thing to do to get you out of this sticky situation.”

More rustling of limbs behind you.  Perhaps your partner moving in close, kneeling to get a better look at what he was dealing with. Which could only mean one thing:

Dick’s face was now in your ass.

He touches you and you jolt, feeling the slip of his finger through the rip in your suit, right at the junction of your thighs.  You wonder if Dick could feel it — the soaked gusset of your panties.  But the suspense lasts for all of a second before he mutters,

“God, you’re wet,”

and adds a second finger to the first, Nightwing gripping onto your suit to tear it down the middle in one swift motion, exposing your flimsy panties to the night.

Throb.

Legs growing weak, you lose your balance for a moment, falling into the brick at the waist.  Your clit pulses at what had just transpired, ushering in a new wave of wetness that threatens to spill down your thighs.

“There.  Now that part of your suit has been removed, try squeezing through the hole on your side.”

It was bullshit and you knew it.  The suit was thin to begin with; shaving off a few millimetres wasn’t going to do much.  But you obey regardless, moving your hips from side to side in a manner so suggestive you felt your nipples harden to think of the effect it must’ve been having on Dick.

“Like this?” 

Laying it on thick, you feign innocence in an attempt to see how far the charade would take you.

“Yeah, just like that.  But it’s not good enough.  I think we ought to get rid of this too.”

And just like that, your panties fall away with another unceremonious rip.

“There.  Spread your legs.  Wider.  Yes, like that.  Try moving now.”

It was insanity.  

How his instructions aroused you so, even with Dick’s voice muffled and muted behind a brick wall.  You couldn’t see him, and he had barely even touched you aside from doing what he needed to do to tear off your panties and the bottom half of your suit.  And yet, he had you on edge, every shake and tremble of your body foreshadowing a climax so intense it threatened to make you scream so loudly it would wake everyone in the building.

The evening air blew cool across your skin, a contrast with the wet heat radiating out from between your legs, obediently spread for your mentor’s inspection; a crude reminder that you had an audience.

So you put on a show, exaggerating the arch of your back as you walk your hands further down towards the base of the wall, playing up the angle of your ass in an attempt to beckon, to entice…

…to prod Dick into crossing the tension-filled line the two of you had been toeing for months now.

“It’s still not working.  I think I need a push.  A thrust from behind.“

There.  The final nail in the coffin.

All Nightwing needed to move.

You can hear it, sense it; the flurry of activity as a half-step brings him towards you: the cool sensation of Dick’s dark suit as he pressed his hips into your bare skin, the familiar sound of a glove slipping off before his palm is resting on the small of your back, a shudder of breath rising from the cavity of his chest, escaping in a soft hiss the moment he feels the touch of you, skin to skin.

He really was so obvious.

“Are you sure about this?  I-I can always try the explosives, if you want—“

And a gentleman through and through.

“Just fuck me, Dick Grayson.”

Another intake of breath, sharp this time, and Nightwing’s moan transforms into a growl, low and guttural.  You bite down hard onto your lower lip, doing your best not to draw blood though it was imperative that you did not scream.  But the feeling of Dick’s lips on your body — tracing kisses in arcs that rounded the flesh of your ass before traversing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs — made it difficult not to, especially when they grew in urgency, his tongue extending to lap the length of your slit, the heat of his breath combining with an appreciative hum that you felt more than heard, thrumming through your core.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmy—“

You barely recognized the sound of your own voice: pitched high and growing in desperation by the second in a way you knew would make you cringe later on to remember when you were dressed more casually in a t-shirt and jeans.  Because there was no way you’d ever forget the way this felt: Dick’s tongue laving slow before flicking fast across your swollen clit, the man’s mouth on your pussy nothing less than pure magic in the way he brought you just to the edge of orgasm before backing off, teasing you in this way over and over again.

They said he was a pretty boy with a face too handsome to shoot, a man who had no trouble scoring even after having made some bad life decisions, like wearing green pixie boots, or even sporting a mullet.  It didn’t hurt either that he could easily count his rear end among his best “ass”-ets: pert and ample and shapely enough to fill out his suit like nobody’s business.  But it was only now that you were realizing that when it came to Nightwing, looks were only a tiny part of the equation.

Because the way he worked you over was almost criminal — sinful with how good it felt to be at his complete mercy that you were actually thankful to have gotten stuck.  Having sat himself between the wall and your thighs, Dick ate you out with gusto, his fingers busy kneading the flesh of your ass when they weren’t sliding into your pussy, taking turns in competing with his tongue to see which could elicit the most salacious moans from your lips.

“Better keep it quiet over there.  Don’t wanna wake the neighbours.”  

The smirk is obvious in the voice of the hypocrite who shamelessly chose to ignore the wet sounds he himself was producing with his head between your legs, Dick lapping with abandon as his fingers gripped onto your hips, encouraging you to rest more of your weight onto that handsome face.

Your breasts ache within the confines of your suit, sorely missing the action on the other side of the wall.  In desperation, you touch yourself, trying in vain to feel pinches and caresses through material that just refused to give.  Frustration mounting, you accidentally let out a petulant whine — much to your horror.

Whining was never your thing.

But then again, neither was having sex through a hole in a wall.

“Baby, if you wanted more, just ask.”

Baby? BABY?! Did having midnight sex on a rooftop in the heart of Blüdhaven mean that you and Dick were at the point where terms of endearment were allowed?  Also, how was it possible that the word sounded a million times sexier coming from his mouth?!

Dick pulls away and there is more shuffling, more movement.  You imagine him pulling down the bottom half of his suit until it sits below the diamond-cut V of his hips, the sleek black second-skin hugging the rounded curves of his perfect glutes.  You imagine his tights bunched around the bulky musculature of his thighs, the same ones you covertly juiced over every time it was leg day at the gym.

You had always wondered whether he wore underwear beneath that unforgiving suit, and if so, how it was even possible for him to hide those lines.  For now, however, you were content with settling for the image of Dick Grayson pulling out his, well, dick, and slowly stroking from base to tip and back again, a smile on his lips as he contemplated the messy smear of your wet pussy, spread wide and waiting beneath the hazy glow of the city’s ambient light.

“You ready for your second lesson of the night?” he asks.

“Second lesson?  What was the first?”

“Not to jump through holes in walls unless you’re absolutely sure you can make it.”

You’re so lucky I’m horny as fuck right now, you grit your teeth.  “Right, of course, Professor Nightwing.  And what’s the second lesson?”

“I’m gonna teach you how to be quiet in any situation.  Now get ready for a pop quiz.”

THRUST!

Gasp!

You almost choke on it; the air that catches in your throat the moment Dick enters you fully with a single thrust of his powerful hips.  You can feel him, the base of his cock flush against your body, your walls pulsing in reaction to the sudden intrusion of his length, his hardness, his girth, Dick’s fingers spreading your cheeks wider as he attempted to bury himself even further.

“Keep quiet now.  Not a peep, understood?  Or else it’ll be an F for you.  And I know you don’t like to fail.  Isn’t that right, teacher’s pet?  Yes, that’s what I thought.  Such a good kitty.”

Dick reaches down as he says this, hand between your legs; petting and teasing as his fingers skirt over your clit in an attempt to see how wet you could get, how tightly your walls could squeeze around him.

He settles index and thumb in a crescent about the circumference of his cock as he picks up speed, savouring the feel of your delicate skin stretched thin and wide around his body, every stroke dislodging more and more of your mutual arousal, the creamy evidence eliciting a guttural moan from the man that you considered entirely unfair when you were forced to keep quiet in a stairwell that possessed the acoustics of an opera house.

“This feels incredible.  You are incredible,” Nightwing sighs, stopping to pull back for a moment, as if to admire the sight of your pussy trembling from his administrations, right before diving back in with renewed speed and vigour to make you clench both hands into fists, biting your lower lip until it was blanched of blood.  “God, I could fuck you all night.  All day too, for that matter.”

Dick Grayson had always been chatty.  Apparently, sex was no exception.  It made you blush; every sweet, filthy word falling from his lips adding so much to the lasciviousness of the situation that you weren’t sure which turned you on more: the way his cock managed to hit just the right angle at just the right time, or the way he played with your mind, his verbal calisthenics every bit a match for his physical prowess.

And though you did your best to stay quiet on your side of the wall, the lower half of your body was a different matter — arousal made obvious to your partner with every slick slide of his cock in and out of your body, the wet sounds of your copious juices dripping down to smear the insides of your thighs and across the hard, muscular plane of Dick’s groin.

Nightwing was right.  It felt incredible.  Even when stuck in a wall, he could’ve fucked you all day and night and you’d still want more, eager and willing to take him deeply into yourself, to have Dick do whatever he wanted with you.  Because you trusted him like you trusted no other:

You trusted him with your life.

And perhaps it is this very thought that sends you, makes you feel free to let go; stepping off the ledge of control to let the most intense orgasm of your life take you. 

Dick fucks through it: pushing through the clenching pulse of your walls around him, your pussy milking his cock as he neared his own completion.

But not before he gives you one hard, final thrust from behind.

Because Nightwing — always dutiful, always resourceful — would never leave his partner hanging, stuck in a brick wall with her bare ass exposed.

And right before you pass out from the arrival of a second orgasm coming fast on the tail end of the first, you feel it:

Your hips finally sliding through the hole…

…and your head meeting the ground.

And one Dick Grayson muttering:

“Oh shit.”

Ahahahaha!!  Hope y'all enjoyed that ending! 🤣 Thank you so much for reading till the very end!  Much love to each and every one of you! For more juicy reads, please check out my P*a*t*reon page (please see link in pinned post)!

👀👉🏼 Feel free to peep the Masterpost here!

-XOXO, Otonny 💖🥰

"Caught Between a Wall and a Hard Dick (Grayson)" is copyright 2022 Otonymous, all rights reserved.

(Illustration taken from Nightwing Cover #88 by Bruno Redondo)

[starlessea]

𝙎𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙨 - Prologue 0. Closing Time

Series Masterlist: Step on the Gas

Summary: A dishonourable discharge from the military results in you being hauled off to live with your grandparents in the boonies, otherwise known as the middle of nowhere Georgia. After running over a nail on the road, and pushing your grandpa's vintage Camaro to the nearest auto-shop, you meet Daryl Dixon - the local mechanic. At some point, the world ends, but that stubborn man never gives you a chance to slow down. His smile gives you whiplash, but he still insists that you to step on the gas.

Words: 6286

Chapter Warnings: Language, Injury

The sky was empty — save for one bird.

Daryl watched it fly above him, so close to the ground that he could make out the beating of its wings and swore he saw individual feathers flutter in the breeze.

His fingers itched over his crossbow, as he contemplated shooting it down from the sky and plucking it clean. He'd have something to eat then, at least. Though, for some reason, Daryl Dixon couldn't bring himself to let loose his arrow, watching as the bird soared overhead — and disappeared beyond the trees.

The man sighed as he kicked up some loose stones with the toe of his boot. What a waste, he thought, before trudging through the field once again.

The sky remained cloudless for the rest of the day, existing as a pale, washed-out grey that made Daryl feel uncomfortable as he hunted. The game must have felt the same, since the deer he'd been tracking made itself scarce, and the string of squirrels hanging from his belt seemed no heavier than it had done when the sun rose that morning.

Still, he trekked onwards over the thick, winding grass and through damp forest overgrowth. He was nearly back at the quarry already, but he hardly had anything to show for it. A few measly rodents and a sprained ankle were barely worth his trip in the first place; they sure as hell wouldn't be enough for all of the mouths he now had to feed.

Daryl cursed at himself for hesitating to shoot that bird straight out of the sky, and clip its wings. It wasn't much, but maybe it would have lasted a day if he was lucky. Still, there was no use wondering now, since it had swooped so close to him that he almost felt the downward draft on his cheek — and then he let it fly away.

He thought that it had been a jaeger; it definitely looked like a seabird that had veered too far from the shore. It was a gull with a white breast and dark, blackish feathers — and a wingspan that made sure you couldn't miss it.

He remembered you pointing one out to him, at 3am, parked up on that deserted beach as the two of you stared out into the rocking ocean.

"Ya thinkin' 'bout 'er again, baby brother?"

Daryl could hear Merle's voice taunt, in the deepest, darkest corners of his thoughts.

"Tha' lil' birdie of yours?"

He quickly shook his head — even though it was the truth.

It had been Daryl's own mind that conjured up those words, after all. Merle wasn't actually here. He was probably back at the campsite, lazing about and leering after women far too good for a beaten-up redneck like him.

Though, funnily enough, Merle had said the exact same thing to Daryl when he noticed his gaze settling over the new bar server, who swiped away the froth spilling over from their draught beers. Merle had given him even more of an earful when he realised that his younger brother was waiting for her shift to end.

Daryl took a deep breath, before rolling his neck to try and relieve the tension that had built up there. Once his mind drifted into thoughts of you — even if only for a split second — it often sank to the point of no return.

You were all consuming; you had been from the first time he laid eyes on you in that old, country auto-repair shop.

He remembered the way your voice chirped like a bird's, despite the curses that often fell from your lips.

You even made those sound sweet.

And he could also recall the way you yelled over the rumble of his bike engine, and competed with the screeching that came from his tyres losing their grip on the worn-out tarmac.

You'd told him that it felt like you were flying — and that was probably the reason why Daryl Dixon couldn't shoot that jaeger.

Then, the man heard something louder than he had done since the world ended — and suddenly, the sky was no longer empty.

There was an explosion, and that dull greyness was set alight with brilliant hues of red and orange. It made fire start to rain down upon Daryl, who could only stand and watch below. Debris fell out of the sky like a meteor shower, landing beyond the trees in the distance — to a place that Daryl couldn't quite make out, no matter how much he squinted.

The air became full with the sounds of scraping metal and flickering flames that caught the leaves and made them burn up like the end of a cigarette. Daryl felt his heart race as the adrenaline pumped its way through his veins, and made him flinch each time something crashed heavily to the ground.

There was often a moment in a person's life where their brain got kick-started into gear — and they awoke from whatever auto-pilot they'd been functioning on until that point.

For most, it was probably a mundane milestone like marriage or parenthood.

For others, it might have been a life or death situation that made them re-evaluate their perspective.

For some, it had only happened when the world actually ended, and the apocalypse began.

And perhaps, if Daryl had been a smarter man, it would have been this instant — as he gazed up at the sky and watched it burn above him. Maybe this was his second life-changing realisation; maybe he was lucky enough to get two.

But, for Daryl, the first had just been a regular Tuesday.

The garage was sticky hot that day. It was the kind of heat that made you sweat no matter how many fans you had blowing — since Old man Dean was too cheap to install air conditioning. His boss was a bit of a stickler for paying his bills, and nit picky with his nickles, but he'd always been kind to Daryl.

That being said, working as a mechanic wasn't exactly where Daryl had pictured himself at his age; but then again, he couldn't really picture himself anywhere at all. He felt like that last piece of the jigsaw puzzle, which didn't quite fit in with the others — the one that you had to bend into shape just to make it work.

Sure, he enjoyed seeing the different bikes roll in and out of the shop — those models he would never be able to afford — and Daryl appreciated having a few extra dollars in his pocket for when Merle raided his savings to score some pot.

Besides, there wasn't much else to do in the boonies. Daryl's old man once told him that the only interesting thing to rear its ugly head out of Georgia's backyard in the last fifty years was Dean's Auto Shop. That's probably why Daryl started working there in the first place, as a summer job when he was teenager — and had never really left since.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, his old man had been right about one thing — despite the bastard never catching on to the role of father. He'd been right about the shop being the only interesting thing around.

Because it was the place where he met her.

And then she became the only thing in that small town even worth being interested in.

Daryl didn't hear a car pull up into the shop, but he heard the mumbling outside from where he sat in the breakroom — chewing on some of Dean's leftover pizza that was bordering on stale.

"Dixon, get your ass out here for a second, would you?" the old man yelled, banging on the thin wall that separated them with his fist.

Daryl cursed below his breath, throwing the rest of his food into the trash and dusting off his hands over his jeans. He stepped out into the shop, and was met by an unfamiliar face — looking over at him curiously.

He suddenly felt unexplainably nervous, and dropped his head down to his feet as though it were a reflex he didn't know he had.

"This is your guy," he heard Dean say, before letting out one of his usual chesty coughs.

The man smoked a pack a day too much — and that was coming from Daryl.

"Owner of that bike you've been eyeing, too," he went on.

That caught Daryl's attention, and he instantly glanced up at the woman in question. She was breath-taking, but she also looked very much out of breath. She seemed as though she had run here, despite the Georgia heat.

"You ride?" he asked, but his gruff voice made it sound like more of a demand.

He grimaced at his own tone, but the woman didn't seem bothered by it in the slightest.

She laughed, and it sounded like nothing he'd ever heard before. "I wish," she said, running her palm along the polished metal and tracing her finger over that shiny logo.

Usually, Daryl would bark at anyone who touched his bike, and Dean seemed as though he expected him to do just that — from the way he raised an eyebrow at the daring woman, too oblivious for her own good.

Except, Daryl stayed quiet.

"Was never allowed within a mile radius of one," she went on, before turning back around to grin at Daryl like it was easy. "My folks were scared I'd take off into the sunset, never to be seen again."

He could relate to that. After all, it was exactly what he and Merle had done as soon as they'd gotten the chance.

"Mhm," he hummed back, before glancing over at the car parked in the middle of the shop. "She's pretty."

It was a steel blue colour — would definitely benefit from a lick of paint, but still pretty nonetheless. The tread looked good on the tyres, and Daryl couldn't see any signs of the rusting those models were prone to. Someone had taken good care of it.

"Excuse me?" the woman asked, and suddenly Daryl was reminded of just how bad he was with words.

He cleared his throat, and ran his hand over the hood.

"Yer car," he explained, "'69 Chevy Camaro?"

Daryl asked, but he already knew the answer.

"Oh yeah, that," she replied, sending him an apologetic look. "It's my grandpa's, so we're going to have to be real discreet about this situation over here."

Daryl raised an eyebrow as she beckoned him to the other side of the car, crouching down near the wheel arch.

"Some bastard left a nail in the road, and I ran straight through the thing like it was a stop sign," she grumbled, pointing out the puncture.

Daryl almost laughed at that — but he was still much too jaded from being caught in the middle of his break.

The woman stood back up and toed the deflated tyre with her boot, scowling at the sight of it.

"I know you're closing soon, but I had to push it half a mile just to get here," she said, and wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

Suddenly, her appearance made sense. Since he'd first laid eyes on her, all she'd done was tug at the collar of her vest, and try to stand in front of one of those poor excuses for a fan. But even then, Daryl couldn't quite believe her story.

"Ain't no way ya pushed that thing 'ere by yerself." The words left his mouth before he could consider them twice.

And the look she shot Daryl in return made him want to take them straight back.

But then, she smiled.

"I'm stronger than I look," she protested, leaning against the hot car. "You can ask the dozen assholes who catcalled me on the way but never offered their help."

This time, Daryl did let out a chuckle.

"Damn lucky y'ain't pass out," he quipped back, "heat's no joke."

She grinned again, and Daryl wondered whether she had an endless supply — or if she'd saved them just for him.

"Tell me about it," the woman teased. "Never liked visiting Georgia because of it."

Then, it all made sense to Daryl — the reason why she intrigued him so much.

"Y'ain't from 'round here, are ya?" he asked, surprising himself.

Usually, he couldn't give a 'rat's ass', as Dean called it, about anyone who stumbled into their shop. Never did they get more than a half-hearted greeting from Daryl, or a grunt as he told them to mind their head on that low door frame (she didn't have that problem). Though today, he seemed oddly talkative.

"Haven't seen ya before," he added.

The woman folded her arms over her chest.

"Would you recognise me if you had?" she asked.

"E'erybody knows e'erybody in this place," he answered. "I'd remember if I saw ya cross the street."

It was partially the truth. Daryl knew most people — but he only bothered to remember a select few.

"Moved here last week," she caved, proving him right. "I'm keeping my grandparents company watching daytime cable and doing grocery runs."

Daryl smirked. "An' runnin' over nails with their car, apparently."

"That, too," she confessed.

It was silent for a few seconds, and Daryl realised that he should probably give her a quote for the job. Though, she interrupted him before he could.

"Listen, your new neighbour would be really grateful if you could cut her a break," she said, eyeing the Camaro like she was considering whether it was even worth the hassle. "The old man's going to kill me if I come home on foot tonight."

