#not to be annoying but my time loop fic makes her final lines make sense bc over the course of the time loops sheila COULDVE asked jason | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ladyfogg · 4 years ago

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Heal My Wounds - Part 1

Heal My Wounds - Part 1 of 3

Fic Summary: After you meet the infamous Kit Walker, you realize that he cannot possibly be guilty of everything they say he is. Determined to treat him with kindness and compassion, you end up falling hard for the handsome man with gorgeous dark eyes. But you both are playing a dangerous game and you must decide just how far you’re willing to go to save the man you love. Part 2. AHS Masterlist.

Fic Rating: 18+

Fic Song: War by Poets of the Fall

Pairing: Kit Walker/Female Reader

Warnings: Language, Smut, Slow Burn, tw: mental illness, tw: asylum setting, tw: violence

A/N: I ended up finishing this a lot quicker than I thought I was going to. Enjoy! For @tatestripedsweater and @kitwalker02.

You’ve seen many things during your time at Briarcliff. Being a nurse, you deal with truly awful alignments, either self-inflicted or acquired under “mysterious” circumstances. This usually means that a guard roughed the patient up or Dr. Arden can’t be bothered to treat them himself. You learn to expect the worst, not in the patient but in what they are afflicted with. In truth, your heart goes out to every one of them. Regardless of what sent them to Briarcliff, it is always your mission to treat them with the respect and dignity they deserve.

Which is why, when you hear that the infamous Bloody Face, aka Kit Walker, has been transferred to the asylum, you try not to be concerned. You knew all about Bloody Face and what he’s done and when they arrested Kit, you aren’t ashamed to admit that your first thought was, “Good riddance!�� However, you force yourself to change your tune once you learn you’ll be treating him at some point. Plenty of dangerous people had come and gone through Briarcliff’s doors. You aren’t going to treat him any differently than you would the other patients.

No matter how dangerous he is.

It isn’t long before you find yourself face-to-face with him. He is there less than a day before he’s brought in to see you, his lip and his nose a bloody mess, the red a stark contrast to his pale skin. His appearance surprises you even though it shouldn’t. You read the papers; you’ve seen his face. Yet, in person, he’s so handsome it takes your breath away and you need a moment to compose yourself.

“What happened?” you ask Kit as the guard forces him to sit on the bed. He is bound with cuffs and chains, an overkill if you ever saw one.

“He got into a scrape with another inmate,” the guard says in a gruff voice. “Bloody Face here got the worst of it.”

“They’re called patients, not inmates,” you correct him with a glare. “And I wasn’t asking you, I was asking Mr. Walker. That is his name, that's what he will be called while he’s under my care.”

The guard, whose name you think is Hardy, looks taken aback by your words. He is a new one who hasn’t had to deal with you yet. While many of the female staff are nuns, you are not. You are there purely for medical purposes, not religious ones. Therefore, you have no reason to force politeness to the guards. After all, why should you? They never show you any. The sooner Hardy learns you will not tolerate his bullshit, the better.

You have been talked to by Sister Jude several times regarding your attitude but since you are appointed by the state, there is nothing more she can do. Eventually, the both of you came to a mutual understanding. In fact, you suspect she admires your non-nonsense attitude as it most often gets results. If there is a patient in your infirmary, you can call the shots. Of course, the male guards don’t like that, but they can get fucked.

When you turn back at Kit, he has a surprised look on his face.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” you ask.

“Just my face,” he answers. “And my hands.”

You glance down and see his bruises and bloody knuckles. Clearly, he defended himself but given the fact that the other patient hasn’t been brought it, you assume Kit got the worst of it. You go about collecting what you need to disinfect his wounds.

To Hardy, you say, “Remove his chains.”

“No can do. Not for this one.”

“His knuckles are bleeding, and I need to examine his hands to make sure nothing is broken or fractured. Remove his chains.”

There is an intense stare-off between you and the guard before he relents and unbinds Kit. Once his restraints are gone, you wave Hardy off. “You may step outside.”