Daryl knew what she was asking. The notice in the shop window made it clear that they'd be closing in half an hour; Daryl had been all but ready to flip the sign himself. Before she'd arrived, he'd even dared to think that he could shut early — and possibly get to crack open a cold beer and enjoy the breeze of his porch.

He sighed.

"I'll see what I can do," Daryl mumbled, "but I ain't makin' no promises," he warned — as he caught the way her eyes lit up at his words.

But that was a lie. Daryl knew he wouldn't let himself go home until it was finished.

The woman was utterly gleeful. He watched her smile much too widely for her face, and for a moment Daryl thought that she might even jump at him. But she seemed to catch herself at the last second, and abruptly stopped.

She didn't falter long, though. "Thank you, thank you so much!" she said, excitedly, before pausing to tap at her jean pockets. "I don't have any cash on me for a deposit, but I'm heading to work now."

She looked sheepish as she explained herself.

"I'll come straight back and pay in full," she added, trying her best to convince him.

Daryl narrowed his eyes like he didn't quite understand. Then he did, and he laughed properly.

"Deposit?" he asked, shaking his head. "City girl, here we jus' keep yer vehicle if ya can't pay."

The woman's expression was priceless. She looked as though she couldn't figure out whether he was joking or not, and stared at Daryl with her mouth slightly agape as she debated which it was.

He couldn't watch any longer.

"Where ya workin'?" he asked.

Then, he cursed himself for doing so. Time was ticking on, and he already had to stay overtime because of his inability to say no. Well, usually he had no problem with the word; it just seemed like it was stuck in his throat today.

"Joe's bar," she replied. "It's a few blocks over and-"

"I know Joe's bar," Daryl interrupted.

Everybody knew Joe's. It was the only place around that sold a decent draught beer. He'd been going there since he was a teenager — younger than he should have been, but old enough to know better.

"Me an' my brother go there a lot, but I ain't seen you 'round."

She nodded.

"Only started a few days ago. Hopefully they don't fire me for being late."

Daryl glanced at the clock. It was approaching his closing time and her opening one.

"Ya better get runnin', Camaro," he noted, tapping at his watch that didn't even work. "Rush hour soon."

The woman narrowed her eyes at the nickname. Daryl didn't know her real one yet, and felt like it was too late to ask for it. He'd have to catch a glimpse of Dean's log book later to find out.

"Will do," she replied with a smile. "Thanks again, Dixon."

Though Daryl couldn't quite work out how she knew his name, either.

He watched her scurry about collecting her things, and walked her to the entrance. The sun was starting to set — leaving the sky a pinkish orange that only made him squint the more he looked at it. He held the door open for the woman, and heard Dean snort from the back of the shop. But the way she thanked him made it worth the teasing.

"Take care of that sixties Honda," she winked, "she's a real beauty."

Daryl was surprised that she knew the model of his bike, considering she'd never even ridden one.

"If only ya knew," he mumbled back as he saw her off. "Will take ya for a ride one time if yer willin'."

She stopped in place. Daryl didn't know why he said that. It had just slipped from his mouth like oil from a can.

The woman laughed and rolled her eyes like she didn't believe him.

"That's what they all say."

Then, she started to jog down the street — just like she said she would — and Daryl thought her crazy for even attempting it in this midsummer Georgia weather. That woman had entered the shop like a whirlwind, and when she left Daryl couldn't remember what he'd even been doing before.

Dean cleared his throat and threw a rag at him that he barely managed to catch.

"Keep it in your pants, boy."

Daryl scowled at the man; he knew him better than that. So, he didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply, and instead got started on setting the Camaro up on a jack.

"She's a beauty, I get it," Dean went on, despite his silence. "Her type don't belong in a place like this, that's for damn sure."

Daryl had to agree with him there. He'd gotten a glimpse of his reflection in the wing mirror of her car and grimaced. He had grease on his face, and part of him cursed Dean for not telling him before he'd left the breakroom.

"But you know Mike and Doreen?" the old man asked, and Daryl nodded. "That's their granddaughter."

Daryl furrowed his brow — not realising he'd done it until he caught himself in the glass once again. Mike was a hard man, the type to straighten out any kinks in a person with brute force and that baby boomer spite.

"She may be real pretty, kid, but that one's trouble," Dean noted, confirming his suspicions.

He ignored the way he called him 'kid'. The old man still hadn't grown out of the habit — despite Daryl being well beyond his teenage years now.

"Trouble?" he repeated, like he couldn't quite comprehend the word being associated with someone like that.

Dean chuckled — but it turned into one of those coughs that made Daryl wince.

"Maybe more so than you," he said. "Got kicked out of the military, I heard."

Daryl spat at the floor, and Dean laughed again. They both hated those military dogs who often paraded through their town, looking at them as though they were trash beneath their government-issued boots.

But, if she'd been kicked out then maybe they could find some common ground.

Old man Dean wagged his finger at him, recognising Daryl's no-good expression; he'd become familiar with it by now, from all the times he'd worn it throughout the years.

"So don't go losing your head over her, Dixon," he cautioned, pretending not to know how good Daryl was at throwing caution to the wind.

"And remember to close up before you leave."

But it was too late.

Daryl had already lost his head, and his heart — but he wouldn't know that the latter was missing for a very long time.

You ran the cloth along the oak bar surface, wiping away any sticky beer rings that had been left there.

This is why we have coasters, you sighed.

It had been a slow Tuesday night, but you'd somehow still been roped into working the close. You tried to tell your boss that you were having car troubles, and had plans to stop by the garage on your way home — but he seemed to prioritise his own date over yours.

Well, you wouldn't exactly call giving the local mechanic his cheque a date; usually, you didn't have to pay for those. But you couldn't deny how it had made you feel when he smiled that smile your way — so small that you'd almost missed it — before you took off running out the door.

It gave you whiplash.

Perhaps he was just being friendly. But, then again, he didn't seem like the naturally friendly type. You shook your head, throwing the beer-soaked rag into the sink. You didn't trust that man in the slightest.

That wasn't a new development, really; you didn't trust most men. And, you often found that the ones who made your heart race like that were the worst of them all. He was trouble, that one, and you'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.

You untied the double knot of your apron, and folded it up neatly. There were a few whiskey stains on it — you'd caught a whiff of that top-shelf scent a few times now — but you were already too late to even consider putting it in the wash. Instead, you left it at the end of the bar, and swapped it out for the ring of keys lying there.

It was closing time, and you prepared yourself to run three blocks in the dark. You stepped out into the night, feeling the cool breeze on your cheek as opposed to the midday heat that had been there when your shift started. You flipped the latch and turned the key in the lock until you heard it click.

Then, you held them between your knuckles so that the jagged edge poked out.

"Ya done for the night?" a voice came from the shadows, and your heart dropped.

That brief second lasted a lifetime as the blood rushed to your ears like a strong current through running water, and your grip tightened over those keys. But then, you noticed the reflection in the glass panels of the door — and relaxed.

"Jesus, you scared the shit out of me," you scolded the man, "thought you were a dejected patron tryna jump me or something."

Perhaps he was; you still didn't know any better.

Dixon was leaning against that dingy brick wall, opposite the back door of Joe's Bar. You didn't even know what that other building was — but some sketchy figures usually loomed about it, so you tried to stay clear.

Maybe he didn't get the memo, you thought.

"Tha' happen before?" the man asked back, casually.

Though, the dim street lights overhead illuminated his face, and you caught a glimpse of his serious expression before he let it drop. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers — almost smoked down to the butt already — and it made you wonder just how long he'd been waiting for you.

"Maybe once or twice," you laughed, but it didn't sound as natural as you had intended.

You noticed the man's eyes flicker down towards the keys held between your knuckles, and you quickly slipped them into your jean pocket — hoping that he wouldn't pry. Luckily, he didn't seem like the type to unnecessarily butt into other people's business.

The smoke trailed from his lips and caught the stark light of the street lamp. He almost looked cold — bathed in that bluish tint which made those cigarette fumes seem nearly luminescent.

"You here to make sure I don't run off with your paycheck?" you teased, fishing out the wad of bills from your back pocket.

You waved them at him, and considered how precarious the situation may seem to an onlooker if they happened to pass by. The man looked as though he felt the same, since he quickly glanced over his shoulder down the alleyway — checking to make sure you were alone.

"Don't worry, Dixon, I busted my ass tonight just so I could leave you a nice tip," you said with a smile, handing the money to him.

He took it, slowly, as though he had to remind himself what it was even for.

Then, he let that cigarette butt fall to the floor, and stamped it out with his boot — before dragging it along the concrete until it was nothing but embers.

The man shook his head at you. "'M here on behalf of the welcome committee."

You snorted as you processed his words, and followed him out of that narrow alleyway into the main street.

"Bullshit," you called, "as if-"

You rounded the corner after him, and stopped. He was there, leaning against that pristine sixties Honda bike — spare helmet in hand.

It was parked up on the sidewalk, polished metal glinting in all its glory under those neon lamps. Dixon was almost camouflaged against it — his black leather jacket also speckled with white light. He held out that helmet, as if it were an invitation he was waiting for you to accept.

But he seemed shy — as though acutely aware that it was only an invite, and nothing more. So, you took it, and shook your head as you realised that it wasn't his spare helmet he had offered you; it was his only helmet.

"Said I'd take ya," he murmured, fastening the strap gently under your chin.

It was too big, so the man compensated by tying it tighter until you felt like your jaw was wired shut. But, you just smiled.

"An' I ain't no liar," he said when he was done, and kicked his leg over the bike.

Then, you sped off into the night.

You yelled over the sound of the engine for him to go faster, and laughed as you had to spit out the stray hairs that had blown into your mouth. Your clothes whipped in the wind, too, and you clung to the man in front of you as though you were afraid they might catch the draft, and make you fly away. It was electrifying; your whole body felt like pure static as you rode past shop displays and windows that made your reflections look like hazed blurs.

That whole trip felt like a hazed blur, really, because suddenly you were there.

"Where are we?" you asked, unsure of where 'there' even was. "Why'd we stop?"

You pulled the helmet from your head and cocked your leg over the bike. The man let out a chuckle at the sight of your hair, sticking up from the static — as though lightning might strike at any moment.

"Smoke break," Dixon grumbled, before coaxing out the squashed cardboard packet from his jeans. "You want one?" he asked, offering it to you.

You shook your head; you didn't smoke.

He shrugged in response, cupping his hands to his face to get a flame from his lighter. You left him to it, and turned away from the bike to catch the view.

And what a view it was, indeed.

You hadn't even noticed the sounds of the lapping ocean waves before you saw them. The cliff overlooked the beach below, desolate, with a high tide that drew the shore into you. Your grandmother had told you about this place once, on the phone a few months back as she tried to sell rural Georgia to you.

It wasn't like you were given much of a choice, anyway.

But now that you'd been shipped out here — against your will, no doubt — you had to admit that she'd been partly right. It was breath-taking. Back in the city, a place like this would be littered with beer cans and tacky, disposable barbeques within a week of someone posting about it online. Here, however, it looked untouched.

It was as though the two of you were the first to ever set foot here, on this particular crag that overlooked the waves — leaving your footprints alongside tyre treads for the next pioneers to discover.

You glanced back at Dixon over your shoulder — who was busy trying to look as though he wasn't already looking at you — and smiled.

He was one hell of a welcome committee.

Daryl almost choked on the fumes of his cigarette — letting out a cough that reminded him of the way old man Dean spluttered in the mornings. He really needed to kick that habit, he thought, and snubbed out his cigarette on the ground.

Then, you scowled at him, so he picked the butt back up and stuffed it into his pocket, grimacing at the thought of having to clean it up later.

He had been lying about the smoke break, really, but then he needed to carry out his excuse. Initially, he'd only thought about picking you up from the bar and offering you a ride back to the shop. He hadn't the slightest clue of how that plan had become this.

Somewhere along the way, Daryl might have accidentally taken a wrong turn, and ended up in the most scenic place he would think of. Stupid damn street signs, he cursed, as though he hadn't driven those roads a hundred times before.

Camaro seemed to call him out on his bluff, too, since she turned to face him and immediately shook her head.

"You're lying," she said, as though she were certain, "but the view is extraordinary, so I'll forgive you just this once."

Daryl swallowed thickly, tasting the tobacco that had made his throat so dry. For someone who claimed himself not to be a liar, that was all he seemed to be doing today.

Then, he watched you make your way towards the edge of that cliff, like you couldn't even hear him warning you to be careful. It was like you weren't paying him the slightest attention. Daryl was used to that from women — but somehow, this was different.

You didn't look down on him, nor at him with any hint of prejudice for wearing jeans still coated in oil, and boots he'd had to tape the soles of just to keep them together. In fact, you weren't looking at him at all. You seemed far more concerned with the stars that flickered in the night sky above you, but at the same time grateful towards the man for having brought you to them.

"You treat all your customers like this, Dixon?" you asked him.

He watched you turn around and look at him like you'd only just remembered that he was there. But, then you beamed a smile at him so bright that it put the stars to shame — and made all of your other ones look dim in comparison.

"Y'ain't special," he grumbled, shaking his head. "Jus' given' ya a lift home 'cos Dean told me to."

Though, Dean had left the shop hours ago.

Daryl watched you laugh like you'd caught him out one more time.

"There you go again," you said, teasingly. "Do you ever tell the truth?"

No, he didn't. He always tried to, but oftentimes it never did him any good. The people of this town had already made the assumption that he was a natural born liar. You were the first person to ever make the distinction between his white lies and those other types.

All his life, Daryl had been pigeon-holed into the role of good for nothing redneck, and had only recently graduated to the slightly less stereotyped town mechanic. But that night it was as if someone, for the first time, tried to get a peek at whatever was underneath.

Old man Dean was right. You were trouble — but not for the reason he had said. You were trouble because you seemed entirely unaware of your place in the world, and it made Daryl start to question his own. You seemed nice — perhaps even lovely — but Daryl never trusted those types. He knew you were far too good to be wasting away the early hours of the morning with the likes of him — and it left him wondering what exactly you wanted.

You'd already paid for his services, after all.

"Thank you for letting me see the stars again," you breathed, stretching your neck which ached from staring at the sky. "It's been a while."

Back then, Daryl didn't quite understand what that meant. He'd thought perhaps that you'd been talking about city pollution.

On the way back, Daryl felt you cling onto him tightly as he drove through empty roads, and passed the old, flickering street lights that blinked like camera flashes. But, when his fingers accidentally brushed up against yours, as you both reached for the shop door, you pulled your hand away.

It had only been a random Tuesday — that had eventually rolled into a Wednesday by the time he'd gotten you back into your repaired Camaro — but that was the moment in his life where Daryl felt like he had finally woken up.

But even awake, he often found himself lost in daydreams of the woman who crash landed into his life, and disappeared from it just as quickly as she came.

Daryl followed the trail of debris that had fallen from the sky, as though he were tracking some giant, metal bird. He didn't want to stick around too long, given that the noise had probably attracted every damn walker in the area; he just hoped that he was still far enough away from camp that they wouldn't be drawn there.

He stepped over the hunks of hot wreckage, some of it still ablaze, until he eventually came across something soft and not made of metal.

It was that jaeger. It was dead.

It looked as though it had been struck straight out of the sky. Its feathers lay scattered around it — the white breast now red with blood — and its wing was bent at a crooked angle, broken.

Daryl scowled. If he'd known that it was going to have such a meaningless death, then he would have shot it himself. Though, he still didn't add the bird to his string of dead animals; he thought that it had suffered enough.

He continued onwards through the brush until he stumbled across what he'd been looking for. But even as he saw it with his own eyes, Daryl couldn't quite believe it. Before him was the husk of a downed helicopter, burning in the middle of the forest.

Immediately, he ran to it, tripping over the wreckage as it got thicker and harder to navigate.

Though, there was no pilot inside — only radios and machinery parts that Daryl didn't know the names of. They screeched high frequency sounds as they caught on fire, and it made his ears ring the longer he listened.

So, he turned back.

That was when he saw it — them — a few meters away. His stomach dropped. Guess that's the pilot, he thought, looking up at the body tangled in the trees.

He'd never seen a parachute in real life before — only ever in the movies. He'd also never understood how that flimsy material could stop someone from plummeting to their death.

Well, in this case it hadn't.

The pilot was dangling from one of the branches, all caught up in those wire cables like a fish on a line. The limbs were contorted awkwardly, and Daryl swallowed thickly at the sight of their arm which had definitely been broken — reminding him of that miserable jaeger's wing.

He'd been all but ready to turn around and leave. The smell of burning rubber and the white noise from those radios would probably keep him up for the next few nights, but there was nothing he could do about that.

He'd been all but ready to turn around and leave, but then the body spoke to him.

"Dixon?" he heard it gasp.

And Daryl wondered just how many impossible things he might encounter today.

The voice startled him, and he almost stumbled over his own foot in return. Walkers couldn't speak, and they surely wouldn't know his name, either. Then, he caught the slightest movement, and recognised a jacket much too familiar. It had been his, after all, before he'd given it to you.

The pilot groaned, and Daryl recognised that tone of voice, too. He quickly fumbled about for his pocket knife, not even stopping to consider how the hell he'd be able to cut you down.

He couldn't even comprehend how you were alive-

"How's it hanging?" the voice spluttered.

-and how you'd kept that same god awful sense of humour.

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A/N I’ve tried so hard to post this, sorry for all the technical difficulties...

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “Revelation.”

This needed to be done. I know I went a different direction than a lot of you were expecting, but I thought it was best. If you want my reasoning for anything I will be happy to answer. 

It took him a second to figure out what was going on. Ramirez let him go and stepped back his dark amber eyes crinkled with concern. Turning his head to look around the rest of the room, he saw the others, Sunny, Krill, Katie, Three adaptids, Maverick, Jackie, Narobi, and his dog all staring at him with expressions of concern and frustration.

Krill stepped forward to say something, but as the little creature was doing so, he felt something as his mind and body finally caught up with each other. Heat rushed into his face and head as he was overcome with near blinding rage.

He stepped away from Ramirez, chest beginning to rise and fall heavily. He felt his face contort as his skin reddened with blood. His hands clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. He was so mad he could barely think. How dare they invade his privacy like this, go into his room and search through his things, and then confront him.

He wanted to scream at them, to throw things to march across the room and grab one of them by the throat.

But he was too angry even for that.

The rational part of his mind, which was barely functioning at the moment gave him one more option.

He turned on his heel and marched right out the door. A red hue had taken up his vision encroaching in from the darkness bleeding into silhouettes. He felt like his arms begin to tingle. His body was too light as adrenaline rushed through him. His head was light, his legs were light.

Footsteps behind him, “Adam!”

No, he knew what would happen if they caught up, and he was at least rational enough to avoid that. He sped up his pace listening to the footsteps behind him, they sped up to, and he broke into a flat sprint.

No one could keep up with him in a sprint, the repurposed steel-eye prosthetic he wore would make sure of that. The only two people that had a hope of catching him were Maverick and Rmirez, and even they couldn’t match high performance machinery. 

He raced through the ship leaving the people he passed barely enough time to register he was there before he was gone again. He burst out into the cargo bay and pelted down the ramp. He ran as hard as he could as fast as he could until he could barely breathe and then skidded to a halt.

He had made it to the side of the launch feild, where there was nothing more than grassy knolls and distant electric fences to keep prying eyes away. No one was here and the closest figures were merely back dots moving about the tarmac  He paused here pacing one way and then the other. His hands shook.

WIth no relief he turned his head back and screamed, ripping the cap off his head and throwing it to the ground as he sunk to his knees on the grass and dirt. His uniform pants were likely to get stained, but he didn’t care.

Moving from angry to despondent, he stared out at the launch field as tiny black silhouettes crawled across it like ants on a nest. The Sun was growing low behind him casting his shadow long over the grassy knoll. 

A shadow appeared  distantly, and he watched it as it snaked its way up the tarmack turning towards him. He flipped up his eyepatch to get a better look zooming in on the figure.

Waffles zig-zagged over the tarmac, her nose twitching as she snuffled at the ground, her tail in a low wag her ears back.

Surprisingly he felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. 

She continued to follow her nose lifting it on occasion until she saw him silhouetted against the sky and ran towards him pausing a few feet away. He frowned watching as she tucked her tail so far between her legs that it was touching the underside of her belly. Her ears were back as she approached him, her nose still twitching ears flat against her head.

What was wrong with her?