“Now hold on a minute! This man—”

“Has rights. He deserves the same privacy as every other patient. Besides, I won’t have you getting in my way while I patch him up. You can step outside and wait. I’m more than capable of handling myself.”

Hardy snorts, annoyed and done with arguing. “Fine by me. Don’t complain if you get killed.”

“I won’t, considering if that happens, I won’t be able to. Or are you not aware how death works?”

With a sneer, he stalks away, and you heard him mutter, “Stupid bitch.” under his breath.

“Smart bitch actually,” you call after him. “And shut the door on your way out, please.” It slams behind him and you return your attention to your patient.

Kit looks at you with awe. “Forgive me for saying so, doc. But you’re one tough broad.”

You laugh, pulling a chair over so you can sit in front of Kit. “I’m not a doctor, I’m a nurse. And you have to be though, especially in this place. The gentle don’t last long. Now, let’s take a look at those hands.”

Kit extends his hands, and you take them in your own, examining his wounded knuckles. After moving each finger and his wrists, you determine there was nothing broken or fractured so you set about cleaning the scrapes. Kit watches you the entire time. Even though you don’t look up from your work, you can feel his eyes on you.

“I think you’re the only person in this place who’s not afraid of me,” he says after a stretch of silence. “This is the first time I’ve been treated like a person since this whole thing started.”

“Should I be afraid of you, Mr. Walker?” you glance up and are immediately taken in by the soft expression on his face.

“Call me Kit,” he says. “And I never hurt anybody. All the things they say I did are lies. I have no idea what happened to those girls and I have no idea what happened to Alma other than they took her.”

You consider his words for a moment and pull away, letting his hands fall to his lap. The bloody towel you hold is tossed onto your tray of supplies before you sit back and cross your arms. “Alright then, Kit. Tell me why I should believe you.”

Kit doesn’t seem to know what to say at first. You’ve dealt with numerous patients who swear up and down they didn’t do what they were accused of. Most of them had. Because of that, you are pretty damn good at reading people because even the best liar has a tell. An eye twitch, a knee bounce, a lip bite…anything. You trained yourself to look for these things because, in your line of work, it means the difference between life or death.

The man in front of you doesn’t look like he’s hiding anything. More to the point, you don’t feel scared of him. You aren’t made of stone; you feel fear just like everyone else. You are simply better at masking it. However, that violent vibe you’ve learned to sense doesn’t radiate from Kit and as you look into his deep brown eyes, all you see is fear, frustration, anger, and sadness. They all pass one after another on a loop.

“I don’t have a reason,” Kit finally says after a long pause. “If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t believe me either. But you showed me kindness no one else has and I’m grateful. Really.”

“I think this place wouldn’t be half as bad as those colleagues of mine showed a little kindness too.” You go back to work, cleaning his hands. “This is going to sting a bit.”

Kit flinches as you pour alcohol over his cuts. Carefully, you clean them some more before you are sure they won’t get infected. Once that’s done, you wrap them in bandages.

“There, good as new. Just try to keep those bandages dry for a bit. You can take them off tomorrow to let the cuts breathe. Let me make sure your nose isn't broken.”

Kit remain still as you gently cup his face, turning his head left to right in order to take stock of his injuries. Being so close, you realize how handsome he truly is. That jawline is to die for, and his dark curls looks so soft, you want to run your fingers through them. Once that thought entered your brain, you scold yourself. He is your patient and is in the asylum to see if he is fit to stand trial for murder. Thinking about him in any way other than professional is a dangerous game. And very stupid.

“That bad huh?” Kit asks with a slight smirk.

It isn’t a malicious one by any means. In fact, it’s almost hesitant. Like he is afraid to be so comfortable joking with you. You don’t blame him considering what he has gone through. You offer him a smile in return.

“Just a split lip and it doesn’t look like your nose is broken. It’s not even swollen. There shouldn’t be any permanent damage.”

You grab a fresh towel and dip it in warm water before gingerly cleaning the blood from his face. But before you can get far, Kit reaches up to stop you. Instinctively you freeze, worried that you may have hurt him. Maybe his nose is worse off than you originally thought?