She scooted forward some more crawling onto his knees and pressing her snout against him like she was supposed to do when he was having an attack. 

She must be malfunctioning, he was fine

He pushed her off, but she returned hesitantly a moment later trying so hard to get him to respond.

“I’m fine dumb dog.” He snarled pushing her away again.

Her big dark eyes didn’t understand. She was just trying to do her job.. 

She was worried.

He tried keeping her away, but ever time he moved, or pushed her away shed come right back behaving how she was taught when responding to significant mental distress. He tried scooting back, but she followed him forward eventually growing frustrated herself and using the last thing in her arsenal she had.

She crawled on top of him and then just lay down flat on his chest pinning him to the ground chin resting on his neck.

He could have pushed her off, but lying there in the grass staring up at the blue sky he was slowly coming to a realization. The dog whimpered from where she lay against him, her ears still flat against her head.

Dogs didn’t lie.

They couldn’t.

And she was acting like he was having a serious episode. He didn’t feel like he was but, then again what was he doing here lying in the grass after running away from his ship. The anger faded, replaced with guilt, first guilt for treating her so poorly, thinking about how hard she was working and how ungrateful he was being made his eyes tingle with moisture. 

“I’m sorry girl.” he whispered, stroking her ears, running his hands through the fur on the side of her neck, “I’m so sorry.” she whined, “Your not dumb, of course you aren’t. You’re the smartest girl in the galaxy and I’m….I’m the idiot.” He continued to stroke her ears apologizing repeatedly until she started nuzzling at his chest again.

Right, no obsessive thoughts, even if it was to apologize to your own dog who you were being a massive dick to.

He stroked her ears some more and told her she was a good girl instead. Slowlyher tail began to wag beating against his leg, and she stepped off of him letting him sit up, though she imposed herself right before him as he sat.

He continued to stroke his hands through her fur, and she closed her eyes.

“So, thinking about all of this, there was only one option.” He said to her, her tail thumped more at the sound of his voice, “You seem to think I am in significant psychological distress, but I don’t feel like I am, and the conclusion to that only means that I….. well it means you’re right and I’m wrong.”

She snorted as if she agreed.

Her ears had perked back up.

He looked up at the sky closing his eyes as he tried to take a few deep breaths. What did he feel?

“Well, I am stressed, out of my mind stressed. I don’t think it’s anything big honestly, but it all sort of compounded.” Waffles continued to listen, “Started with the Burg war and putting that suit back on, fucked me up, and it probably wasn’t the best idea.” He looked into her deep brown eyes, “We could have just set up some kind of rocket launcher at the opening and then killed them all without stepping foot inside. I never had to put the suit on.” his voice faded away as he continued to think, “It’s like I feel like I have to do everything because it's better if I die than other people do.” 

She grumbled.

“Yeah I know, doesn't make sense.” She rested her head on his lap as he continued to talk outloud to her, “Why do I feel like I have to save the universe single handedly. There are thousands of men and women, multiple ships and other captains who can help do all of these things .” He glanced down at the dog again, “I may be the fleet commander which by default makes all the things I said earlier true, but…. I keep trying to do everything myself. It’s not physically possible, and I know that.”

He listened to the sound of jets roaring overhead, “And while I’m at it, I blame myself for everything too. Took a freaky ass ghost or whatever the hell to tell me to knock that the fuck off. What else do I blame myself for?”

He sat there thinking for a long time waffles listening intently with her head cocked.

“I need to change things. I need a structure I can rely on so that I can do my job better, and everyone else has a chance to do their job too. I need people who are smarter than me to advise decisions and workout problems because next thing you know I’ll be trying to fix the ship myself, and that would be a disaster.”

The dog’s tongue lolled from her mouth as she panted. 

That was good, she only did that if she was relaxed.

“And I’m still not alright. I’m stressed and my PTSD is returning, but I think that has more to to with the stress than the PTSD itself. I got over the war years ago, and I can be over the cannibal if Iwan’t. I SHOULD be over the prison thing, and it isn’t my fault that someone took my DNA to create an entire herd of hybrids….. I will help them, but that doesn't mean I have to take care of them as much as it hurts me to say that since I still feel responsible.” 

He tapped his feet on the dirt, “I’m close to cracking, and if I crack….”

He stood rubbing his temples. “I need a different perspective, someone who is less emotionally attached than me.”

Waffles fell into step beside him, “No one who is too emotionally invested so that gets rid of Sunny, and Krill for sure. I want someone who can be serious with me without sounding like they are lecturing. Ramirez, Katie, Narobi, and Jackie are out. Conn was never an option. He can read my mind so maybe I’ll talk to him later about what my real problem is, but I think I need some blunt straight to the face advice. A second opinion that’s not afraid to crack down and tell me I’m being an idiot….. I don’t need understanding right now. I need to be told off.”

The dog looked up at him, “And I think I know just the person.”

***

The door to the ship’s chapell hissed open casting light over him as he sat contemplating the books stacked on on the self to the side of him, from where he sat on one of the pews. He reached out and picked the top one up flipping through it absently. 

Waffles lay at his feet napping.

The footsteps behind him paused as the door hissed closed, and then they approached up the aisle.

“How do you think he did it? Walk on water I mean? That would be a cool trick.”

Maverick paused at the end of the pew eyebrow raised, “Are you done with your little tantrum?”

He smiled as he turned to look at her, “Yes, I am done with my tantrum.”

She took a seat at the end of the pew hands clasped on her lap.

“In fact that’s why I came here to talk to you.”

She looked skeptical, “Talk to me or at me.”

He shook his head, “No… I… Waffles helped me realized that you guys are right, I’m not alright, and now I need a place to go from here.”

“Finally.” She grumbled.

He smiled, “Go on let's hear it.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Do what.”

“Give me permission to give you one of my lectures.”

He tilted his head, “Your what?”

“I have this habit of coming up with just what exactly I would say to people when I’m going on a run or taking a shower. They are really mean so I usually don’t say them.”

“Go on.”

“Your funeral,” She muttered as she stood, “Your being an idiot, a selfish idiot.” 

That was a good start.

“Everything with you is about me, me, me. I have to save the world, I have to win the battle, I have to get everything done all the time. It's a shitty way to act and it makes the rest of the crew feel like you don’t trust them, and then when we try to help you just blow us off like you can handle it. Which I might not care about so much if you had proven that you CAN handle it. But no you get all heroic and sad like no one understands what it means to worry about the galaxy. Like the rest of us don’t stay up at night wondering if the burg are going to come back, and this time with better weapons. I don’t give a ship about what you do with your free time or how you commander our ship, you can do it in heelies wearing a funny hat if that's what you need to stay relaxed, but right now you're not commanding a ship, you  you….. You know what you really are.”

He waited wide eyed.

“You are a total control freak.”

He blinked not having expected that.

“That’s it. You have to have your hand in absolutely everything don’t you.” he went to open his mouth but she held out a finger, “No, shut up and let me finish. You are a total control freak, yeah you are the Commander but that doesn't mean you control everything. You’re like the president, your job isn’t to control everything, its to veto dumbass ideas and make quick decisions, while everyone else does their job and reports to you on the more important stuff. You behave like a child wanting everything your way all the time, and then when it doesn't you throw a fit and run off to do whatever you want anyway. It makes it hard for the rest of us to work, and we worry about you, a lot. You are a good commander, and I think with some work you could be the best, but you need to figure something out soon because if you crack and go psycho, everyone else is going to suffer for it. We need you commander, but not in the way you think we do.”

She went quiet

He waited.

“I’m done.”

“Ok cool.” he took a deep breath, “First thing’s first. I need to rework our system.

***

He stood nervously at the head of the command deck a notebook in hand. He had tried to do his work on a tablet but found that writing by hand gave him more clarity. He had been up all night working, but not in a bad way, thi felt good, like he was moving towards something. A good portion of the crew had been assembled, most of the upper echelon officers and some of their seconds.

A soft murmuring rose up from the group, and scanning his eyes over them he could see where Sunny stood at the back of the room her arms crossed over her chest. Krill floated beside her with Dr. Katie.

As far as he could tell everyone was here, so he cleared his throat and allowed the room to quiet. They were sitting at the tables in the mess hall, and he tried to just stand in front of them but found he wanted to see their faces, so he stepped up onto the bench to get a better look.

“Alright everyone, quiet down. Now the sooner we get this over with the sooner I can have a nap.”

Half chuckle form the crowd.

“It has come to my attention recently that this crew needs a bit of an…. Administrative overhaul. We are a mess, and that is mostly…. Well no it is entirely my fault, and I know a lot of what I am going to say is probably a no brainer for most of you, but just bare with me for a few minutes.” He adjusted his notes, “I haven't been trusting you with your own work, and I am sorry for that. As you can probably tell, I have an issue with thinking things through before I do them, but that is something I will be working on.” He turned to look at them, “So what I have done, and what I should have done a long time ago is give the department heads complete charge of their departments.”

The group shifted, “That means all requisitions, staffing, internal problems, all of those will be covered by the department head. I don’t want to know about it unless there is a problem that only I can fix. So If you are missing equipment take it to the quartermasters and their requisitions office,and they, not me, will determine if we have it in our budget.” he turned to the chief quartermaster, “I am honestly putting the most work on you, because I am expecting that you acquire all the equipment this ship needs to keep running including food, ammunition and spare parts. You’ll have to work closely with engineering in order to get all of that done. I want all the departments speaking closely with each other. 

He lifted his head and looked back at Sunny, “Sunny.”

He lifted her head.

“As chief weapons specialist and one of our experts on close combat. I will be giving control over to you on battlefield tactics. That’s what Drev generals do isn’t it?”

SHe seemed surprised.

He turned to look at cannon, “Cannon the Drev clan’s needs are yours, I need you to make sure you guys have everything you need. If there are disputes, you determine how to settle them.”

He sighed, “I do expect full reports from each of the department heads where you will make it clear if there is anything you need me to do, but otherwise, this ship needs to be able to function without me sticking my nose in everyone’s business. If I do, you have full permission to tell me to fuck rite off. Though as commander I reserve the right to Veto any decision you make if I think it will be detrimental to the ship or two the mission, furthermore, there are a lot of people in this room much smarter than me, so I am going to use that, and i am putting together a council of sorts, kind of like the jedi council, and you are going to help me make decisions. I need all of your knowledge and perspective if I want to lead this ship correctly or even the fleet?”

There was a surprised muttering in the crowd.

“Now we will be on leave for the next few months, which give you time to think on this project a little if you are worried, but I have a feeling you guys can handle it alright. Anyway, get on out of her, go home, and make sure to get those psych evals and physicals sent to dr Krill in a timely fashion.” He looked over at the doctor, “You will be in charge of determining who is and is not ready for active duty, also I will be hiring a few new hands as an attachment to the medical department. We need to expand psych, get a real psychiatrist for how crazy you all are.” He smiled as the group chuckled, and he stepped down from his chair.

The room slowly emptied leaving only a few people left…. The same people for earlier.

Sunny was still quiet and Dr. katie had her arms crossed.

He sighed and walked forward, “I’m sorry about earlier.” he said to them.

“You should be?”

“And what about getting yourself help?” 

He turned to glance at Maverick, “I had a discussion with Mav earlier, because i thought she would be the most brutally honest with me…. She was. I will be doing a psych eval, but towards the end of leave.”

More frowning.

“I won’t be seeing a psychiatrist.” he raised his hands as the group began to mutter, “No it's alright, I've thought it through, and I have determined that for me it isn’t the best course of action. Medication has never been for me either. I know it's helpful for most people, but I just need to relax, clear my head and find a way to relieve stress. So, I’m going home for a few months.”

They still seemed skeptical, but they relaxed enough not to argue.

Ramirez seemed the first person to accept his apology and smiled, “Well good luck commander.”

A few other murmurs rose up from his friends.

He looked at Sunny, “I promise, when I get bac. I will be better, and I will do better.”  

“

[lollercakesff]

And They Were Strangers

Jyn Erso has been prepping for this for months. Years even, if you count the endless hours she'd spent running pools and hosting watch nights with her college roommates. She'd choreographed hundreds of dollars in auctions for remaining teams and had led multiple nights where her and her friends cooked their way around the world with the country of the week. The memories were great, sure, but to say she didn't feel a connection with this path in her life would be a lie. Something drew her in, tied her up, and convinced her that this - this - was the thing she needed to do before she died.

And now it was time. She was ready. Mentally… Physically… Hopefully.

AN: Will I finish writing this? I have a plan... But is it worth my time?

But the path to her next adventure was currently being blocked by some too-tall goon with haphazard hair and piercing dark eyes who kept getting in her way. First at check in, then in line for security, and now at the boarding gate. They’d practically been together, crossing paths and crashing each other, since she entered this damn airport and it was starting to really get to her. 

"Are you planning on getting on this plane or just standing in the way?" Jyn growls under her breath when the man doesn't move forward with the gate agent's call.

"What - Oh," he leaps forward a step and hustles towards the woman, pulling his passport from his pocket as Jyn sighs and checks her papers again. 

Her new American passport feels heavy in her hand, its empty pages a sign of things to come. She was on her way to Los Angeles where she was scheduled to show up at her first and only briefing for the next season of the Amazing Race. The producers had promised a full day of orientation covering the rules of the race and how the team match up would work before the "trip of a lifetime" began the next day. She was trying not to stress about it but she didn't quite know what she was getting into. 

This was the first season where every team in the race would be a set of strangers. They'd all meet at the briefing but it wouldn't be until the start of the race when they'd learn who their partner was. The producers had billed it as the season of 'fate' where they tried to pick a winning team by pure dumb luck with names drawn from a hat. Or so she'd been told. Who knew how it would really work.

"Next!" The agent calls and Jyn scurries forward, passing her documents over and brushing her bangs from her face. In another second she's motioned through and she's heading down the gangway and onto the plane. 

When she gets to her seat her frustration returns tenfold as the man from before has settled himself in her seat by the window, his seatbelt already clipped and his attention turned towards the action on the tarmac. 

"Hey, you're in my seat," she greets, stuffing her duffle in the overhead bin.

"F? Window?" He answers with an almost-accent and a quirk to his lips. Jyn frowns and steps into the row to let the people behind her pass.

"Yes. That's my seat, can you move please?" 

"I was sure I had the window, I feel claustrophobic if I can't see out - "

"Yeah, I'm sure. Can you check your boarding pass?" She asks, cutting his sob story off before it can even get started. 

"Can't I just have it this one time? It's a short flight," he answers, making no move to relent. Jyn sighs and drops into the seat next to him, her eyes closing tight as she urges the irritation to ease. 

"Fine. But this is bad karma and I hope it comes back to bite you in the ass, asshole," she grumbles the last part, determined to insult him but not loud enough to cause a scene. The man coughs as if to hide a laugh and Jyn hates him even more, pulling up her hood and taking out her headphones.

She was going to spend the next two hours in a music haven, mentally far from this man and the constant bumping of her elbow that came from sitting in the aisle row. Soon she'd be in LA at her hotel and then she'd be on to a new country, with a new language and culture that she'd have to work with to get her team to the finish line. Then she’d do it again and again until they won. Or they lost. She didn't like to think about that last possibility so instead she closes her eyes and hits play.

---

The hotel bed is more luxurious than anything she's ever slept in in her life and when she wakes it's with a curse as she realizes she's almost late to the briefing. Hustling around the room, she nearly crashes onto the floor when her pants get tangled and she loses her balance. Cursing out her alarm, her beautiful sleep, and the time difference, Jyn pulls on her t-shirt just as she pulls open her door and slams into someone walking past her room.

"Shit, sorry!” She gasps as she rights herself and pulls back. When she looks up it’s to find the man from the plane. The one who wouldn’t give her back her seat. The one who’d been a pain in the ass all day. “You!” The man’s eyes widen and he looks around him like he’s being Punk’d, surprise in his brow. 

“From the plane?” He counters, as if he was still struggling to place her. 

“Yeah. What, are you following me? How did you know to find me here?” Jyn growls, crossing her arms. The man cocks his head and furrows his brow, looking at her as though she was crazy. 

“Follow you? I’m here for… A thing that has nothing to do with you. If anything, I’d think you’re stalking me,” he adds sharply. Jyn scowls and shakes her head, her watch beeping with her five minute alarm. 

“Sure. Fine, whatever. I won’t be here long enough to have this happen again. Have a good life!” She shouts as she hurries off down the hall, her hand flung up into the air and her middle finger pointed towards him. 

She takes the stairs down to the conference room because getting stuck in the elevator with that jerk would put her nerves over the edge, their already frayed status from the late wakeup making her more punchy than usual. By the time she barrels into the room and grabs a plate of the breakfast, the producer is calling everyone to a seat. 

Jyn moves towards an empty chair and begins measuring up her fellow racers, her eyes drifting over one person and then the next as they settle in a semi-circle around the speaker. Some of them were incredibly fit, others a bit paunchy but she figured they could probably take her in a memory challenge or two if it came down to it. Most of them were on the younger side, maybe in their twenties or thirties, though there were a few who easily slotted into their fifties at the very least. She didn’t want to be ageist but she secretly hoped she’d get paired with someone who could keep up with her at the very least and she didn’t really peg any of these older folks as marathoners. 

“Welcome, good morning everyone!” A young woman calls out, drawing their attention to the front of the room. Jyn sits up and nimbles on a muffin, trying to look intimidating to the others around her who she assumed were doing the measuring up as she had just been. 

“You’re in my seat,” a voice says over her shoulder. Jyn’s stomach drops and she frowns, looking back to find the man from the airplane and the hallway standing behind her. “Don’t worry though, I’m not going to make you move, I’ll just take this empty one here.” 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Jyn hisses, clenching her hands and nearly crushing her muffin to pieces. 

“Nope,” he responds as he sits in the chair next to her. An insult is on the tip of her tongue when the woman calls out again and really takes control of the room, beginning with a welcome spiel before moving right into the security briefing. After the team has explained every terrifying aspect about the world in explicit detail, Jyn looks around the room and finds half of the contestants with a concerned look on their faces, the other half grinning wickedly at the challenge. Beside her the man keeps his expression reserved though his eyes are calculating, the look making her guess whether he was regretting his choice or simply bored. 

After the welcome session, they’re broken up into groups of four and are led to a table in the corner of the room. Jyn sighs a breath of relief as the man is placed in another group, his presence finally dissipating and allowing her to focus on the tasks at hand instead of the prickling skin she felt whenever he was close. 

Hours pass and the contestants are moved around the room to different stations where they focus on different aspects of the game. There’s logic tests and geography quizzes which she passes with flying colours but when it comes to the language skills and memory games she flounders, her attention twisting towards her fellow contestants. She spends half the time trying to measure up where they stand on these activities, who would be best suited to the way she wanted to run this race. 

Her strategy - based on years of watching the show - was to run with brute force. She would power through on the physical challenges and when it came to figuring out a puzzle she was set. She just needed a partner who would be able to keep up and rush into everything just as hard. Smarts weren’t what won you the race, it was being able to push your way through anything and she had trained to do just that. 

“Everyone now has an hour for lunch. Feel free to get to know each other and remember, these folks might be your competition or they might just be the person you cross that finish line with!” The producer from earlier calls as the stations are closed and the participants are left to loiter in the room. 

Jyn feels like she’s in a social experiment as she beelines towards the food table to take a plate. She loads it up with everything she’s going to miss for the next few weeks - caesar salad and french fries and pasta salad that looked too delicious to miss. When she settles at a table she’s quickly joined by a handful of others, the conversation easily picking up from the morning activities.

“I’m Bodhi Rook, you?” The man sitting next to her says around a forkful of salad. Jyn looks him over quickly and notes his tall frame and long hair, his thin frame and open expression. He could be a good partner - she’d seen him race through some of the challenges with an efficiency she admired. 

“Jyn Erso,” she answers, lifting her hand to offer a shake. Bodhi takes it and squeezes it before turning back to his food, diving in as she looks around the table at the others. “You heard anything about how we’re going to be assigned teams?” She asks after a few minutes, her water lifting to her lips. 

“Not really. My group thought maybe the stations were to see where our strengths were so they could match us up better. But I was also told it would be a name in a hat, so who knows what they’re planning.” 

“Yeah, I heard the hat thing too. I hope there’s a little more thought put into it,” she responds with a shrug. Bodhi nods and lets a laugh escape. 

“Either way, I think I’ll be okay. I just like the adventure of it, you know? Don’t really need to win the whole thing,” he says around another bite. 