“Did I hurt you?” you ask.

Kit shakes his head. “No, I’m just…” He pauses as if he’s not sure what to say next. “I’m sorry but I just...why aren’t you scared of me?"

“You really want me to be, don’t you?”

“What? No! Of course not. I’m just…” He stops when he sees you holding back a smile. “You’re messing with me.”

You shrug and go back to your work. “A little,” you admit. “But to answer your question, I’m not scared of you because I believe you. I don’t think you killed or even hurt anyone. I just don’t sense that sort of evil in you. As for what you claim to have witnessed, that I don’t know about. But I do know crazy, Kit Walker. And you’re not it.”

It is like the remaining tension leaves his body and Kit slumps against you, a few tears running down his cheeks. Without thinking, you pull him into a tight hug, letting him rest his weary head on your shoulder. The warmth of him is invigorating and you savor the feeling. It’s been a long time since you’ve been touched in any way. Long work hours make your social life non-existent and you carefully keep your distance with your patients.

Except Kit, it seems. You don’t know why your well-constructed walls are crumbling under the weight of one interaction with one man.

“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that,” he says, his voice muffled by your uniform. “No one will listen. No one believes…”

“I’m listening. But first, sit back before you get blood all over me.”

With a weak laugh, Kit pulls away. He wipes the tears with the back of his hand which you’re grateful for because you were about two seconds away from gently brushing them away. Pulling yourself together, you continue to clean his face while he tells you his story. It’s definitely strange. The idea of being abducted and probed was one you’d rather not think about.

But you don’t just listen to his words, you watch his expression, pay attention to the tone of his voice and his body language. Even though you’ve heard some of it through the papers, it’s different hearing it from him directly. Once he’s done, you’re even more certain he didn’t kill anyone. No one who talks about their missing wife that softly and heart felt could possibly be a vicious serial killer.

It’s his eyes that give him away. There’s so much emotion and depth, you can’t help but believe him. You wish you can explain it, but some things are beyond explanation.

“You sure I’m not crazy?” Kit asks when you don’t respond to him right away.

“After that story, you’re absolutely batshit.”

He chuckles when he realizes you aren’t serious. You pull your hand away, finally done getting rid of all the blood, but he stops you with a gentle touch to your wrist. “Thank you for listening. I could tell you weren’t judging when I spoke, and I appreciate it. I appreciate everything you’re doing for me.”

“It’s not my place to judge. Only heal.” You sit back, breaking all contact with him, hoping it’ll clear your spinning head. “There. Now you’re just as handsome as you were before. Do me a favor and at least try not to get majorly hurt again for the rest of the day?”

“He started it.”

“Everyone always starts things here. And given your current situation, it’s best to keep your head down as much as possible.”

“What’s the point? They’ve already made up their minds about me being guilty,” Kit says bitterly as you roll your tray over to the sink. He sees a pack of cigarettes on your desk and nods towards them. “Mind if I have one?”

You wave for him to go ahead as you clean up. “I wish I had words of encouragement for you. I wish I could say it will all work out. But unless they catch the real Bloody Face, your choices are either here or the electric chair.”

Kit pops a cigarette in his mouth and lights the end. “I have to see the state-appointed shrink. My last hope is to convince some head doctor that I’m not crazy.”

Your heart goes out to him. His situation really is a double-edged sword. If he proves he isn’t crazy, then they are sure to send him to trial and his death. If he keeps spouting off about strangers abducting him and his wife, then they will keep him at Briarcliff. Either way, he loses. It isn’t fair.

“Stick to your story,” you tell him. “If it’s really the truth and that’s really what you know happened, then stick to it. I mean, it’ll probably get you confined here for life. But at least you’ll be alive.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?”

You don’t get to respond. The door bursts open and Sister Jude strolls in with Hardy right behind her. You wonder how long he waited outside before running to tattle on you.

“Why is this patient not restrained?” she asks in that stern voice of hers.

“I needed to clean his hands and couldn’t very well do that when they were bound,” you say. “He’s all set now.”

“In the future, I would appreciate it if you would leave the door open. No young woman should be alone with this one,” Sister Jude says, motioning to Kit. “Not until he’s been properly medicated.”

“He deserves just as much privacy as any of us do when being medically treated.”

“Not here. Not under my roof,” Sister Jude counters. “I like you, girl, but don’t push me on this. Kit Walker may have the looks of an angel but he’s far from it.”

“She didn’t do nothing wrong,” Kit says angrily.

Sister Jude motions for Hardy to grab Kit. Anger courses through your veins when you see how he is manhandled. “Hey, be careful! I don’t want to have to treat a dislocated shoulder,” you say.

Kit sends you a grateful smile which Sister Jude unfortunately notices. She steps up to him and in a low voice says, “Quit your leering! You don’t fool me, Kit Walker. You can keep spouting that innocent act all you’d like but I know there’s darkness in your soul.”

Kit’s body tenses and you see him clench his fists in anger. The nun yanks his cigarette out of his mouth and puts it out on your desk.

What a bitch.

As he is led away, Kit dares to look back at you and you see the glimmer of another smile before he is gone. The empty room suddenly seems more so without him there. It’s strange how comfortable you feel around him, especially considering the circumstances. After cleaning up the remnants of his cigarette, you sit back at your desk. But focusing is not in the cards for you. The rest of the day, you find yourself constantly sidetracked by the handsome brown-haired man with the deep brown eyes. So much so that you get angry with yourself.

You are hardly ever swayed by just a pretty face. Then again, there’s more to Kit than that. Although, it certainly helps. The way he stood up for you even when he was in trouble spoke volumes about who he is a person. You don’t think there is a selfish bone in that man’s body.

The next day during meds, you don’t see him in the Day Room with the others. It suddenly occurs to you that after the fight the day before, he probably was thrown in solitary. You hate solitary being used for any of your patients but the thought of Kit in a small dark room, bound and alone makes your heart break in your chest. All you can do is hope he’ll be out of there soon.

At least three days pass before you see him again, mostly because you spend most of that time in the infirmary rather than in the common areas. It’s early morning and you are enjoying a rare moment of silence when the door opens, and Kit is led in. He’s bleeding from a cut on his forehead, which has already begun to bruise and swell.

“What happened?” you demand as you leap to your feet.

The guard, a brute named Dixon who you can’t stand, forces Kit onto one of the beds. “He slipped and fell.”

You doubt it. Your eyes slide over to look at Kit, who gives you a subtle shake of his head. “Oh really?” you ask Dixon, narrowing your eyes in distrust. “This seems like a pretty big bump just to happen from a slip.”

“Just treat him so I can get him back with the others,” Dixon orders.

“He hit his head. I’m going to have to keep him here for a few hours to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion.”

“Fine.” Dixon shoves Kit until he was laying on the bed. When he reaches for the restraints, Kit fights back.

“No! Let me go!” Kit struggles against him.

“Those aren’t necessary,” you declare, crossing the room to try to stop Dixon.

But the guard isn’t having any of it. The next thing you know, he pushes you away, hard enough that you trip over your feet and fall right on your ass.

“You son of a bitch!” Kit exclaims. He leaps up and punches Dixon square in the jaw.

What happens next is a flurry of blows and swears as the men fight each other. Knowing this can only end poorly for Kit, you manage to get back up before prying the two apart. “Enough!” you snap. “No fighting in my infirmary!”

Dixon is practically snarling as he wipes blood from the corner of his mouth. “You don’t scare me, Bloody Face. If I had my way, you’d be in the furnace by now.”

Kit makes a move to go at him, but you stop him with a hand on his chest. “Mr. Walker, lay down so Dixon can bind you. If you don’t, I know the right injection that’ll make you so tired, you’ll wake up next week.”