Jyn frowns and looks at her food, debating internally whether she could be paired with someone who didn’t want to win the whole race. If she had to admit it - though she’d never say it on camera - she wasn’t here just because she liked the show and wanted to see the world. 

She was here because she needed the prize money. 

The thought creeps up on her and she pushes it back down, stuffing it into her chest like too many clothes in a carry on bag. She didn’t have time to think about it now, not when she should be sizing up her competition and thinking about U-Turn and Yield strategy. No. She needed to focus. 

“What about everyone else?” Bodhi asks the table when Jyn still doesn’t respond. She turns her attention to the people around them, listening as first a bright eyed Luke Skywalker and a gruff Baze Malbus explain their motivations before moving on to Leia Organa, a beautiful but strategic thinker, and her cocky puppy-dog-tail for-the-day Han Solo easily admits he’s only here for the money. Jyn can’t help but think he might be her real competition if they don’t get paired together, the gleam of a quick buck in his eyes adding to his boisterous energy. 

Taking another glance around the room, Jyn weighs the rest of her competition as they sit at two other tables. Sixteen racers in total, all with different motivations and experiences that they bring to the table. They’d be eight teams and the producers had all but guaranteed it would be a tough race with all of them having secret strengths that were admitted in their bio videos. Jyn can’t remember what hers ss but by the time she turns back to the conversation at hand, she already knows one thing is for sure - she’s going to win, even if it kills her. 

After lunch they’re broken off into individual briefing rooms where they’re given their racing issued equipment and a final check in with the producers before they’re sent off to their rooms to pack. In the morning they’ll all be meeting in the lobby to hand over their backpacks before heading to the starting line. 

When the race starts their first activity will be finding their matched backpack with a coloured bandana tied to it. The racer with the matching bandana will be their partner for the duration and it will either be a successful match or a story of just how quickly Jyn can crash and burn their team. 

Throughout the evening she tries not to think about it - pushing away thoughts of how hectic tomorrow would be, how much adrenaline is already rolling in her veins and just how is she supposed to sleep tonight? To distract herself she focuses on potential strategies depending on who she paired with in the morning. Baze could work, or she’d even probably be successful with Han if they didn’t rip each other's heads off. Bodhi would be a great candidate - he seemed relaxed and competent, but Jyn didn’t like that he wasn’t driven by the final prize so much as he just wanted to have an adventure. 

No, she could pair with most of the people she’d met that morning. With the very real exception of the man from the plane who she’d learned was named Cassian Andor. There was no way they would be able to work together to even get out of the States, their partnership tanking before they even took their first flight. She was sure of it. And so when she falls asleep that night it’s to the thought that she had a one in fifteen chance of failing and those were pretty good odds. 

---

Morning comes in a rush of excitement and insanity and a paranoia that she’s forgotten something even though she’s checked her bags at least a dozen times. When she gets to the lobby, the assistants take her old bags and mark them with her tags before collecting her race bag and shoving it onto a luggage cart with the other packs. She’s directed to a holding queue where the racers mill about, snacking on the continental breakfast and filling their water bottles. 

Twenty minutes later and they’re piled onto a bus. Thirty minutes later and they’re being placed around an empty field with only the production crew circling them and a pile of luggage in the center of the field. Jyn thinks she spots her bag with a blue tag and she grins, looking around at the nervous faces she was up against. 

“You’ve got this,” she whispers to herself as Phil Keoghan begins his speech from near the luggage pile. Adrenaline spikes in her blood and then there’s a horn and she’s racing forward, scrambling for the luggage pile and her bag with its bandana looped through the arm. She pulls it free and stumbles back, looking around at the other racers as they take in their own colours, desperately looking for their partner. 

Not Bodhi. Not Baze. Fuck, not even Han. She scours the faces and colours until she sees it - blue, like hers! She steps forward, her smile widening having finally found her partner. 

But then she looks up. And her eyes meet her partner’s. 

Dark brown meeting green.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Guess you’re stuck with someone with bad karma,” he says evenly, the nerve of it making her want to pull her hair out. She curses again and grabs for his arm, dragging him towards the clue box for their next instructions. They didn’t have time to waste on pleasantries and witty comebacks, not if they wanted to win. 

She could do this. Brute force was all it would take, right? 

[dick-g-ayson]

Bright Lights and Good Nights

Bright lights from ornate chandeliers illuminated the room, twinkling like stars off crystal glasses and fine jewelry.  Soft voices filled the space, filling it with a dense, continuous buzz, like a swarm of insects, incessant and droning.  Bruce slipped into an alcove, taking a moment to escape the crowds, from the needless chatter and prattle of false well-wishers and fair-weather friends.  Most nights he didn’t mind playing the part of Brucie Wayne, billionaire idiot, tailored suit, styled hair, shined shoes and all, but not tonight.  Tonight, he found himself rubbing at his temples more often than normal, trying to relieve the pressure in his skull. 

“You look like you could use a decent pain killer...or a drink.  Luckily, this shindig provides some high-quality alcohol.” 

Bruce’s hand dropped from his head, and he snapped blue eyes over to amused brown.  He steadfastly ignored the way his pulse sped up, and denied the fact that it had nothing to do with being startled.  The glowing green and black suit was gone, replaced by a well fitted dark grey suit, and a dark green tie.  Hal's brown hair wasn’t styled in any way, but the ‘just tumbled out of bed’ look was working for the man, Bruce found himself annoyed to admit.  A quick glance over Hal’s shoulder showed Bruce that they were still alone.  The vapid expression he wore as Brucie dropped and he turned the hard eyes of Batman on the unsuited Lantern.

As usual it had no effect on the man.  

“What are you doing here?”  He managed to keep is voice an octave or two above his usual growl, and he was rather proud of himself for it.  “I thought I made it clear that-” 

“Yes, yes, I know, I’m,” Hal coughed and lowered his voice, “ not allowed in Gotham without an invitation.”   He coughed again and smirked.  “But you see, Bruce, I was invited.”   Hal’s grin was charming as he raised two glasses of champagne, brown eyes dancing with the same mischief from that night in Gotham, months ago. 

Bruce scowled as he reached for the glass Hal handed him, following him out of the alcove, back into the light of the ball room.  “By who?” 

“By you, if you must know.”  Hal’s smirk only widened as he took another sip of his champagne, turning to face the room. 

Bruce’s scowl deepened momentarily before he offered a smirk of his own.  “I think I would have remembered penning an invitation labeled  ‘Dear idiot, you are invited to attend......’ ”    

“Ouch, Bruce you wound me, truly.”  Hal clutched at his chest, stumbling dramatically as if shot, and Bruce found himself having to clench his jaw slightly to keep from smiling. 

Once he was sure no emotion would show in his voice Bruce asked again, “What are you doing here, Jordan?” 

“Aww, you know my name, how sweet!” Hal grinned as he stood straight, shrugging lightly, drawing Bruce’s eye briefly to the line of his suit jacket tightening across strong shoulders.  He brought his gaze back to Hal as the man started speaking again.  “Like I said, I was invited.  This is a function to celebrate a deal between Wayne Enterprises and Ferris Air, to come together to create the future of aeronautics, yes?” 

Bruce raised a brow as he took a sip of his champagne, silently encouraging the other man to continue, still trying to decide if the twist in his gut is, annoyance or attraction......or indigestion. 

“And once the wheels hit tarmac, you’re going to need someone to test it.” He waved the arm not holding the glass in a ‘and there you have it ’ gesture. 

Bruce blinked as he processed the information.  “You’re the former Air Force pilot that Carol Ferris was telling us about?” 

Hal winked at him as he took a sip from his own glass, “The one and only.  Don’t sound so shocked.  Not everyone can have a lucrative day job, Brucie .” 

“I’m just surprised you can hold a steady job, what with the hole Space Cop gig.  I would’ve guessed that keeps you pretty busy.” 

“Is that concern I hear, from Bruce Wayne of all people?  I’m touched.”  Hal’s grin seemed honest enough, but the glint in his eye kept Bruce wary.  He knew that look of mischief from his own sons.  “No need to worry your pretty little head Bruce, my Sugar Daddies are more than capable of keeping me in the lifestyle I prefer.”  It’s said with such a straight face that Bruce choked a bit on the sip of champagne he had taken, coughing roughly to try and clear his lungs. 

Hal laughed as he patted him on the back, helping the slightly older man clear his throat.  “You okay?” 

“Yes,” Bruce scowled as he coughed once more, taking a deep breath of air.  “You did that on purpose.” 

“Course I did.”  Hal smile widened, overly pleased with himself.  “I wanted to see what it would take to actually make you crack.” 

Bruce could feel a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he fought to hide it, but it was losing battle.  “And you thought ‘Sugar Daddies’ was the way to go?” 

“I had others, but that one seemed the most promising.”  Hal’s grin was unrepentant as he tossed back the last of his drink. 

They stood in silence as Bruce finished his own drink, before he turned to Hal again.  “Carol knows about the Ring?” 

“She does.”  the brunette nodded.  “I was working full time for Ferris Air when I got it, I had to tell her.  We came up with a way to make it work so I can do both. With no one being the wiser.” 

“Hm, smart.” 

“Like I said, not as dumb as the suit makes me look.” 

Bruce smirks as he let’s his eyes flick up and down Hal’s body, taking in the lines of the suit again.  It’s not tailored, but it fits him well.  “This one is an upgrade.” 

Hal glanced over at him, smirk falling into something a bit more genuine, “Was that a compliment? I’m totally taking it as a compliment.” 

They fell into a sort of companionable silence as they looked out on the ballroom, letting the chatter of the other guests wash over them.

Bruce spun the flute in his fingers, twisting it back and forth, restlessly.  He felt like he should say something more, re-engage the other in conversation, but he finds the words won't come to him. Speechless for one of the few times in his life where, out of the armour and the cape, it might count for something.  

He finds himself saved by the man next to him for the second time when Hal speaks first.  “So how long is Bruce Wayne expected to stay in attendance at such events as this?” 

Bruce glances over at the curious lit to Hal’s voice. He finds the other man staring out into the floor, watching people twist and turn in time to the music, refusing to even glance at Bruce. 

Bruce looks down at his watch, subtly keeping an eye on Hal, so he doesn’t miss the way Hal looks at him, sees the flash of hope, of interest, in brown eyes, and he can’t help the way his heart jumps at that look. Hal glances away almost immediately and Bruce takes the moment to quickly wet is lips before speaking.  “I’m well passed my usual time to maintain a presence at something like this.”  He lets the flat line his mouth had fallen into soften, curling around the edges as he turned to face Hal, shoving his empty hand into his pocket and letting his shoulders relax. “Did you have something in mind?” 

“As a matter of fact I did. I was thinking a fight and dinner afterwards.”  Hal turned, mimicking Bruce’s posture. 

There was a twist on Hal’s lips, around the way he said the word fight, and Bruce knew that Hal wasn’t referring to a boxing match.  Bruce could feel his heartbeat picking up, his pulse starting to race, the hair along his arms and at the base of his neck standing on end.  “Where exactly is this fight?” 

“Just outside of town, not that far, and I hear you have this kick-ass plane.” 

“I do.”  Bruce could feel his smile stretching, just a bit, to match the excited one that was on Hal’s. 

“Whatd’ya say, Mr. Wayne?  Is it a date?”  Hal bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, brown eyes dancing with excitement. 

Bruce watched him for a few moments, an odd sense of fondness curling in his gut, a tendril of affection creeping into a place in his heart he thought he’d closed off, but that had been cracking since he took in an orphaned circus boy, and had been being picked at, chiseled away ever since. 

“Meet me on the roof in ten minutes.” 

[bohrapbois]

Full Marks

CHAPTER 2

Description - Ben just so happens to fall head over heels for a Mysterious Man who loves baseball and cracking terrible jokes. Mysterious Man also turns out to be the father of one of Ben’s students.

Warnings - Full blown relationship Hardzello, with plenty of angst, fluff and future smut.

Word Count- 2,152 

Frankie was the love of Ben’s life, and he would do anything short of murder for her. She was the only girl in the states who had his heart, and that’s the way it’ll always be, until the day he died. It didn’t matter that she was a dog, she had him wrapped around her little paw. That’s how she was currently eating packaged ham, which was meant to be saved for Ben’s dinner. But honestly, the way her eyes lit up each time he tossed her some more, Ben didn’t care if he starved. His baby was happy, so he was happy too.

It was early afternoon, sometime after two, and Ben had just finished his marathon of Brooklyn-Nine-Nine, so it was time to walk off some of the Doritos and burn through some of the coffee he just gulped down. Unlike most dogs, who get excited when they see their leash in their owner’s hands, Frankie either hid or stood stock still. This time, she sprinted through the cramped kitchen and ducked under the wonky coffee table. Ben sighed, leash in hand, and contributed to the five minute chase of catching his dog to go for a walk. The funny thing is, Frankie loves walks, and will take forever doing her business and tugging Ben after any animal she sees, but she just doesn’t like the leash. Adopting her as a stray pup from Animal Ark, Ben thought it’d be easy, a little companion for when his mind goes to those dark places. Gwil thought it was a good idea too, which is why he kept the little pup found in a cardboard box to one side until his friend could come in and see her. But it turns out, along with a pup comes a lot of chaos. So under a year worth of mayhem later, the household has accepted to go with the flow of the furballs destruction.

Finally clipping her leash to her collar, Ben cheered in victory. He grabbed his keys from the mess on the side table, and before Frankie could tug herself free, they both were outside and the front door locked behind them. Ben grinned down at his companion, who glared back before changing moods completely and darting off, knowing Ben would rather sprint alongside her than tug on her collar. So, the two were down the street and well on their way to the big park before anyone really noticed.

As feet and paws moved from tarmac to grass, they slowed, both panting and taking a moment to get their breathes back. It was a mutual thing, for them to get to the park and begin walking, so Ben didn’t mind the sprint to get there. His fitness was well maintained, anyway.

The two strolled, Ben nattering down to the beagle as if they were having a normal conversation. The park was big enough that no one found it overly weird to see a grown man talking to his dog. Ben knew it was a bad habit, but he tugged out a cigarette and his trusty lighter, and continued his train of thought whilst he smoked. Frankie didn’t care, even if Gwil tried again and again to throw his packs away. It was good source of comfort and helped him think when he was deep in his own mind.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Franks,” Ben kicked at the dirt, one eye on his dog (investigating under a bush) and the other on a baseball game going on in the distance. When he first came over, Ben never really understood the hype surrounding baseball, and didn’t really now either. It was similar to a game he used to play called rounders, so Ben guessed that seeing another variation of the game wasn’t actually that exciting.

He drew a smoke, holding it in for moment before blowing the smoke out, repeating the process as he watched the teams swap side. This town was big on baseball, and there was usually a game of sorts going on every weekend. The participants of this match seemed good enough, coordinating shirts colours into greens and reds, with reds now fielding.

Ben gave a gentle tug on Frankie’s leash, and she came out from under the bush, covered up to her chest in dirt and dust but that’s a future Ben problem. Now Ben problem is how he wants to get closer to the game. Taking slow drags from his cigarette, Ben wandered over, trying to make sense on how certain balls were called fouls. He frowned, dropping his cigarette on the floor and stamping it out. Oddly, Frankie stayed near his side, and when they were close enough, his little lady sat down, also seemed transfixed by the game. For a couple of minutes, they just watched. The greens were pretty good, and both teams seemed to be taking it very seriously. Ben wasn’t close enough to see who was actually on what team, but he could hear the shouts of excitement/annoyance. He heard someone curse out Dave, who was a barista in ‘Delilah’ (Alright coffee, let dogs in, so Ben would sometimes go there when he didn’t know what else to do), and watching Dave run, yep, that's barista Dave.

The old bleachers seemed to have a few families on, and Ben thought he could make out Lucy’s blonde hair. Another vet, she and Gwil got on well, like brother and sister. She seemed to be there with her mysterious boyfriend she’d mentioned to Gwil a few times but never introduced. Ben’s nosy side flared up, and he started walking a bit closer, but not close enough to be spotted. Or so he thought.

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

Beth didn’t mind sitting and watching her dad play - he loved the game, and she did too - but sometimes she got distracted. Sitting with Uncle Rami and Lucy, she fiddled with the bottom of her shorts, pulling on a loose thread as she looked around, eyes cast out further than the game. There was someone standing far off and it looked like he had a dog. Beth perked up. She’d be asking her dad for a dog for awhile, and he was starting to agree with her, but if she showed that she was good, she knew she could get one quicker. She watched as they stood in the distance, but much to her delight, the figure started approaching. Beth was practically vibrating in her seat waiting until the perfect moment to prove to her dad that she is ready for a dog.

She bounds up, deciding now was better than ever, and jumped down the bleachers she’s grown up on. She ignores Uncle Rami shouting after her and makes it to the grass unstopped. She races across the ground, and notices that the owner is very familiar.

“Mr. Hardy!” She screamed in excitement, which caught both her teachers and fathers attention. She barrels on, her teacher looking shocked to see a six year old approaching rapidly in a full sprint.

Behind her, her father notices what’s going on, “ah shit,” he leaves his position. His daughter is quick, always has been, and it was at this moment that Joe wished he was quicker. She was sprinting towards a mysterious figure, and his fear kicked in.

“ELIZABETH!” He screamed, legs picking up pace in a desperate attempt to catch up with her. The shouts from his team mates (he missed the ball thrown in his direction, more concerned with his own flesh and blood) were only a second thought as he watched his daughter barrel into the legs of the blond man. The man stumbled, Beth still holding his legs, before he fell backwards, landing heavily on his ass.

Eventually, the frantic father got to the two still on the floor. He scooped up his daughter, “Elizabeth! What were you thinking?” He checked her over, ignoring her muttered, “it’s Beth, dad,” before putting her back down and turning his attention to the guy on the floor.

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

Ben only had a moment to brace himself after hearing one of his students scream his name before Beth barrelled full speed into his legs. He managed to stumble backwards before falling onto his backside, grunting his curses as he took the full weight of a six year old to his knees and groin. Frankie ran around him, pulling at her leash in confusion and panic, before Ben reached over and grabbed her close, counting up to ten before trying to move. He ached, but would survive, although he’s not planning on moving too much right at the moment.

Beth was pulled off of him, and Ben just focused on breathing and petting Frankie, before he felt a weight on his shoulder. “You alright, man?” Ben glanced up at the new voice, and gasped.

Mystery Man from yesterday was kneeling beside him. Hazel eyes scanned the blonds face, and Ben couldn’t help but notice how when Mystery Man frowned, he pouted. “Umm-” Ben pulled Frankie onto his lap as she began to settle “-yeah, just a bit sore”. Using his dog as an excuse, Ben focused on stroking Frankie, eyes falling onto her knowing eyes. If he hadn’t, he’d have definitely done something stupid.

“I’m so sorry for Elizabeth,” Mystery Man stood, silencing his complaining child with a well measured glance, “she can just get a bit excitable”.

“Nah, it’s alright man,” Ben inwardly cringed Why the hell did I call him ‘man’? The first hot guy in ages and you ‘man’ him. Fucking great. “She’s one of my students, actually”.

“Oh!” Ben pulled his eyes from Frankie’s incredibly interesting fur and squinted up at Mystery Man. He seemed pleasantly excited, smiling at his daughter (who was now holding his hand) and back at Ben, “Beth told me she had a new teacher! I’m Joe, her dad!” He thrusted forward his free hand, and for an awkward moment, Ben didn’t move to take it. Kicking himself again, Ben gently pushed Frankie off his lap and reached up and grabbed Joe’s hand. Joe didn’t hesitate and pulled Ben up until he was standing.

Joe was slightly shorter than Ben, but well built. Not muscular, but not scrawny either. Ben smiled, and faked enough confidence to shake his hand. “Ben”. Joe’s hair was hidden under a baseball cap, but enough was curling around his ears that Ben knew his observation from yesterday was true - yes, they both had the same hair colour. It seemed to glow in the afternoon sun.

“That’s a lot better than me calling you ‘Mr. Hardy’ in my head. Imagined you to be in your late forties or something,” Joe laughed, and the two hands separated. “Ben suits you”.

“Oh, um, thanks?” Ben laughed awkwardly, not knowing if to take the fact his name suits him as a compliment or not. “Yeah, better than calling you Mr. Mazzello”.