Kit’s eyebrows knit together as he looks at you with concern. You throw him a subtle wink. Breathing heavily, he sits back on the bed and allows Dixon to restrain him. Even though it pains you to do so, you help to keep up appearances. But you don’t tighten them as much as you should. Kit’s jaw is clenched as he watches Dixon’s movements, as if he’s waiting for him to attack again.

Once Kit is secured, you reach into your pocket. Unbeknownst to the guards, you carry around a sharpened scalpel for your own protection and the second Dixon lets his guard down, you press it to his neck, making him halt his movements.

“Listen here, you sick fuck,” you growl. “If you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll shove this so far into your neck you’ll have to take your meals through a tube. Are we clear?”

Dixon sneers and takes a step back. “Whatever you say, woman. Call us when this psycho is ready to go back to his cell. And I’d be careful who you threaten. You wouldn’t want to end up like one of your patients, now would you?”

His threats send a chill down your spine, but you keep your hand steady, the scalpel still pointed at him as he backs away. It’s not until he’s out the door that you cross the room so you can lock it behind him.

“Are you alright?” Kit asks the moment it’s clear the two of you are alone.

You cross the room, pocketing the sharp instrument as you go. “I’m fine, Kit. Don’t worry about me.” As quick as you can, you undo his bindings. “Sorry about this. I fucking hate using bindings, but it was the only way to get Dixon to leave. He’s got a nasty streak in him; I’d stay clear if I were you. Are you okay? What happened to your head?”

“That asshole smashed my face into the wall,” he says as he sits up, rubbing his wrists. “He caught me wandering out of the Day Room.”

“Now why would you go and do a stupid thing like that?” you ask, hands on your hips. “Didn’t I tell you to keep your head down?”

“I just needed some peace and quiet. On my own terms and not in a dark dirty cell. Besides, others wander. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because the others aren’t wanted for murder. They mean to make an example out of you, Kit.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

You sigh and head to the icebox in the corner of the room. As you put together an icepack for him, you say, “These guards will look for any excuse to get rough. And they especially have it out for you. You have to be careful.”

“I hate this. I hate all of it. I feel like I’m going crazy. My head is so cloudy, and I can barely feel anything.”

“Those are the meds. Meant to keep you docile.” You carry the ice pack over to him along with supplies to fix up his head wound. “And suppress other impulses.”

“It’s inhumane, that’s what it is.” Kit barely makes a face as you clean the cut and dress it. “How am I supposed to defend myself if I don’t even feel like me? I think I’m slipping, doc.”

“I told you, I’m not a doctor.”

“Well, what should I call you then? You never gave me your name.”

You tell him your name and press the icepack to the bump on his head, “Here, hold this. Your nose is bleeding…again.”

Kit does as he’s told. After a moment, he says your name. It’s soft and beautiful coming from his lips and you can barely focus long enough to hear his question. “Can I confess something to you?”

“I’m no priest or nun.” You start to dab at his nose with a damp towel.

“It’s not that kind of confession. I wasn’t just wandering for the sake of wandering. I was trying to come see you.”

You pause, heart pounding in your chest as your eyes flickering up to meet his. “Why?”

“I feel safe here.”

You go back to your work. “I’m glad you do, but I don’t want you to get yourself hurt just to see me.”

“I didn’t know that asshole was gonna beat the shit out of me just for wandering.”

“Say you have cramps.”

Kit raises his eyebrow. “What?”

“If you want to see me…I mean, come to the infirmary, tell a guard or one of my assistants that you have cramps or a stomachache. It’s something most people don’t question since stomach stuff is really common, ‘specially around here. It usually comes with vomiting or diarrhea and no one wants to deal with that.”

Kit smiles. “Good to know.”

You finish cleaning him up and add, “But don’t overuse the excuse. Otherwise, if something is really bothering you, they won’t listen.”

“Understood. Do you really think I have a concussion?”

“No. Your eyes are clear and you’re not slurring your words. I figured it would at least give you a little reprieve from everything out there.”

Kit’s smile widens. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Although, I will have to at least keep your feet bound. That way if the guard comes back, I can quickly bind your hands before they enter. The lock will only temporarily slow them down since they have keys.”

“Hey, if it means spending time here with you instead of out there with everyone else who thinks I’m a vicious murderer, I’ll take it.”

Once you have him settled in the bed, you give him a cigarette before going about your daily routine. It is nice having Kit there. Occasionally, you talk as he smokes, but for the most part, the both of you enjoy each other’s company. He asks you about yourself, minor things, nothing too personal or probing, which you appreciate. You feel like he’s also trying to keep some distance between you, understanding your position and what a friendship with him could mean.

A few hours later, when you hear footsteps coming your way, you quickly bind Kit’s hands.

It takes a second for the door to be unlocked but then it opens and Dixon enters just as you’re pretending to check Kit’s bandages. “Walker here needs to see the shrink,” he says gruffly, crossing the room towards you.

“I was just about to call you.” Your lie is so effortless it even impresses you. “He doesn’t have a concussion. You can take him.”

Dixon is rough as he unbinds Kit and yanks him off the bed. To his credit, Kit doesn’t fight back or resist, understanding the stupid rules he needs to follow if he’s going to get anywhere in this place. Once he’s gone, you start to wrap up for the day, finishing any last minute tasks before getting ready to go home. As you’re straightening up your desk, your eyes catch the medication logbook, and an idea strikes you.

Sitting down, you flip through the pages, taking a look at the medications that are prescribed to each patient. At the bottom of the list is Kit’s name and, with a quick flick of your pencil, you manage to subtly cut his doses in half. It’s not much. You wish you can outright stop giving him the meds but that’s impossible. Hopefully, this way he’ll start to feel like himself.

You expect to be worried or guilty for what you’ve done. But honestly, you don’t. It feels right. Far too many patients have lost themselves in Briarcliff and you’re determined not to let Kit be one of them.

---

Kit’s world is not even recognizable anymore. One day he’s home with his beautiful wife, the next, she’s gone, and the police are accusing him of murder. He sees those damn creatures every time he closes his eyes, hears that loud noise echoing in his ears. If it’s not that he’s hearing, it’s the screams of the other patients.

When he saw you for the first time, heard you snap at the guard for mistreating him, he thought he was still dreaming. You have to be a dream. Nothing that good or sweet can possibly exist in this place. The way you look at him makes him feel seen for the first time in months.

He can’t get you out of his mind. After that initial visit, all he could think about was your warm embrace and the concern in your eyes.

To have someone care enough to worry about him meant everything. Especially during such a dark time. Trying to sneak away to see you had been a stupid idea but one he thought was worth the risk. He needed to know if he would have the same feelings each time, the same security and comfort. Do you really believe him or are you just a great actress?

The second time, you’re just as kind and generous as the first, and Kit knows that he is in trouble. A different kind of trouble than he already is in. This one is emotionally based and has the potential to end very badly.

Kit knew himself well enough to recognize the signs that he is falling for someone. You have only known each other a short while but already he can’t get you out of his mind.

The day following his first appointment with Dr. Thredson, he sees you in the Day Room and has to stop himself from immediately going over. It’s clear you’re busy, making the rounds and checking in on the other patients. Kit watches from a distance, smoking a cigarette as he leans against the back wall. Your kindness extends to everyone you come in contact with. He watches with admiration as you sit patiently with Pepper, checking on the small scrapes and abrasions she has.

You smile and his breath gets caught in his throat. Fuck you’re gorgeous.

Curiously, Kit watches as you slip something into Pepper’s hands before moving on to someone else. It turns out to be a small chocolate, which Pepper immediately devours before going back to her book. Kit smiles.

You catch each other’s eyes across the room just then. It’s a charged moment, like nothing in the world matters but the two of you. He makes a move to walk towards you, unable to help himself anymore. But then meds are called, and the moment is lost. Kit stubs out his cigarette and gets behind Lana as everyone lines up for their medications.

“This is bullshit,” Lana mutters under her breath. “Not all of us need medication. I don’t like that they force it on us. Makes my head all foggy.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Kit asks, echoing your sentiment from the day before. “Keep us under control.”