“Ew, don’t”. Joe rolled his eyes, ignoring his daughter who was now pulling on his hand as she crouched to pet Frankie, who, honestly, loved having a kids attention. “Mr. Mazzello was my father’s name”.

“Joe it is”. Ben grinned, glancing over to the baseball match. They all seemed to be calling for Joe to return. At the same time, the usual guy who picks up Beth was approaching, stopping by Joe’s side.

“Beth! Don’t ever run off like that again!” Green eyes crouched down, gently grabbing the little girl by the chin and pulling her to face his direction, “you can’t just do that! I was very scared”. Beth pouted, but nodded, wrapping little arms around the guys neck. He scooped her up, holding her close. It was only then when he turned to Ben. “Hey,” he nodded, looking between Ben and Joe.

“Oh, ugh yeah! This is Rami,” Joe gestured towards Green eyes, and Ben smiled in greeting. “He usually picks up Beth”.

“Yeah, I’ve seen you around a few times,” Ben kicked at the ground before nodding back towards the game. “You better go back”.

“Yeah,” Joe sighed, raising his arm towards his team. They seemed to settle, going back to talking between themselves rather than shouting at Joe. Rami nodded towards the two before walking off with Beth in his arms, the two talking about responsibilities. “You gonna come watch? We have a few more rounds to go”.

“Nah, better not,” again, Frankie sat calmly at Ben’s side, lazily blinking up between her owner and the new man. Ben gestured at his dog, “she’s had enough excitement for one day”.

“She’s very cute,” Joe ducked down to give her a scratch behind her ears. Great - even Ben’s dog likes Joe now. Ben grinned as Joe stood up again, and with a raised hand as a farewell, Joe started jogging backwards, only turning around when Ben tugged on Frankie’s leash and the two made their way back home.

Tag List -

@benhardy-1 @hey-holtzy

[rezares]

Wildcard || War & Peace

Reading order of posted threads:

Spill The Tea (August 22, 2019)

Bullshit Cover Story (November 10, 2019)

Bullshit Detective (November 10, 2019)

Word Count: 2166

Date: November 10th, 2019

tl;dr: Rory follows Reza to the airport because he’s a shit liar

@spindlesandrosethorns

AURORA

Aurora was probably making a bad decision. 

It wasn’t as if she and Reza didn’t have enough bullshit muking up their friendship; somehow she didn’t think inviting herself on his murdercation would endear her to him in the slightest. But Aurora refused to let him go and face his former student alone, and so when Reza had evasively said he was going to be out of town for a while, she had bribed Lamia into getting her his itinerary and bought her own ticket on the same flight.

Not that much bribery was involved. Rory had said “I’m following your brother to Tunisia” and Lamia and Fadela had given her all the help she didn’t think to ask for.

The ticket she had bought was burning a hole through her bag and against her hip, but she walked through the terminals like nothing was wrong. If he wanted to fight her, fine, but she was getting on that plane by hook or by crook. She had arrived with plenty of time to spare, and was even able to get some tea before making her way to their gate. Reza was easy to spot - not because he stood out, but because she simply couldn’t miss him if she tried - and taking a deep breath, Aurora walked up to him calmly. Might as well be upfront.

“That seat taken?” she asked, one hand on her hip.

REZA

Reza’s heart wasn’t racing. In fact, he was more at ease than he’d been in years. Soon enough Mekki Masmoudi wouldn’t be breathing, let alone be a problem, and that was the greatest comfort of Reza’s life. It was time to put down the monster he’d unwittingly created.

His eyes were cast down at the book in his lap he brought for some plane reading when a voice said something about a seat.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahea-” y’allah. He knew that voice. 

“Rory!” He jumped in his seat, knocking his book to the floor. To hell with losing his page, what was she doing here? “How- why-? The fuck?”

AURORA

Calm as anything, Aurora ignored his spluttering and instead sat down in the available seat with a casual toss of her curls. She scooped up his book and held it out to him.

"I'm doing my father a favor picking up some papers from a business partner of his in Tunisia," she said evenly, her eyes not leaving his. "Maybe checking out the fibre scene while I'm there." She silently dared him to call her out on her fib. "Lamia and Fadela were kind enough to tell me when you were flying out so I wouldn't have to fly alone." At this, she gave him a smile. "Hope you don't mind."

Read: I'm coming. Suffer.

REZA

He took his book, grip weak as most of his strength went to his brain to try and processes this scene. Rory was here. Rory knew. Rory was barging in on his plans to kill a man.

She sat down next to him and Reza wanted to scream. He wanted to pick her up and carry her to the exit and tell airport security she had knife or something. Anything to keep her from boarding that flight to Tunisia. 

She shouldn’t be here.

“Go home, Aurora.” Reza said darkly. “Go home.”

She needed to leave.

AURORA

Aurora knew she was currently treading water in the depths of Reza's anger; that any second now she was going to be sucked under. But she refused to back down or be cowed by her sorcery master.

"Would," she said with a shrug, "but I already bought my ticket. Buggers are impossible to refund. 'Sides," she said, resting her chin on the tips of her fingers. "You look like you need a travel companion too. It's a long trip to make alone, and I don't mind flying."

Reza was a smart man, he'd be able to hear the words between her words.

REZA

No, no, no. She needed to be far away from him while he was this version of himself. She didn’t need to see this, or watch him wash blood off of himself, or have any part in this. 

“You can’t come. You’ll feel cramped. My dad’s apartment is small, we’re poor.” Reza deadpanned. 

“I’ll give you the ticket cost money.”

AURORA

Aurora gave him a deadpan look in return that clearly said "Really, dude?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I am like… half your size," Aurora said. "I'm not concerned about space. Worse comes to worse, I rent a room somewhere."

REZA

“Then you can’t come because you can’t be an accomplice in a homicide. You can’t go to a country where the punishment for being a sorcerer is vigilante murder.” Reza said, gripping his book tight to keep from raising his voice. 

Was Aurora this in love with him or just this stupid?

“I know you know. Fadela has a big mouth.”

AURORA

"Fadela didn't have to have a big mouth because you left your conspiracy folder on the desk we both use," Aurora replied, leaning in so she could keep her voice under a whisper. "You've been attached to that thing at the hip for weeks now, I got worried. Also, notice how I didn't mention any of that in public? Keep up, Reza."

Her expression was calm even though she could see the anger dancing around him. She honestly did not want to be fighting with him, but there really was no other alternative. "I'm coming," she said, quiet but firm. "You are not doing this alone. So either I fly in with you or I travel there by myself and track you down once I arrive."

REZA

Why can’t she just leave? He didn’t want or need her here. Why did she have to do this?

“You can’t track me down, you don’t speak Arabic.” Reza countered. “And Tunisia is dangerous for foreign women who don’t know the Middle East to travel to unless they go with a local.”

“And I don’t have time to be a tour guide and translator. I’ll ditch you at the airport in Tunis and continue to my hometown alone.”

AURORA

Aww, he thought a language barrier would be enough to stop her. That was cute.

But she didn't say that. She didn't point out that she could defend herself more than well enough. That she could always call Lamia or Fadela for help.

All Aurora did was stare into his eyes and quietly ask, "Would you?"

(They both knew the answer was no.)

REZA

Reza blinked at her and wanted nothing more than to physically carry her back through security and out of the airport. This wasn’t a world for her. She was never meant to see his darkness, his hatred, and bloodlust so clearly.

If she fancied herself such a good friend, couldn’t she see this hurt him?

“Without hesitation.” They both knew he was lying.

AURORA

He was bluffing and she knew it, so Aurora just turned to her phone with a small hum. "Guess I'll meet you in Hammamet then," she said. 

After he had a moment to steam, she leaned closer and whispered in his ear "I'm not coming along while you actually find the guy, I know better. I'm just here to make sure you come home. I promise I'll stay at your da's place like a good girl and won't get in anyone's way."

It was aggravating, religating herself to the kids' table so to speak just so Reza didn't throw more of a bitch-fit than he already was, but Aurora knew where her strengths were. And they weren't in battle magic or any sort of fighting. She'd be dead weight. No, her skills lay in other places; pulling Reza's head out of his ass was practically listed on her resume.

REZA

“You don’t know where my father lives.” Reza mumbled childishly, looking away from her and staring out the window overlooking the tarmac.

He laughed mirthlessly as he bit down on a curled knuckle to stifle it and relaxed his legs...yeah, manspreading a little. ‘Making sure he comes home.’ What does that even mean? As if he was going to stay in Tunisia. As if he could. He was revealed as a sorcerer, he couldn’t stay forever. Sabiha was the only reason he’d ever wanted to move back there one day but now she was in Swynlake. He wanted to be where his daughter was, wherever that may be.

“I don’t need you to do that.” He said quietly. “Like I could possibly be apart from my daughter ever again.”

AURORA

She knocked her knee against his reflexively, the motion almost habit from long nights sitting together on his couch either going over magical texts or Board documents. “That’s not what I mean,” she said softly.

Physically, yes, Reza would come home. Sabiha was enough incentive for that. But he would leave a piece of himself in Tunisia wherever Mekki met his end if someone wasn’t there to guide him back. She couldn’t just stay home and wait for him to come back in pieces, left alone with his thoughts for too long. No, she would be there. What exactly she could do, she didn’t know - this was the most the two had talked in one time about something that wasn’t in a lesson plan in months, whatever care he’d had for her thoughts and opinions had vanished when the bruise on her chest had bloomed on her skin - but she wasn’t going to let that keep her from trying.

REZA

A silence fell between them. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t awkward either. It just was.

“You need to do everything I tell you to do.” Reza finally said, opening up the front pocket of his carry on to pull out a notebook and pen. “Tunisia is one of the best places in the MENA region to be a woman-” he explained, writing quickly. “- but the whole area is trash for magicks, so that kind of cancels out our strides in gender equality. There should be some of Lamia’s and Fadela’s old clothes in their room at baba’s house, so if I think an outfit needs some...Tunisia-fying, just add whatever I hand you.”

“Hammamet is a larger northern city, so total modesty isn’t all but demanded like in the south of Tunisia. And you’ve traveled to Africa before and been hanging out with Tunisian Muslims long enough to know, so I’m not implying you aren’t prepared, but-” he shrugged. “ - just don’t get offended if I toss you a shawl for your arms. Did you pack sunglasses? Like a good pair? The sun is bright in Tunisia year-round, you will need them. We can buy some there if we need to.”

He kept writing until he was satisfied, and ripped the page from his notebook, extending it to her.

“You’ll get around just fine with English and French - and I’m not letting you go anywhere alone anyway - but you’ll impress people if you learn just this much Tounsi. Learn it, live it, love it.”

AURORA

Aurora didn’t grin when Reza accepted that she was coming along, but it was a very near thing. He could probably see the satisfaction and relief curling around her, and really, that was telling enough. She sat up and listened to him carefully, watching his pen fly across the paper.

She didn’t mention that she had packed most of her clothes she wore when visiting Mozambique with her mother, including enough head-scarves to keep even Aurora’s wild curls contained and tucked away. Her mother’s home wasn’t Tunisia, so if Reza thought her outfits weren’t to snuff, she’d listen.

“I did,” she reassured, patting her carry on bag. Fadela had basically given her the same speech over the phone while she and Ella had packed. Aurora took the page from Reza, looking over his familiar handwriting carefully. There were several words that Aurora couldn’t read without her accent tripping over itself, but darn it, she was going to learn them.

“You’re going to have to help me with pronunciation,” Aurora admitted. “But I’ll learn them.”

REZA

Reza nodded. 

“Good.” He went back to staring at the tarmac. This was a terrible, horrible, awful idea. He should shout ‘she has a bomb!’ but ah, neither of them were white. Probably not the best idea for either of their very brown asses.

“Aurora, I can’t stress enough how dangerous going to my country is. If you so much as think the word ‘magic’ I will kick your ass. Metaphorically. A lot of metaphorical ass-kicking will go down. Clear?”

AURORA

“I will be on my best behavior,” Aurora promised, catching his eye so he could see how serious she was. This wasn’t a decision she had made lightly, no matter how easily it had come to her. She knew what the risk was; it just happened that she thought Reza needed her more.

[voltronshorts]

I will send more requests and prompts bc I need more content!!! (Obviously there's no pressure but it might help add some extra stuff to queue up/do in the meantime!) Soooo for the drabble number prompts ya girl has got so manyyy rip 3, 57, 72, 85, 94, aaaand 97 Obviously take ur time with these/don't feel like ya gotta do them all cause there's 6 there lmaooo sorrynotsorry

(I wasn’t sure if you wanted this to be in reader-insert or not, so I did a mix of both. Thank you for the request! ❤️)

Prompt #3. “You can’t just sit there all day.”

“Pidge, you can’t just sit there all day,” Matt tells her, leaning against her bedroom doorway with arms crossed. “You’ve been at that thing for, like, 16 hours straight now. And I thought I was a workaholic.”

“Yeah, I’ll take a break in a sec,” she replied without looking at him. “I just need to find a way to circumvent the firewall, and then I should be able to have access to the data inside. But this thing is amazing, it’s like a computer-living hybrid… Every time I try to break down the barriers they build right back up. Maybe if I implant something that behaves like a virus or cancer I can arrest growth and prevent further heal–”

“Katie Colleen Holt,” Matt scolds, walking over to Pidge and grabbing her arm. “You are taking a break right now.”

“But–”

“No butts or asses, young lady.” Matt narrows his eyes. Pidge narrows her eyes in return.

“Geez, when did you turn into dad?”

He lets that go unchallenged. “And I’ll bet all the change in my pocket that when you stand up, it’s gonna sound like a drunk toddler walking over a sea of Legos.”

At the nudge of Matt’s hand, she stands up and straightens her back. It sounds like popcorn popping in a microwave.

She rubs at her back. “Alright, fine. I’ll get a snack or something, but I’m coming right back here.”

“Thought you might say that,” Matt said before reaching into his cloak. “Which is why I got you this!”

“No WAY,” Pidge breathes, reaching for her brother’s hand. “Is that a copy of Trauma Center: Under The Knife 2?”

“You bet it is. Found it at a flea market,” Matt grins, bolting out of the room. “Last one to the kitchen has to play second!”

“Hey, no fair! We all know I’m better at Trauma Center than you are!”

Prompt #57. “Just get home as soon as possible, okay?!” + Prompt #72. “Just smile, I really need to see you smile right now.”

“Y/N?!” Shiro exclaimed, jogging up to you with open arms to wrap you in his embrace. “You can’t be on the tarmac, it’s dangerous!”

“I know, I know,” you murmured into his space suit, voice nearly inaudible thanks to the screaming of the nearby aircraft engines. “I just wanted to see you before you left.”

He pulls away to look at you, an incredulous smile stretched onto his face. “You were at the farewell ceremony two hours ago.”

“No, like before before you left!” you countered back. You were still in his arms. You tried not to think about that.

“Alright, alright,” Shiro says with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

“Shirogane!” a voice–Matt Holt, you recognize–calls from a few feet away. “Almost time for liftoff. Hurry up with the sweetheart goodbyes and let’s get going!” Shiro turns pink at that. You’re certain you do, too. 

“Well, can’t say no to Matt,” Shiro grumbles. “He’ll chew me out if I delay this any longer.” He looks back at you. You feel like you’re looking at the Sun. “Truth be told, I was waiting for you.”

Your eyes widen, and it becomes too difficult to look at him directly. “O-Oh.” You bury your face into his chest again, voice muffled. “Well! Just get home as soon as possible, okay?!” Shiro stiffens and places firm hands on your shoulders. 

“Y/N, are you crying?”

You look up at him, teary and snotty. He laughs and ruffles your hair. “Just smile, I really need to see you smile right now. Your smile is the one thing I want to see before I go.”

Wiping your tears, you offer him your widest, brightest, winning smile. He coughs and looks away. He feels like he’s looking at the Sun. “O-Okay. Well. I better go.” He hugs you one more time. “Keep Keith in line for me, okay?”

In the months to come, when Haggar forcibly digs into the mind of the Champion, she finds a memory, one she could tell he visited often. The memory? The bright, sun-stained, tragic, crying, smiling face of a young human girl.  

(There is a catastrophically low number of Sven fics)

85. “I’m not going to be sympathetic until you go to a doctor.”

“Faen! Ouch! Please, be more careful!”

You huff, pulling the bandage around his chest tauter. He winces. “I’m not going to be sympathetic until you go to a doctor, Sven.” You secure the bandage before slapping him upside the head. He flinches and pouts, dark eyes wide and looking at you like a wounded animal. “Don’t give me that look. We’re going to a doctor as soon as the shuttle gets here.”

“No!” he pleas, finding your hand and squeezing it. “Please, elskede! You’ve done a good job with the bandages. No need for space hospital!” His body seizes up and he clutches at the wound. “Ack! Breiddjame!”

“Yes need for space hospital. They’ll just make sure everything’s okay, probably give you some ointment,” you say gently, gaze softening. You kiss him on the nose. “It’s not bad, just a burn from that laser blast I can’t still believe you put yourself right in front of.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Ever the martyr, huh, Sven?”

He nods, leaning his forehead against your shoulder. “They were from an alternate universe. I had to make sure they got back home safely.”

94. “I had a bad dream again.”

You find him alone in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop. The lights are off; the only source of light are the ambient blue guide lights lining the walls and floor. 

“Hey,” you say softly from the doorway.

Shiro jumps a bit before looking over at you. He smiles, but it’s a tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes are dark. “Hey, yourself.” He shifts, motioning you to join him in the kitchen. Both of you are in your nightclothes. It’s well past midnight.

You lean over to peer into his mug. “Whatcha got there?”

Shiro smiles again. Tired, again. “It’s honey milk tea. It’s silly, it’s something from an old Japanese film I used to watch when I was a kid. But it’s good.” He leans down to grab another mug from the cupboard. “Want one?”

You grin. “Didn’t even have to ask.”

You’re both silent for a while, satisfied in the shared company and hot honey milk tea (which was, indeed, good). Shiro is the one to speak up first. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

“Yeah,” you admitted. “Too much on my mind. It’d be my mom’s birthday today, back on Earth. You?”

He’s reluctant to answer, you can tell. “I had a bad dream again.” 

You put your mug down and turn to him. “Oh. I’m so sorry, Shiro.” In the moment, it didn’t matter if you and Shiro weren’t an item. It didn’t matter if you were in the middle of an intergalactic war, where feelings are dangerous and nothing but a burden. It didn’t matter if you didn’t know Shiro returned your affections or not. In that moment, he needed you. 

You turn, and wrap your arms around him in an embrace. He’s stiff, and you are about to pull back and apologize and talk about how that was completely out of line, until you feel his arms wrap around you in return, squeezing.

You share a silent embrace for a long time. After a while, but without letting you go, Shiro whispers. “Hey. Thanks.”

97. “You’re not going to starve yourself on Thanksgiving.”

Keith clambers on to the roof, spotting his father sitting and looking up at the sky and chewing tobacco. Overheard an indigo blue spills across the horizon like ink. “Hey, dad? You’ve been up here a long time.”

Keith’s father looks over at him and spits his tobacco. “Yeah. Sorry, buddy. Just been wonderin’ and things.”

Keith walks over to him and sits. “About mom?”

“Yeah,” his father replies, ruffling his son’s hair. “Wonderin’ what she’s up to. Where she be.”

“Why are you looking up into the sky, though?” Keith wonders out loud, now also looking up at the expanse of blue, twinkling celestial bodies blinking in and out of view. The cold desert night air settles heavy on his bones. “Is she up there?”

“Darn right she is,” his father replies. They sit in silence for a time that was both a moment and an eternity. Both wondering. Both dreaming. 

Keith stands up and extends a hand to his father. “Come on, dad. You haven’t had anything to eat all day. You’re not going to starve yourself on Thanksgiving, are you?”

His father laughs and takes his son’s hand. “No, o’ course not.” He pats him on the shoulder. “Let’s go. Think the game hen’s almost done, by the smells o’ things.” He playfully shoves Keith aside and drops down from the roof and onto the ground below. “Race ya to inside!”

“Hey, no fair! You’ve got longer legs!”

Above them, a star twinkles.

[serendipitousrambles]

I ain’t ‘fraid of no ghost

Chapter 4: If we get murdered, I’m going to have a hard time forgiving you for that

Mike and El ran hand in hand through the park, Mike calling over and over into his supercom about “code red”.

They stopped when they saw the lights in the nearby abandoned building building. They were flickering like crazy.