“I have a point. One I’d like to shove right up their asses.”

Kit snorts at Lana’s blunt phrasing. At first, she had been weary of him but now the two have developed a mutual understanding. Neither one of them belongs there and it’s better to support each other than fight. The line moves and Kit watches you join your assistant to make the medication process go faster.

When it’s his turn, you hand him his cup and briefly, his hands touches yours. It’s like a bolt of electricity shoots through your fingertips and into his, coursing through his veins at such a speed it makes his head spin. On the outside however, he remains calm, bringing the cup up to his lips to knock back his meds. Except, he notices they look slightly different than the days before. His eyes briefly dart to yours and there’s a subtle change in your expression. Your eye closes just enough to seem like a wink without fully being one.

Kit downs the meds with less hesitation than before.

Sadly, he can’t talk to you after that. Once meds are distributed, you go back to the infirmary and he’s left alone once more. Briefly he considers faking a stomachache to see you again, but your warning is still ringing in his ears. The fact that you offered him the excuse was risky on your part. He doesn’t want to get you in trouble by overstaying his welcome in the infirmary. Even though he is curious about the medication change, he lets it go.

It’s not until he’s in his room that night that he realizes he’s feeling clear-headed. Usually, once lights out comes around, the meds have him so loopy he rolls over and goes to sleep. Or at least tries. This time, however, he feels more like himself. Of course, that also means he’s more aware of the dark and the loud screams, but once they subside, he’s left with silence and his own thoughts.

She must have lowered my meds or something. She’s fucking amazing.

Kit smiles, curling onto his side as he allows himself to think about you without worry or fear. Again and again your meetings replay in his mind and when he closes his eyes, he can almost smell the scent of your laundry detergent and perfume. The way your soft hands gently held his made him flex his fingers instinctively. Those lips of yours…he’d given anything to kiss them.

Kit’s eyes fly open when he feels his cock swell. It’s been so long since he’s felt any kind of sexual desire even before being medication. It’s a wonderful change of pace, however now he has a slight problem. Kit feels ashamed of himself for thinking of you sexually. All you’ve done is show him kindness and he’s thinking about doing all sorts of things to you. With a frustrated sigh, he rolls onto his stomach and tries to ignore it.

This turns out to be a bad idea. The pressure of his body against the hard mattress causes wonderful friction and Kit finds himself pressing his hips down for some semblance of relief.

Fuck it, he thinks, shoving his hand in his pants. I need this right now. I need her.

It’s been a long time since he’s done this himself. It takes a second to find the right angle and rhythm. He stays on his stomach, arching his back just enough to give his hand room as he jerks himself off. Burying his face in his pillow, he bites down to stifle his moans as he pictures you in your nurse’s uniform. The way it hugs your frame suddenly assaults his vision. When you had leaned over him to check his head, he had caught just the barest hint of cleavage. Then, he had purposefully closed his eyes to be respectful.

Now, it’s all he focuses on, thinking about how he’d love to run his tongue across your salty flesh while his hands cupped your tits. He’d bury his nose in your skin and inhale your scent before kissing and sucking every bit of you he could reach.

Would you moan his name? He bets you would, and he bets it would sound fucking fantastic.

Kit grips himself tighter, speeding up his movements as he keeps the fantasy going in his mind. Suddenly, the angle is too constricting, and he rolls onto his back, biting his bottom lip as he hand brings him closer to coming.

He pictures it being your hand. Pictures him laying in that hospital bed, you leaning over him and jerking him off as you watch his face. He thinks of you telling him to come for you and as soon as that thought crosses his mind, he explodes, coming all over his own hand as he quietly moans your name.

Sweating and panting, Kit lays there in his bed, heart racing and head spinning. He uses his blanket to clean himself up, tossing it onto the floor before curling into a ball. He expects the shame or guilt to hit him any moment, but he can’t find it in himself to feel either. All he feels is aching in his heart for the real thing.

The next morning, when they open the cells, he remains in bed. Once he hears the guard come closer, Kit begins to moan in agony, clutching his stomach.