“That building has been abandoned for years.” El pointed, looking up at Mike.

He adjusted her backpack he was carrying on his back, “It's a ghost. Big one...no doubt.”

“Great…” El's voice died away when it suddenly became real that she was about to face off with a ghost, a lot more dangerous than the one in her apartment…

Mike stopped and turned to face her. “You don't...you don't have to do this.”

“Mike, I said I was going to help and I mean it. I don't break my word.” She was adamant that she was staying.

They approached the abandoned building which didn't seem so abandoned anymore.

Mike clutched the supercom tightly in his hand, El following behind him.

“Where is everybody?” Mike whispered, looking around. “I don't have any of my equipment.” His leg started shaking anxiously.

“Look,” El pointed and saw the flashing lights of their Ghostbusters’ van, the tyres screeching on the tarmac.

The HQ was only a few minutes walk away so it shouldn't have taken them that long to come to Mike's aid.

The boys piled out the car, even Will was there, carrying extra equipment for Mike. When he saw El he raised an eyebrow at Mike.

“What's going on?” Lucas slammed the driver’s door shut. “We've not had a code red in months!”

“The abandoned building is no longer abandoned.” Mike shrugged. “El and I were just…” he thought about their almost kiss but decided not to mention that, “talking...and the lights started flickering and we heard a loud crash coming from this place.”

“El?” Dustin squinted his eyes. “Oh, didn't we clean out your apartment last week?” He laughed. “Man, Mike would not stop talking about you on the way back he-”

“Dustin!” Mike waved a hand across his neck and shook his head signalling Dustin to quit it.

He just laughed and held out his hand, “I'm Dustin.”

Will handed Mike his proton pack and helped him  get ready while Lucas and Dustin were introducing themselves to El.

“Nice backpack.” Lucas grinned when he saw Mike taking off the bright pink backpack he was carrying and shoving into the van.

“It's mine.” El laughed. “I was going to carry it but he was sweet and offered to carry it for me.”

“Awww, Mikey boy.” Dustin mockingly clutched a hand to his chest.

“Shut up.” Mike mumbled, but his eyes caught El's and a small smile formed.

“You wait out here, Miss.” Lucas gestured to El. “Leave this to the Ghostbusters.”

“No, I'm coming with you.” She folded her arms. “I can handle it.”

“She can hold the trap, you guys always have trouble trying to proton blast it and catch it.” Will suggested.

“And we need as much back up as we can get.” Mike pointed out, tightening his pack.

Lucas sighed. “Fine…but if she gets hurt, our insurance isn't gonna pay.”

“Oh who cares about insurance?” Dustin sighed. “You sound like an old man.”

“You mean a responsible adult? Which is what you're supposed to be.” Lucas began bickering with Dustin.

“El, before we go I just...we have rules.” Mike lightly touched her arm and pulled her to the side, Dustin and Lucas’ bickering fading into the background.

“Rules to keep everyone safe.”

She nodded, looking up expectantly at him. His soft features were now serious and she knew he wasn't joking.

“First rule, we don't split up. We're a team and if we separate were always at least in a team of two, but never alone.”

El looked over her shoulder, the boys were now laughing with each other as if they hadn't just been arguing and she could tell they were close. That they all cared for each other.

“Second rule and one of the most important,” Mike said, “is that if a member requires assistance, it is our duty to provide it. No matter what. We always help a team member in need. No man left behind and all that. And last but not least, friends don't lie.”

El raised an eyebrow. She didn't really know what that last one had to do with ghostbusting.

“Why is that a rule?”

“Because if you see something, or anything happens, you can't lie about it. We need to know because it's dangerous. But also, it's what keeps us all together. We may argue a lot, but we never lie. It might not seem like an important rule but it's kept our sorry asses alive for 21 years so it must do some good.”

El nodded and reached out her hand to squeeze Mike's arm reassuringly. “I understand.” She smiled.

“Ok,” Mike nodded to Will and the others. “Let's go bust a ghost.”

El held back a giggle (a giggle? Really? Pull yourself together!) and followed closely behind Mike as they entered the abandoned building.

The building was dark, with shadows casting shapes along the walls. In the distance, a strange thud and the odd crash could be heard.

El's heart began to race but she looked up at Mike who seemed strangely calm, it was enough to bring her heart rate down.

Dustin was in front holding a torch in one hand and some kind of electrical field or frequency reader in the other. Lucas followed closely behind, proton blaster raised at the ready. Will was next, not usually one to go on missions but because this was a code red,he knew he couldn't sit back. Still, his feet wobbled every step he took and his knuckles were almost white by how tightly he gripped his proton blaster, but he managed to keep a calm exterior on his face.

El carried a torch and the trap, eyes darting at every movement. She was thankful for Mike's presence behind her, the occasional reassuring light touch on her back from his hand. But it was all exciting, the danger, the darkness. Terrifying, but exciting.

“Shit.” Dustin’s quiet whisper could be heard from the front. He had approached the end of the hall but then it split into two. “We’re gonna have to split up and search both ways. We don't know where this son of a bitch is yet.”

“Mike, you, Will and...El? You guys go together, Dustin and I will search this end.” Lucas gestured to the opposite direction.

As the two boys walked into the darkness, El heard Dustin mumble to Lucas, “Split up? If we get murdered I’m going to have a hard time forgiving you for that.”

The floorboards creaked every step they took. This ghost was a lot harder to find than they'd thought.

El suddenly shouted “Shit!” and Mike stopped, holding up his proton blaster, Will jumped.

“What? Did you see something? Are you ok?”

“No I just remembered I was supposed to finish my paper…”

Mike and Will exchanged a glance before all three of them burst out laughing.

“I’m gonna fail this class.”

“Look on the brightside, if we get killed then at least you won’t have to worry about failing.” Mike laughed and she playfully shoved him. Will smiled watching them, they just had such a natural relationship even though they’d barely met. He envied how easily they were able to talk to each other.

Mike and El were still laughing with each other when Will noticed a strange glow from the underside of a door. He slowly approached it, blaster raised.

“Uh...guys?” He looked back but Mike and El had disappeared down the hall.

Will closed his eyes and took a deep breath, slowly opening the door.

“I don't understand, the frequency reader is telling me it's here. But I can't find the bastard.” Dustin waved his reader around and Lucas shoved his hand away.

“Watch where you point that thing.”

Dustin rolled his eyes and grabbed his supercom. “Mike? Mike are you there? Over.”

They waited a second before he answered. “Yeah?”

“You guys found anything yet? We can't see it.” Dustin kept turning his head, just in case something happened.

“Nothing so far. Wait…” Mike's voice dropped off. “Will's missing.”

“Mike!” Dustin shouted and Lucas grabbed his own supercom.

“You broke the most important rule! To stick together! All because you're trying to show off to that girl!”

“Hey! That girl is El. And we weren't doing anything!” Mike said defensively and Lucas just knew the taller boy had his fist clenched. He had an awful temper.

“Then why can't you find Will?”

“Guys!” Dustin shouted. “We need to remain calm. I'm sure Will is ok. But we need to find him before the ghost does.”

“We never should have let her in our group. She's jeopardising the mission.” Lucas raised his hands.

“Shut up Lucas!” Mike shouted into his supercom.

“No, you shut up Mike. You're blind because you like that a girl's not grossed out by you.”

“Enough!” Dustin shouted over the top of Mike and Lucas’ fight. “Mike and El, you stay together. New mission is to find Will. A group member requires assistance and it's our job to provide it.”

[trade-baby-blues]

Anything You Can Do

Pairing: Jim Kirk x Reader

Word Count: 1196

Warnings: swearing, injury, general snarkiness

A/N: Requested by @to-pick-ourselves-up-7​ a million years ago when I was doing by 777 Follower/7 Deadly Sins Celebration a million years ago lol. The request was Kirk x Pride, so hope you like it!! 

    Everything was a matter of pride for James T. Kirk , whether it was eating the most hot dogs at the Iowa State Fair or sleeping with as many women as he could his first year at Starfleet. With those dreamy blue eyes and “anything you can do I can do better” attitude, Jim was a walking disaster waiting to happen. You tried your damnedest to understand, knowing that all he had was his pride growing up. Times like this, though, you wondered why you ever gave Jim a chance.

    Jim sat poised to ride on his old motorcycle, shit-eating grin plastered across his face as the wind blew back his hair. You wanted to look him in the eyes, to beg him not to do this, but all you could see was your own worried reflection in the lenses of his aviators.

   “How ‘bout a kiss for good luck,” Jim asked with a smirk. His hands tightened around the handlebars of the motorcycle, eager to rev the engine and ride.

   “Fuck off,” you snapped. “You’re lucky if I don’t break up with you after this.” Jim reached a hand out to caress your arm. As he leaned towards you, the wind picked up his cologne and swept it up to you. You could feel your heart beat faster just from a touch and a smell. You could never quite decide if you hated him or loved him.

    “When I win this bet, I swear I’ll make up for it, babe.”

    “If you win, kid. I ain’t lost a race in ten years.”

   You glared at the man beside Jim. You didn’t remember his name, not that you really cared to know. All that mattered to you was that he was the asshole who bet Jim couldn’t beat him in a race. He was the reason you were out on an abandoned racetrack in the middle of the day about to watch Jim risk his life again on some stupid bet.

    “That’s ‘cause you haven’t raced me before.” The man laughed and Jim kicked up the bike rest, revving the engine as a challenge. The other man revved his engine, too, and before you could ask Jim to withdraw one more time they were both speeding down the length of the track.

    You shook your head, muttering a string of curses under your breath as you went to sit down on a bench by the sidelines. The pair was already halfway through their first lap and Jim was sneaking ahead. You shut your eyes, determined not to look. Determined to ignore the small tug of excitement in your chest as you heard Jim shoot past you as he finished the first lap securely in the lead, now. You heard him shout with joy as he passed, and you couldn’t help the smile on your lips as you cracked your eyes open to watch him.

   Jim kept a steady lead over the next two laps. You relaxed marginally as Jim went into the fourth and final lap around the track, confident that he would win and you’d finally be able to go on the date you’d been promised hours ago. Your eyes drifted to Jim’s dickhead challenger, who had fallen considerably behind at this point. He seemed to be fishing for something in his pocket. You watched as he looked back at Jim, who was a lap ahead and coming up close behind him, and dropped something on the ground. Several small objects caught the light as they tumbled down and bounced off the tarmac.

    You bolted out of your seat as your brain put two and two together. You waved your arms at Jim, hoping to get his attention before he ran straight over the pile of tacks, but he didn’t seem to get the message. He only waved back until he saw you run into the middle of the raceway. By that time you knew it was too late.

    You could hear the pop and hiss as the tacks tore up Jim’s tires and air seeped out of them. Jim turned hard to avoid hitting you, but the tires no longer had purchase against the track. The bike tipped over as the tires buckled, sending Jim sprawling. The screech of metal as the bike skidded towards you sent chills down your spine. It crashed into you before you could even twitch a muscle, sweeping your legs out from under you. Your head slammed into the concrete but you felt no pain - only darkness.

         Your eyes cracked open to a bright white light. It touched everything in the room, softening every hard edge you could see. You tried to move your arms but it felt like you were moving underwater. Thoughts stayed half-formed as you fought through the deep static in your brain. A screech of metal and hiss of air jumped into your memory and you clenched your fists. “I swear to God if I”m dead, I’m gonna kick Jim’s ass,” you muttered to yourself.

   A snort to your left drew your attention, and you found yourself looking up at a familiar face. Your lips curved up into a weak smile. “Face like that, I always knew you were an angel, Bones.”  You could practically feel a breeze from how hard Bones rolled his eyes.

“Incorrigible the both of you,” he grumbled, waving a tricorder over you.

“How’s Jim?”

“Fine for now,” Bones said, putting the tricorder away and walking to the end of your bed. “I’m gonna test your nerves now, sugar. It might tickle a little, but I want you to tell me which toe I’m touching.”

“Left middle toe. What do you mean ‘for now?’ What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” Bones said, moving on to touch your other toes and test the range of motion in your ankles, “I’m just gonna kill him that’s all.”

“Get in line, McCoy,” you smiled.

Bones rested a hand on your shin, stroking it gently with the pad of his thumb through the thin hospital blanket. “Tell you what, I’ll push your wheelchair and you go for the knees.”

“Yeah, and then we’ll - wait,” you paused as your brain caught up. The smile dropped from your face. “Wheelchair?”

“For a couple weeks,” Bones added, seeing the blind panic run across your face. “You had hairline fractures in both of your legs from the impact and one of your ankles shattered. We’ve fixed ‘em up as best we can, but you’ll need to stay off them so they can finish healing.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

“You wouldn’t be talking about me, would you?” Jim leaned against the doorway, scrapes down his face and neck. His right arm was in a sling against his chest, but despite his injuries he had the same cocky smirk on his face.

You reached behind you for a pillow and threw it full force at Jim’s head, missing by an inch. Jim ducked out of the way and banked his arm against the doorframe, hissing in pain. You smiled and decided to chock it up as a win anyway. “You owe me one hell of a date, Tiberius.”

tags: 

@outside-the-government @martinawalker @thevalesofanduin @goingknowherewastaken @yourtropegirl @trekken81 @feelmyroarrrr @yukki-art @atari-writes @pabegay1 @bolontiku  @brooke-taylor0323 @anotherotter @the-witching-hours12-3

[kingfisher95]

A Little Apology And Then Some

So last year I dropped off of the face of tumblr, basically because uni was absolutely kicking my ass. But sadly that meant I left many things unfinished. One of these was a fic exchange which I got far far too dedicated to and kept saying to myself I would finish. I never did. @avatarquake I am so so so sorry. My prompt was - Daisy/Coulson, their vehicles and car races [fanfic, graphic, fanart]. Here below, for you and every Skoulson and Formula 1 fan, the first 2000 words of my fic which I do hope to keep working on. It’s very close to my heart, but I haven’t even got to the shipping aspect.

I also do not think I will return to tumblr for several more months, probably not until well into 2018.

“Give me an update, where is Loki?” Phil thinks he manages to sound nonchalant even in the heat of battle, bracing his body and throwing the wheel left praying the tyres will grip. Of course they do, 7 laps old and there’s no give at all but it’s always a gamble. They bite and bite and bite and the apex roars around and now he can hit the gas again, franticly climbing gears as he’s pressed back in his seat by the acceleration.

“All good Phil. You’re 6 seconds up, he’s got the edge in sector 3 but you’ve gone purple in sector 1 the past 2 laps. Fuel is on target,” May crackles in his ear, breezily calm, he can almost picture her leaning in to the telemetry screens with that tiny crease of concentration between her brows, working the best way to keep their agile little car ahead of the overpowered Asgardian brutes.

The next corner races at him and he lifts off and he fights the instinct to brake, carrying all the speed he can, deeper, deeper.

NOW. His foot stamps on the brakes and he wrenches right. This time the tyres slip just a millimetre before they catch and he’s flooring it again, racing toward the start-finish line to start lap 45/51 and sector 1, a fast and tight set of corners which test the aero package to the limit and makes his heart race like a derby stallion.

“Purple again, how are the tyres?” May asks as he punches in to sector two.

“Tyres are good,” he manages to grind out as he maxes out and the force of the acceleration pushes him backwards into his seat and the heat of the roaring V12. The back straight wings past the corners of his sight in a blur of colour, eyes fixed on the approaching corner, a vicious left hander where drivers can experience in excess of 4 G.

“Loki closing we need to hit 1:39,” crackles the radio as the force of his braking causes the webbed harness to bite into his shoulders and Coulson hits the confirm button as he flicks the car into the corner just a fraction too late, running wide and setting him up wrong for the sweeping right hander. The tires squeal in protest, smoking and drowned out by the engine’s roar and he runs far too wide onto the curb. Coulson swears violently, wrestling the car back onto the tarmac and hitting the accelerator down the third straight.

“Sorry Phil. Damage report on the lockup?”

“Intact. Tyres will make it to the end of the race if I’m careful.” Honestly he’s not sure if they will and Copse is closing on him, a corner taken almost flat. The sweat is running in his eyes now and he can see a flash of the golden Asgard livery in his right mirror.

Copse is over in a flash and the frantic weave of the next few corners feels all the worse as Coulson starts to feel the back end slide by increments. Around Stowe the back end steps out like an American drifter, smoking violently.

“Box. Box.” May still sounds calm but Coulson can’t believe she’s calling him in, 6 laps to the end. 6 laps, he’ll make it last. “Box Phil, and confirm.”

Coulson wings past the pit lane entry and on to the start finish straight, glancing at the timing board that still shows him in 1st place. He’s in the 1.41’s and suddenly Loki’s car is looming large in his mirrors. The SHIELD engine is vastly underpowered compared to the Asgard team and a tight feeling develops in his chest as he throws the car in to the first set of corners of lap 46. He’s got to rely on his aero package and pray the tires make it.

“Coulson when I give an order, I expect it obeyed. Box this lap unless you want your ass handed to you extra crispy,” the radio booms with Fury’s voice. “Confirm.”

Coulson doesn’t have time to confirm. Loki’s gotten better drive out of Aintree and the superior horsepower is telling. He’s forced to go deep in to go defensive in to Stowe, compromising the right hander for the second time running. It’s a horse race down towards Copse and Coulson doesn’t bother touching the brakes as he flings the car into the pass. Its rear end steps out like a ballet dancer as Loki dives towards the inside line, trying the undercut, the smell of burning rubber is everywhere and all Phil can see is smoke and yellow livery and then black.

A fierce joy rises inside Daisy as she flies through the final corner of the penultimate lap. Spa-francorchamps, the fastest race on the calendar. The black tarmac glistens festively, varnished with rain, and the chunky inters throw plumes of water to her left and right.

“1:55.2,” the radio intones. Daisy flicks the confirm and surges across the line. She needs to shave a quarter of a second off this lap and she knows exactly where to do it. The track is rising beneath her and she punches the gas, following the fading racing line to the crest of the hill in Eau Rouge, a terrifying blind corner and she turns in with a thrill in her heart the same as every time she takes this corner which betters even the bravest of drivers.

All she can see is trees and sky and then the track falls away beneath her as she turns in on faith. With a snap the track comes back in to view but she’s carrying too much speed to make the left hander. She punches the brakes and the tyres lock in protest, skating over the soaking track and the gravel trap spits as she slides to a halt and the screen flickers black.

Daisy slams her hands against the wheel in frustration and rips off the VR headset, revealing the dark room and the cheap plastic of the simulator’s walls. May perches to her left, tablet in hand and a steely look in her eyes.

“You just wasted an hour and half driving time to crash out on the final lap. You knew you were taking eau rouge too fast, that was stupid and reckless.” She clips out in her emotionless voice, reaching for Daisy’s wristband and flicking to her heart rate monitor. It’s hovering around 85, and the older woman makes a noise of approval. “Good recovery. But you can do better.”

May drops Daisy’s wrist and stands up, tapping on her tablet with a small crease between her brows. Daisy unclips the steering wheel and places it in front of her on the nose of the sim. Unbuckling the racing harness, she stands, rolling her shoulders to relieve the tension of being cradled in a carbon fibre cocoon for nearly 4 hours. She hops neatly out, and turns to start unscrewing her seat, a custom made mould of her body, from the skeletal sim car.

“No need for that,” May interrupts, looking up and snatching the steering wheel. “You’re back down here this afternoon.”

That was unusual, usually SHIELD only gave their young drivers half days on the simulator, here and there, crumbs off the tables of the big boys. Now it was Winter break Daisy had expected to have even less time with Barton and Romanoff back and needing to run the predicted spec for next year and learn the new track in Azerbaijan.

“Why’s that?” she asks, tugging off the worn racing gloves and instead tossing them in to the chair. She’s instantly suspicious. “You finally convinced them I’m a rockstar worthy of recognition?”

May doesn’t even look up.

“After that display?” she says coolly. “Not likely. Get some lunch Johnson, I expect you back here at 1.30.”

“Yes ma’am!” Daisy darts up the stairs into the sun-filled atrium, breathing in deep, clean lungfuls of air, wonderfully fresh after the stuffy sim room. The glass the room, like a giant fishbowl, is bedecked in twinkling lights and icicles. A colossal Christmas tree takes pride of place, it’s boughs heavy with silver SHIELD-sponsored baubles and a selection of perfectly wrapped cuboidal presents crowd at its feet in silver and black paper. Daisy pauses to examine the thing with distaste, a heavy-handed tribute to consumerism, and glances round at the clipped sound of heels approaching.

“Hiya Daisy!” Bobbi chirrups, and Daisy spins and hugs a statuesque blonde woman in greeting.

“Bobbi! Long time no see! I didn’t expect to see you here, they running you though the mill too?”

“Yeah, Fury’s giving us some big inspirational speech and then I’ve got sim drills, according to my timetable.”

“Yeah, I spent all morning down there with the cavalry, apparently I’ve got to go back there this afternoon. Don’t fancy a swap do you? Who’ve you got?”

Bobbi chuckles as they cross in to the swinging doors of the canteen.

“No chance girl. I’ve got a hot date with Hunter. Besides, you know May’s the best at what she does.”

Daisy groans and rolls her eyes melodramatically, snatching up a bottle of water with one hand and an apple with another.

“Sure, but would it kill her to crack a smile every so often?”

The plastic canteen chairs scrape on the faux wood lino as they sit by one of the curved bay windows and Daisy bites in to her apple with a crisp crunch. The room is rapidly filling with a buzz of noise as more and more people file in and she glances around curiously. Fury is lurking ominously in a corner, dressed in a black leather biker jacket.

“You gotta remember what she’s been through Daisy.” Bobbi reproves as she pokes her salad with a plastic fork.

“Yeah and what was that exactly,” mutters the smaller woman. “Nobody seems to be able to tell me. And why does that mean she gets to put me through the ringer. She made me drive Spa twice this morning. In the wet.”

Bobbi casts her a sympathetic look and opens her mouth to reply.

“Ok PEOPLE,” comes the bellow. Fury is standing at the front of the room, flanked by Fitz-Simmons, head engineer and biomechanics respectively. He builds the cars and finds the limits of their capabilities, she does the same to the drivers. Daisy hates them both. Neither of them deign to work with anything or anyone below top level, Daisy who gets a morning in the sim a score of times a year is quite beneath their notice.

“I have been informed that we are performing… suboptimally,” he glances fiercely at the gawky Scot on his left who blinks robotically at the attentive crowd. “Our competitors are churning out better, faster and stronger drivers. SHIELD has not had a package to rival for the championship since Rogers. We are going to be making big changes around these parts, starting this afternoon. We are working towards a more integrated, innovative system. The board wants results. You all gotta pull your weight, or you might find you have no weight to pull. Engineers of all descriptions, report to Fitz for debriefing in the garage. Drivers, PR, trainers, personal engineers, report to Simmons right here. “

[writerman]

Power and Control-|| ArdynxRavus

Chapter One

A shrieking alarm dragged Ravus from the land of sleep, with a groan he grabs his phone and taps the screen, while squinting at the brightness, in a desperate bid to cease the wailing.

 Head falling back against his pillow, Ravus took a moment to collect himself from his racing heart at being woken so abruptly. How long had it been since he had slept so deeply that his alarm actually woke him?

 Rather than dwell on it any longer than he needed to, he got up with the intention of getting ready for his job as TA at a prestigious high school. It was NOT what he wanted to be doing in his late 20’s but he was given the job as a favour from the headmaster who was close to his family. All he really did was help kids with math and English in study hall and covered classes when other teachers were sick. It wasn’t a hard job and the kids… actually seemed to like him.

 The whitehaired man picked his way through the bedroom picking up various articles of clothing and inspecting whether or not they could be worn for work.

 Eventually he found a pair of grey jeans, a white t shirt and a, slightly wrinkled, blazer a shade or two darker than his jeans that passed the stain test with flying colours which made him think that maybe it was new and he had just throwing it on the floor one morning when he was in a hurry, like always.

 Standing in the bathroom, the naked bulb illuminating his tired face, he grabbed the toothbrush from the little cup on the side of his sink and averted his gaze from the dark bags under his eyes and busied himself with getting somewhat fresh for his job.

 A feeble beep from the kitchen reminded him that he needed more coffee for his machine, the pot that was being poured out now was the last of it, he would need to stop off at some store and grab more, though this was the least of his problems.

 Checking the state of the outside world through his kitchen window, he found that it had snowed heavily and would need to leave that very second to dig his car out, with a huff of irritation he poured coffee into a travel mug, taking his sweet ass time as he did so.

 If he was late for work someone would cover for him, Loqi probably, the guy that ran the reception like it was a night club cloakroom would definitely cover his ass while he made his way to work, rolling his eyes at the time as though that changed anything, he headed out.

 At first he thought he had imagined the snow piled over his car earlier, until he heard the tell-tale sound of a shovel scraping over tarmac.

 Walking around his car, expecting the worst, he found his neighbour, Aranea. She merely saluted him in greeting as she chucked a shovel full of snow over her shoulder and onto the pile behind her. Ravus wasn’t sure what had made her want to do this, usually they didn’t speak much, and when they did they shared a beer and only talked about car parts for his ailing Nissan 300Zx from the 90’s.

 It was really the only friendship he could honestly say he had but they weren’t close… not by a long shot. He had never confided in her about anything, she didn’t even know his surname. Or even that that he was the estranged eldest child of an aristocratic family that, by the way, was mired in such darkness, that even with all the old money and all blood diamonds they possessed could not buy them out of the infamy that was the name Nox Fleuret.

 So, Aranea had dug out his car without any hesitation on her part, it seemed, and Ravus was not going to be late for work… well as late.

 “Let me guess, I owe you a beer now?” Before the blond could even respond someone from behind Aranea called out, the door to the little house opened and Gentiana, Aranea’s wife steps out with a plastic box in her hands.

 “Ravus, I’m pleased I got you before you left for work, my plan for Aranea to help you and slow you down worked. I made too much for dinner last night, please take it to work and have it for lunch, ok?” Her tone was kind and yet insistent, even if he had wanted too, which he did not, he could not deny Gentiana.

 “Great, we adopted a 28-year-old son with a bad attitude and a smoking habit” This was all his blond friend could say as Ravus hopped in the car with the Tupperware under his arm. He wound the window down as he started the car.

 “Thanks for lunch, Gentiana. Aranea, beer tonight at 8 usual place?” His friend nodded and he screeched out of his drive way tearing down the road, absolutely over the speed limit, which he kept up all the way to work.

Luckily classes started at 9:15 and when he arrived at 9 he thanked whatever Gods supposedly existed, his good mood plummeting as he is blocked from his parking space due to a cherry red 1965 MG Spider, it gleamed under the weak winter sun almost mocking the TA.

 Growling under his breath Ravus pulled into the student parking lot, luckily most of the kids were dropped off by chauffer driven luxury car, so it was easy to get a spot but it was further to walk to the office.

 Loqi greeted him cheerfully, Ravus pointedly ignored him as he stalked into the staffroom with a face like thunder, his frown was intimidating to most which meant he could hopefully get the idiot in his pot to move their stupid car.

 “Who, may I ask, is the jackass that has parked their damn car in my spot?” The staffroom falls silent, Ravus usually did not speak, when he did it was merely to answer questions someone asked, always quiet and always so polite… well.

 Ravus had felt a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach when he had seen the car, but had brushed it off as anger when he had first arrived, but that vehicle was too familiar and he hoped with all his being that it was not who he believed it was.

 Regis, the headmaster, cleared his throat as he approached Ravus looking, somewhat, amused. Resting a hand on the TA’s shoulder he turned him round to face someone, a smug son of bitch type of smile on his lips as he nodded his head to Ravus, who was stood mouth dry, heart thudding as the sound in the room faded.

 No.

 Not him.

 “Ravus, you are aware we have invited a university professor to work with us for a few weeks, you agreed to help him out should he need anything. Let me introduce you to-“ Regis was stopped mid-sentence by the visiting professor raising his hand to speak, and by the fact Ravus was visibly shaking with anger.

 “You, sir, throw yourself off a damned cliff!” Ravus, now pointing at the professor, whispered violently before turning on his heel and stalking off without even so much as an explanation.

 With shaking hands Ravus pulled the packet of cigarettes from his pocket along with a near empty lighter and stormed out past Loqi in the lobby who had detained a few late students, he threw the doors open and stumbled down the steps through the snow and behind a tree to smoke.

 It wasn’t that he disliked the professor that visited, he didn’t know him as well as he once had to truly still hate him, but memories followed him and at times that man was the reason he could not sleep at night, it was absolutely unfair of life to throw this at him now.

 His phone vibrated in his pocket he wanted to ignore it but it was likely something important, his mother or father calling to be reassured that he still had a job, or he wasn’t dead- the usual things parents called about when they had unruly offspring ruining their reputation in high society.

 The ID was a number he did not recognise most of the time this was a decent excuse to ignore the call but knowing his luck it would be hugely important, so with irritated huff he answered it.

 “Hello?”

 “Ah, so you really are still using the same number.”

 It was him, that damned… Ravus took a long drag from his cigarette and glanced from behind the tree, the professor was stood on the steps of the school eyes trained on Ravus’ smoking spot, the teaching assistant moved to hide himself away again.

 “what the f u c k are you doing here?”

 “Now, now. There’s absolutely no need to be so childish, I thought at your age you would have grown up at least enough to be respectful and civil to an old friend…” The way he said friend was far too suggestive and Ravus wanted nothing more than to punch him, punch him right in the face and maybe bust his nose.

 “Listen, old man. I am already tired of your antics and you’ve just shown up. I’m not sticking around to see you ruin this place and for me to lose my job so just make some excuse and leave.” He was behaving so out of character, usually when people bothered him he would simply avoid that person unless absolutely necessary and speak the minimal amount to them should he have to have some kind of conversation with said person.

 But no, this man had always brought out the worst in him, and it was a lie when he believed he could not still hate him, because he did. Passionately.

 “Ardyn, seriously just fuck off.”

 He hung up, sadly, as he moved from behind the tree he was caught by the wrist and pulled backwards. He may have had hs back to him but he knew damn well that the chest he had just been pulled into was none other than Professor Izunia.

 A hot breath in his ear before the other spoke. An unwelcome shiver ran down Ravus’ spine and he struggled to pull away.

 “Don’t tell me you haven’t missed me, not even the most minuscule amount?”

[gillytweed]

A Fool Thinks Herself to be Wise (SuperHero/Villain AU)

A Fool Thinks Herself to be Wise Pairing: Clexa Rating: Children Shouldn’t Read Alone (T)

Note: So here’s another Cacoethes oneshot. Turns out I had this finished and I just forgot... Either way, now y’all get to read something from Lexa’s point of view.

First fic to this series is here

She was an idiot.

Her fists pounded on the bag, but the burn of her muscles and the bruises forming on her knuckles didn’t seem like enough punishment for her stupidity.

She’d been doing so well.

Almost seven years as Heda, and she hadn’t slipped once. She’d taken down villain after villain, put multiple criminals behind bars. Yet after the arrival of that enraging girl Wanheda, everything had gone down hill.

She’d slipped on their first meeting. She’d been tired, out of focus. The anniversary of her mother's death had been soon, Costia had said they needed a break, work had been hounding her ass despite her father's efforts to redirect their attention. It had been an off day, which had let one of Arkdia City’s most dangerous criminals get away, and it made her so angry with herself.

She hit harder, adding in kicks and spins, the heavy bag rattling dangerously on it’s hooks.

The next time they’d crossed paths, she’d been so eager to fix her mistake. Eager and reckless to the point that Aden had commented, and when Natblida, the sidekick literally known in the papers as being reckless, says she’d gone too far, then she knew she needed to take a step back. Her emotions were high, she was stressed. She needed to think everything through.

Breathing hard, she steadied the bag, leaning her forehead against the cool canvas, eyes sliding closed. She stayed like that for a long while, letting the rhythmic sound of the air conditioning fans sooth her. She ignored the sounds of footsteps coming closer, down the steps from the upper levels, instead focusing on her still pounding heart.

“Hey, Lex.”

She hummed in response, signalling that she was listening.

“We found some- why is it so dark in here?”

She sighed, blinking open her eyes to take in the sight of Anya, fully suited up as Gona, but with her cowl down, squinting into the dim room.

“Even though it’s been this way since I was born, I feel like you keep forgetting that I can see much, much better than you.”

She smirked into the gloom. Methodically unwrapping her hands, she strode over to her sister, easing up the light settings just enough that Anya could see her without issue. The light wasn’t harsh or bright, but everything was thrown into sharp clarity. She could see every corner of the room with ease.

“What did you find?”

Anya raised an eyebrow, but continued.

“Dad managed to find Wanheda on some security camera’s. She is really good at being stealthy, but we’re better.”

The older girl winked, a cocky grin on her face. Lexa puffed out a laugh, shaking her head at her siblings confidence.

“Alright then, let me get suited up and we’ll make a plan. Is Aden coming, or is school kicking his ass?”

Anya leaned against the doorframe as Lexa pulled on the compression underclothes of her suit. Anya’s own suit took much longer to put on than her sisters, so it was a slight surprise that she was already set to go. While the Gona suit was extremely similar to the Heda suit, right down to the infinity symbol on the chest, there were some functional differences. Heavy armour along the arms complemented Anya’s superior strength nicely, and the lighter armour on her legs and torso allowed for her enhanced speed to go relatively unhindered by the added weight. Aden had once called her “the perfect tank.”

“He’s busy with homework, but he promises to make time for training on saturday.”

The younger girl nodded as she pushed past her sister, taking the stairs up two at a time.

Their ‘lair’ as the siblings had affectionately named it, much to their fathers irritation, overlooked the city that they’d sworn to protect. The old clock tower that disguised their abode was situated near downtown, a few streets over from the waterfront, and near Ton DC Hospital. The perfect place for their crime fighting operations, and being so high up let them jump straight onto the roof tops.

Her father, Titus, or FleimKepa, typed away at his computer, a few different images of Wanheda frozen on one of the screens. She paused at the sight of the villain, the small smirk and the glinting blue eyes sending shivers down her spine.

A slight push from Anya has her racing to her suit, slipping it on with a sigh of happiness. The suit made her feel safe and confident, like she could really do some good in the world. She jogged over to her Father’s desk as she adjusted her gauntlets, where he and Anya discussed Wanheda.

“Do we know what she’s doing?”

Fleimkepa grunted, his regular frown creasing his features.

“I’d assume going to kill someone. There have been reports of several bodies showing up all throughout the city, although most concentrated in the Dead Zone. Known rapists, human traffickers, some drug dealers although all had past crimes involving abuse. Rather odd, but consistent with her MO from Arkadia. The rape and human trafficking statistics are very low there, mostly because of her.”

Anya frowned as she pulled up her cowl.

“Then why are we going after her? She’s getting scum off the streets.”

Lexa mirrored her sister, pulling her own cowl up and adjusting the built in blinders and hearing protection, along with turning on the built in camera. Blank screens on the desk blinked to life, showing the two camera feeds from their cowls. Fleimkepa leaned back in his chair, pulling up Wanheda’s file. The file was large, showing combat statistics and her long list of crimes.

“Because she’s killing them rather than turning them over to the police. I read up on her statistics from the ArkPD. Once she finishes with the most immediate and obvious criminals, she moves on to Government officials and white collar criminals. While all are proven guilty of some crime or another after the fact, they’re still dead.”

Gona swallowed at that, coughing slightly as she turned to Heda.

“So, what’re we waiting for? The camera’s indicated she was heading towards the Dead Zone.”

Heda nodded, adjusting her suit one last time. They headed towards the balcony, grappling hooks at the ready.

“Lexa, remember you have a meeting with the new branch head of Griffin Co. tomorrow at ten AM. She’s the daughter of the CEO, so don’t be late.”

Lexa waved back at her father to show she heard, putting the reminder at the back of her mind. She had more important things to worry about.

The hero duo lept off the balcony, firing their grappling hooks. It didn’t take terribly long to reach the Dead Zone. Not having to battle traffic cut down on their travel time significantly, but they still had to stop and stretch their arms once they reached the slums edge.

The Dead Zone was a series of housing and business districts situated on a peninsula on the north-eastern side of the city. Surrounded by water on three sides, the Dead Zone was the centre of Polis’ smuggling and crime rings, and the designated slums of the city. It had such a high concentration of criminals and villains, which had resulted in a buddy system being implemented whenever the heroes had to go inside.

“Alright, Heda, what’s the plan?”

Gona stretched, groaning out her question. They’d stopped on one of the warehouses near the Dead Zones edge to get an update from Fleimkepa. Heda was silent, listening to her father over their com channel.

“Wanheda was last sighted near The DropShip, so let’s head over there and see what we can find.”

The DropShip was a well known hangout for the less savoury citizens of Polis City, many of which would shoot any of the heroes without a thought, so there was an unspoken/once spoken rule of “Don’t go in the dang bar, I’m looking at you Aden.” It was run by a pair of suspiciously proper gentlemen, Monty Green and Jasper Jorden. Neither had a juvenile record, and their business was run to the letter of the law. Their only notable transgression was being accused of illegally making moonshine, but the charges had been dropped due to insufficient evidence. The two boys, no older than college age, were so incredibly innocent it was down right suspicious, especially with where they decided to set up shop.

The two heroes dropped onto the bars roof, hidden behind the sign depicting a falling spaceship in gaudy neon lights. It was rather quiet, the endless traffic of downtown nonexistent here. Instead, the air was filled with low chatter from the bar's patrons, dogs baying from several streets over, and the odd yell that rang down the eerie streets.

Their coms crackled in their ears, giving way to the comforting sound of their father’s voice.

“I found her again. She ran past a working security camera outside a warehouse near the pier. I’ll send you the coordinates.”

A GPS map flashed across the lenses in their cowls, sending them sprinting towards the pier. They ran across the rooftops in tandem, Anya in front to act as a springboard for Lexa when a roof was just that little bit too far, but not worth using a grappling hook to get to. The need for assistance did grate a little on the younger hero, but she had grudgingly accepted her limitations. She had enhanced sight and hearing, Anya had greater strength and speed. That was fact and she couldn’t do anything about it.

They arrived at the designated location within minutes, dropping in front of the camera, Anya cheekily waving, then continued running in the direction Fleimkepa directed them. Heda spread out her senses, trying her best to listen for the sounds of a fight, or rather murder. Filtering out the sounds of her own breathing, the pounding of boots on tarmac and the light clicks of Anya’s heavy armour, she sorted through the noises of the Dead Zone. Gone went the sounds of howling dogs and hissing cats, the raucous laughter from nearby bars, and the sound of lapping water against dock supports.

A scream cut through the noise.

“Did you hear that?”

She felt as though she could hear the eye roll.

“No.”

Farther than normal hearing then.

“This way.”

They skid around a corner, spraying gravel. The sounds of screams and gunfire grew louder.

“Heda, you’re in Reaper territory.”

Her father’s voice had a worried edge. The Reapers were a known gang with several organized crime connections, so if Wanheda was here then she was most likely going for one of those connections or one of the gang's leaders.

The gunfire continued, but was gradually lessening, fading into the sounds of grunts and agonized screams that rang in her ears. They were identical to the scream of the man the villain had killed in front of her on their first meeting. A broken door came into view, the lock destroyed by bullets and then kicked inwards. The entrance led into a warehouse, identical to the one next to it, all grey and red brick with yellow painted letters to indicate who owned what. The paint on this particular warehouse was so damaged that the only letter left was a ragged ‘R.’ How fitting.

She and Gona slid down into the warehouse on their knees, popping up in low crouches behind a stack of crates. The scene before them made their mouths go dry.

Bodies, dead husks were scattered on the floor, other, healthier bodies, were slumped against the walls, bullets and blood splatters painting a gory picture. Gunfire flashed about the room as Wanheda dodged and rolled, blonde hair flying with every movement, firing her own gun as she grabbed a gangster by the face, his agonized scream ripping through the air as he shrivelled grotesquely. Anya’s breath picked up beside her, a shaky sound that matched her own heart beat.

“Come on, they might be criminals but they don’t deserve this.”

Gona nodded, a tense frown on her face. In unison, they vaulted over their hiding place, feet planting themselves in the backs of two gangsters. They were sent sprawling, falling with shocked cries, drawing the attention of the vengeful villain. Wanheda looked shocked for a handful of seconds before her face fell into an easy smile, like her murder spree hadn’t just been interrupted.

There weren’t many opponents left, the majority either dead or having fled once Wanheda had been distracted. Heda darted forward, determination in her posture. She wasn’t letting the blonde get away again. Gona took on the job of finishing off the last of the gangsters, enhanced strength filled punches sending them flying.

Wanheda jumped away at Heda’s first low sweeping kick, hopping up onto a crate to avoid the subsequent flurry of jabs. They danced like this for a while, at a stalemate as Wanheda refused to engage. Only when Anya joined her, having finished the rest of the gangsters did they pause.

“Give up Wanheda, it’s over.”

The blonde stood stiffly, perched on a crate. It seemed they’d managed to back her into a corner. Movement to the back end of the room had everyone turning, a man in a filthy suit sprinted towards the exit, a briefcase in hand.

“It’s not over until he’s dead!”

Wanheda snarled, bringing up her gun, firing off two shots before Heda managed to tackle her. They tumble to the ground, the bang of the gun right next to her ear making her head spin. The blonde manages to elbow her in the face, slipping from her grasp. The ear protection in her cowl had worked to an extent, sealing off her ears nanoseconds after the shot went off, but the noise was still loud enough to stun her.

Note to self: develop and update better ear protection

The yells of Fleimkepa buzzing in her ear, and then Gona were the first sounds she managed to hear after the ringing in her ears subsided. She stumbled to her feet, startling when her sisters arms came around her in a hug.

“God, I thought you were dead.”

Anya’s voice held relief, as they separated. She put a palm to the side of her head, only barely feeling the pressure through the padding of her cowl. She scanned the warehouse, taking in the bodies, the absent Wanheda and the suited man sprawled groaning on the floor, a shoddy bandage around his leg.

“He’ll live. Fleimkepa already has an ambulance and police enroute.”

She nodded, gritting her teeth as a headache began to pound behind her eyes. It seemed they’d managed to win a small victory against Wanheda. While they didn’t catch her, they had saved her target, meaning they could hand him over to the police to undergo due process. Not the most ideal outcome, but better than nothing. Plus, they might be able to learn something from the recordings from their cowls.

“Alright, we’ll stay until they get here. Then we go home. I need a ton of aspirin if I’m going to survive that meeting tomorrow.”

[eddiejpoplar]

We Race the Nürburgring 24 and Live to Tell About It

Considering I’m about to sleep on a bench in the back of a truck while still wearing a sweaty race suit, I feel on top of the world. I’ve just had one of the greatest driving experiences of my life: hammering into dusk at impossible speed, howling past slower traffic, and looking on in awe as the leading pack of GT3 cars muscle past in a shower of sparks, flames, and attitude. The Green Hell at its most heavenly on a balmy, dry evening and my race car—a 500-hp AMG GT4—getting faster and faster in the cool, dense air. If this is what the Nürburgring 24 hour is all about, sign me up forever.

Even better, my teammates and I have concocted a plan to maximize our night running: We’ll double-stint because conditions are so good and save our secret weapon—five-time DTM champion, four-time Nürburgring 24 winner, and all-around legend Bernd Schneider—for the morning. Rain is forecast, and Schneider’s experience and freakish talent will make all the difference. I sleep as sound as can be for two hours or so.

Waking up under harsh LED lights is a bit of a shock. My back aches, and one of my legs is numb where it’s rested over a gear bag. But what’s worse is that sound. It’s a faint but unmistakable “shhhhhhh” at first, like aluminum foil being swished around the room. Then it builds to a gentle but insistent drumming. Rain. My heart sinks. The precipitation that was scheduled for 6 a.m. has come early. And it isn’t going anywhere until well after the race ends at 3:30 p.m.

“Don’t be an ass. Keep it out of the barriers. Be brave.” The latter is key.

My double stint starts in 20 minutes or so, at 2:30 a.m.—just when the rain really kicks off. As I stumble out of the truck and into the garage, Pim de Wit, our performance engineer (he looks at the data and tells us why we’re slower than Schneider), tells me, “Monsoon rain, possibly ice rain [he means hail, but it sounds so much scarier when a German spits out ‘ice rain’] is coming fast.” I nod confidently. Then head for the restroom.

Rain is of course a part of racing. But rain at the ’Ring is different. It’s somehow bigger, wetter, and more dangerous. And the sheer scale of the track, its hemmed-in narrowness and its total lack of runoff areas, make it hugely intimidating even for the experienced. Me? I’ve done the N24 before but always in mercifully dry conditions and in cars slower than our monster AMG. We’re running in the top 25. Falling into the cold clutches of those endless shimmering barriers is the stuff of nightmares.

So I wait in the pit lane, sky flashing great purple streaks of lightning. Christian Gebhardt, another of my teammates, brings the car in, and I rip open the door, pull out his radio and drink connectors, and stand back for him to climb out. Then I fold myself into the seat. He straps me into the harnesses, and my earpiece chirps to life. It’s Marius Dietrich, our race engineer, calm as can be. “OK, Jethro, reset fuel, select driver position four. You have new wet tires. We expect more and more rain. Sixty kph in the pit lane, watch the white line on pit exit.” Then a pause. “Take it easy.” And with that I’m given the signal to join the mayhem.

At this precise moment I long for a track with endless runoff areas, an overzealous race director throwing out the red flag at the first hint of drizzle, and a nice, quiet car. This is the other side of old-school no-holds-barred racing, and suddenly it seems more foolhardy than heroic. But I have just a few seconds to contemplate what’s ahead. The moment I cross the line at the end of the pit lane, there’s no thinking time. That’s probably for the better, as surely I’d just pull over, park it, and hitch a lift to the hotel bar. We all would.

The Nürburgring at night is the ultimate challenge. Five-time DTM champion Bernd Schneider has seen it all but still describes it as “undriveable.”

The N24 combines the modern grand prix circuit with the craggy old Nordschleife to make a circuit of more than 15 miles. That means for the first minute or so there is some margin for error on the smooth Formula 1-spec tarmac. It’s a great chance to get a feel for the car and work some heat into the tires. Racing “wets” are amazing things; the AMG still has loads of braking capacity and surprisingly good traction. I’m running engine map one, which saves fuel and reduces torque, but it still reels in everything but the fearsome GT3s at an alarming pace. Weirdly, I’m not so worried about the corners. I can feel the understeer or oversteer build. Hydroplaning, on the other hand, scares the bejesus out of me. Just how quickly can I go on the faster sections before I start floating and sail into the barriers? Erm, who knows?

Turning left for the first time from the expanses of the well-lit GP track and being swallowed up by the darkness of the Nordschleife is unforgettable. I distinctly remember saying, “Here we go … ” aloud to myself. Then, silently, giving myself a set of simple instructions: “Don’t be an ass. Keep it out of the barriers. Be brave.” The latter is key. Your natural instinct is to creep around as carefully as possible, but to do so just sends your confidence spiraling into the pits of hell. Tires lose temperature, the ABS starts working overtime, the car runs away from you on turn-in as the front tires skate over the surface and the rear tries to bite you as soon as you dare think of opening the throttle.

I know this because my first lap indeed plays out like a nightmare. I’m not brave, and the car and the track punish me over and over again with scary near misses. Think back to your school days and the moment of panic when you realize you haven’t prepared nearly enough for an exam. You get a hot feeling up your neck and a sudden burst of furious heart pumping that literally shakes your ribcage. Now imagine that half-second physical reaction to swelling panic coming over and over again. You’re drowning. That’s a wet lap of the ’Ring in the dead of night.

Our AMG GT4 races in the SP8T class—allowing more aero and boost. The car laps the Nürburgring in about 7 minutes; only the factory GT3 cars are faster. When it’s dry. But it’s never dry.

The second lap is slightly better, but I still feel like I’m walking the car around the circuit. When I make it back to the GP section and begin lap three, I’m determined to start actually driving. So I pick up the pace. I keep the throttle wide open on the straights even when the speeds creep up to 150 mph. I brake a little later, turn in a bit harder, and use the wider “wet line” more confidently.

Every lap there’s a new crash and more yellow flags and Code 60s (at the scene of bigger crashes, a 60-kph temporary speed limit is imposed), and my car feels a little better. I wouldn’t say I’m driving fast, but nothing comes past me except the odd super-committed GT3 car, and I’m picking off other GT4s pretty easily. Even so, this really is endurance rather than enjoyment. My internal coaching is now interrupted by proper shouting: “This is horrible. … Why am I doing this? … Please stop raining!”

Finally, after 11 laps, my stint is over, and the plan for me to do a double is abandoned. I hand over to Schneider, or “Five-Time” as he’s known within the team. The No. 190 Mercedes disappears into the gloom and the spray as I stand in the pit lane soaked from sweat, exhausted, and so, so relieved. I wasn’t an ass. I kept it out of the barriers. I was brave. Eventually.

After the Nordschleife’s oppressive darkness, the pit garage feels floodlit and weirdly disconnected to the mayhem playing out on the track. “Good job, mate,” Pim says. “Nobody around us was going as quickly.” I glance at the screens, and we’re running in 22nd. I am utterly elated. Then I realize the race is barely past the halfway mark just as Fabian Jung, team manager, delivers a line that almost floors me. “Bernd is in for a double. Then it’s you again. Sorry.”

Sunrise brings little respite as the fog rolls in and the rain gets harder. It gets so bad that the race is stopped then restarted despite weather worsening. No. 190 survives the mayhem. AMG builds a hell of a race car.

Those incredible, earlier laps in the dry—sun setting and the 4.0-liter twin-turbo V-8 flinging the car along with a sense of unstoppable force—seem so long ago. Flying into the Foxhole in sixth gear and keeping the throttle pinned to the bulkhead into the compression at the bottom, jumping over the big rise before the fast left of Schwendenkreuz at well above 150 mph, working through the endless third- and fourth-gear twists and turns toward the end of the lap and feeling the GT4’s incredible stability—it’s all out of reach.

I won’t feel the euphoria of a fast, dry lap again, nor will I get the amazing physical sensation of leaning and leaning on the car and it pushing back, barely shrugging at what you ask it to do. Now it’s just rain and survival. I eat a schnitzel from a cardboard box and go back to my bench. Sleep doesn’t come easily. But I do sleep. A bit. And when I awake the plan has changed.

Patrick Simon, who’s experienced and very, very quick, will be in next, so I can relax. Schneider has seen it all before, but even he looks a little ruffled. “How was it?” I ask. His eyes widen. “No grip. Understeer, oversteer … all the time.” He mimes the car slipping out of his hands. “It’s ****ing dangerous.” I’ve been with Schneider for the best part of a week, and it’s the first time I’ve heard him curse. His thoughts mirror mine exactly.

I hope this sense of impeding dread doesn’t make me feel ungrateful. To be a part of this event is pure magic, and even in dire conditions there are moments you just can’t buy: rushing into the dark with lightning splitting great chasms in the sky; GT3 cars dancing past, front wheels a blur as the driver catches every mini-slide; the rear of the cars sparking over curbs or into compressions. Every lap is a privilege. But the stakes are high in every sense.

And so it continues. Another fearsomely slippery stint, this time with the added bonus of heavy fog and more near misses. More unbelievably exciting overtakes and more shouting into my crash helmet. Through it all, though, the AMG GT4 just keeps going. Passing slower cars and hanging on gamefully to the GT3s. The race is stopped for fog then restarts. Fittingly, Schneider takes the checkered flag. We finish 22nd overall, first in class, and with only GT3 cars ahead of us. It’s over. Thank God. Take me home. Can’t wait until next year.

IFTTT

[jesusvasser]

We Race the Nürburgring 24 and Live to Tell About It

Considering I’m about to sleep on a bench in the back of a truck while still wearing a sweaty race suit, I feel on top of the world. I’ve just had one of the greatest driving experiences of my life: hammering into dusk at impossible speed, howling past slower traffic, and looking on in awe as the leading pack of GT3 cars muscle past in a shower of sparks, flames, and attitude. The Green Hell at its most heavenly on a balmy, dry evening and my race car—a 500-hp AMG GT4—getting faster and faster in the cool, dense air. If this is what the Nürburgring 24 hour is all about, sign me up forever.

Even better, my teammates and I have concocted a plan to maximize our night running: We’ll double-stint because conditions are so good and save our secret weapon—five-time DTM champion, four-time Nürburgring 24 winner, and all-around legend Bernd Schneider—for the morning. Rain is forecast, and Schneider’s experience and freakish talent will make all the difference. I sleep as sound as can be for two hours or so.

Waking up under harsh LED lights is a bit of a shock. My back aches, and one of my legs is numb where it’s rested over a gear bag. But what’s worse is that sound. It’s a faint but unmistakable “shhhhhhh” at first, like aluminum foil being swished around the room. Then it builds to a gentle but insistent drumming. Rain. My heart sinks. The precipitation that was scheduled for 6 a.m. has come early. And it isn’t going anywhere until well after the race ends at 3:30 p.m.

“Don’t be an ass. Keep it out of the barriers. Be brave.” The latter is key.

My double stint starts in 20 minutes or so, at 2:30 a.m.—just when the rain really kicks off. As I stumble out of the truck and into the garage, Pim de Wit, our performance engineer (he looks at the data and tells us why we’re slower than Schneider), tells me, “Monsoon rain, possibly ice rain [he means hail, but it sounds so much scarier when a German spits out ‘ice rain’] is coming fast.” I nod confidently. Then head for the restroom.

Rain is of course a part of racing. But rain at the ’Ring is different. It’s somehow bigger, wetter, and more dangerous. And the sheer scale of the track, its hemmed-in narrowness and its total lack of runoff areas, make it hugely intimidating even for the experienced. Me? I’ve done the N24 before but always in mercifully dry conditions and in cars slower than our monster AMG. We’re running in the top 25. Falling into the cold clutches of those endless shimmering barriers is the stuff of nightmares.

So I wait in the pit lane, sky flashing great purple streaks of lightning. Christian Gebhardt, another of my teammates, brings the car in, and I rip open the door, pull out his radio and drink connectors, and stand back for him to climb out. Then I fold myself into the seat. He straps me into the harnesses, and my earpiece chirps to life. It’s Marius Dietrich, our race engineer, calm as can be. “OK, Jethro, reset fuel, select driver position four. You have new wet tires. We expect more and more rain. Sixty kph in the pit lane, watch the white line on pit exit.” Then a pause. “Take it easy.” And with that I’m given the signal to join the mayhem.

At this precise moment I long for a track with endless runoff areas, an overzealous race director throwing out the red flag at the first hint of drizzle, and a nice, quiet car. This is the other side of old-school no-holds-barred racing, and suddenly it seems more foolhardy than heroic. But I have just a few seconds to contemplate what’s ahead. The moment I cross the line at the end of the pit lane, there’s no thinking time. That’s probably for the better, as surely I’d just pull over, park it, and hitch a lift to the hotel bar. We all would.

The Nürburgring at night is the ultimate challenge. Five-time DTM champion Bernd Schneider has seen it all but still describes it as “undriveable.”

The N24 combines the modern grand prix circuit with the craggy old Nordschleife to make a circuit of more than 15 miles. That means for the first minute or so there is some margin for error on the smooth Formula 1-spec tarmac. It’s a great chance to get a feel for the car and work some heat into the tires. Racing “wets” are amazing things; the AMG still has loads of braking capacity and surprisingly good traction. I’m running engine map one, which saves fuel and reduces torque, but it still reels in everything but the fearsome GT3s at an alarming pace. Weirdly, I’m not so worried about the corners. I can feel the understeer or oversteer build. Hydroplaning, on the other hand, scares the bejesus out of me. Just how quickly can I go on the faster sections before I start floating and sail into the barriers? Erm, who knows?

Turning left for the first time from the expanses of the well-lit GP track and being swallowed up by the darkness of the Nordschleife is unforgettable. I distinctly remember saying, “Here we go … ” aloud to myself. Then, silently, giving myself a set of simple instructions: “Don’t be an ass. Keep it out of the barriers. Be brave.” The latter is key. Your natural instinct is to creep around as carefully as possible, but to do so just sends your confidence spiraling into the pits of hell. Tires lose temperature, the ABS starts working overtime, the car runs away from you on turn-in as the front tires skate over the surface and the rear tries to bite you as soon as you dare think of opening the throttle.

I know this because my first lap indeed plays out like a nightmare. I’m not brave, and the car and the track punish me over and over again with scary near misses. Think back to your school days and the moment of panic when you realize you haven’t prepared nearly enough for an exam. You get a hot feeling up your neck and a sudden burst of furious heart pumping that literally shakes your ribcage. Now imagine that half-second physical reaction to swelling panic coming over and over again. You’re drowning. That’s a wet lap of the ’Ring in the dead of night.

Our AMG GT4 races in the SP8T class—allowing more aero and boost. The car laps the Nürburgring in about 7 minutes; only the factory GT3 cars are faster. When it’s dry. But it’s never dry.

The second lap is slightly better, but I still feel like I’m walking the car around the circuit. When I make it back to the GP section and begin lap three, I’m determined to start actually driving. So I pick up the pace. I keep the throttle wide open on the straights even when the speeds creep up to 150 mph. I brake a little later, turn in a bit harder, and use the wider “wet line” more confidently.

Every lap there’s a new crash and more yellow flags and Code 60s (at the scene of bigger crashes, a 60-kph temporary speed limit is imposed), and my car feels a little better. I wouldn’t say I’m driving fast, but nothing comes past me except the odd super-committed GT3 car, and I’m picking off other GT4s pretty easily. Even so, this really is endurance rather than enjoyment. My internal coaching is now interrupted by proper shouting: “This is horrible. … Why am I doing this? … Please stop raining!”

Finally, after 11 laps, my stint is over, and the plan for me to do a double is abandoned. I hand over to Schneider, or “Five-Time” as he’s known within the team. The No. 190 Mercedes disappears into the gloom and the spray as I stand in the pit lane soaked from sweat, exhausted, and so, so relieved. I wasn’t an ass. I kept it out of the barriers. I was brave. Eventually.

After the Nordschleife’s oppressive darkness, the pit garage feels floodlit and weirdly disconnected to the mayhem playing out on the track. “Good job, mate,” Pim says. “Nobody around us was going as quickly.” I glance at the screens, and we’re running in 22nd. I am utterly elated. Then I realize the race is barely past the halfway mark just as Fabian Jung, team manager, delivers a line that almost floors me. “Bernd is in for a double. Then it’s you again. Sorry.”

Sunrise brings little respite as the fog rolls in and the rain gets harder. It gets so bad that the race is stopped then restarted despite weather worsening. No. 190 survives the mayhem. AMG builds a hell of a race car.

Those incredible, earlier laps in the dry—sun setting and the 4.0-liter twin-turbo V-8 flinging the car along with a sense of unstoppable force—seem so long ago. Flying into the Foxhole in sixth gear and keeping the throttle pinned to the bulkhead into the compression at the bottom, jumping over the big rise before the fast left of Schwendenkreuz at well above 150 mph, working through the endless third- and fourth-gear twists and turns toward the end of the lap and feeling the GT4’s incredible stability—it’s all out of reach.

I won’t feel the euphoria of a fast, dry lap again, nor will I get the amazing physical sensation of leaning and leaning on the car and it pushing back, barely shrugging at what you ask it to do. Now it’s just rain and survival. I eat a schnitzel from a cardboard box and go back to my bench. Sleep doesn’t come easily. But I do sleep. A bit. And when I awake the plan has changed.

Patrick Simon, who’s experienced and very, very quick, will be in next, so I can relax. Schneider has seen it all before, but even he looks a little ruffled. “How was it?” I ask. His eyes widen. “No grip. Understeer, oversteer … all the time.” He mimes the car slipping out of his hands. “It’s ****ing dangerous.” I’ve been with Schneider for the best part of a week, and it’s the first time I’ve heard him curse. His thoughts mirror mine exactly.

I hope this sense of impeding dread doesn’t make me feel ungrateful. To be a part of this event is pure magic, and even in dire conditions there are moments you just can’t buy: rushing into the dark with lightning splitting great chasms in the sky; GT3 cars dancing past, front wheels a blur as the driver catches every mini-slide; the rear of the cars sparking over curbs or into compressions. Every lap is a privilege. But the stakes are high in every sense.

And so it continues. Another fearsomely slippery stint, this time with the added bonus of heavy fog and more near misses. More unbelievably exciting overtakes and more shouting into my crash helmet. Through it all, though, the AMG GT4 just keeps going. Passing slower cars and hanging on gamefully to the GT3s. The race is stopped for fog then restarts. Fittingly, Schneider takes the checkered flag. We finish 22nd overall, first in class, and with only GT3 cars ahead of us. It’s over. Thank God. Take me home. Can’t wait until next year.

IFTTT