Thankfully, Hardy is the one who check on him. Ever since you told him off, he’s been mostly tolerable to Kit. At least to his face.

“What’s wrong?” the guard asks.

“My stomach,” Kit moans. “I think…I think I ate something bad.” When Hardy kicks Kit’s soiled blanket aside, he adds, “Wouldn’t touch that if I were you. I felt real sick last night.”

Hardy wrinkles his nose and gestures for Kit to get up. “Come on. I’m taking you to the nurse.”

Laying on the theatrics, Kit forces himself up, still hunched over with his arms wrapped around his stomach.

You’re sitting at your desk when he enters. The morning light is filtering in through the barred windows and it catches you ever so slightly. Enough to almost make Kit forget he’s supposed to be in great pain. When you see him, your face grows concerned.

“This one is moaning about a stomachache,” Hardy says. “Where do you want him?”

To his dismay, Kit notices you’re not alone today. There’s a patient asleep in one of the other beds. You’re out of your chair in a second, pressing one of those soft hands to his forehead.

“He’s burning up.” Your ability to lie so smoothly makes Kit admire you even more. “Here, let’s get him on this bed right here.”

Hardy and you help Kit onto one of the beds in the corner of the room, one that’s hidden behind a divider. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” you say, tucking Kit in. “It’s probably just food poisoning. I’ve told the cook a million times they need to store the food better.”

“Think he needs to be tied down?” Hardy asks.

“No, of course not. Have you ever dealt with a patient who’s tied down and soiling themselves? My job is hard enough as it is. I won’t be dealing with that today.”

Kit makes retching noises if for no other reason than to see Hardy grow pale and uncomfortable.

“Oh, you better go before he starts up,” you urge, shooing the guard away.

Kit keeps up the act until he hears the door close and you turn to him, giving him a wide smile. “Wow, bravo. Great work, Kit.”

He smiles, sitting up. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll have a shot as an actor when this is all over.”

You chuckle and glance over at your other patient to make sure he’s still sleeping before sitting on the chair by Kit’s bed. “How are you really feeling this morning?”

“Better, actually. Do I have you to thank for that?”

“Well…it did seem overkill to have you on such high doses of medication when you aren’t mentally unstable. I’m sorry I couldn’t take you off them completely.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Kit says, reaching out to lay his hand over yours. “If anything, I’m sorry for you having to take that risk. I don’t want you to get in trouble, or worse, because of me.”

You look down at his hand and he immediately draws it back, worrying he may have crossed a line. There’s something in your expression that puts him on edge. He can see that you’re struggling, which only makes him feel worse. He berates himself for foolishly giving into his desires. Already things are tough, and the future is scarily uncertain. He’s on the hook for murder for fuck’s sake.

Before Kit can continue the self-deprecating spiral, you surprise him by carefully getting out of your seat and sitting next to him on the bed.

“Kit…” you say. “This friendship between us…I don’t know if it can continue.”

Kit’s heart sinks and he looks away from you, his gaze now fixated on the floor. “I don’t blame you,” he says. “It’s not safe being near me in any way. Honestly, it was stupid of me to come here like that. As much as I like spending time with you, I never want to put you in a compromising position. I’ve seen these guards and I know how they treat women. You’re in just as much danger here as I am.”

Your hand takes his, and he snaps his head up to look at you.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” you say. For the first time since you met a few days ago, he hears the slightest crack in your voice. “I’m worried because, if we continue this friendship, I know that for me, one day, it might not be enough.”

His heart speeds up at your confession. Kit can’t believe his ears. The fact that you are feeling even the slightest bit of the attraction to him that he’s been feeling for you is enough to give him the sliver of hope that’s been severely lacking over the last few weeks.

Kit hesitantly links his fingers with yours, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t. When he says your name, his throat is dry, and he has to clear it before he can go on. “I have no right liking you as much as I do. I don’t believe in God, but I can’t help but think that you’re my damn guardian angel. Because of you, I’m actually starting to think that maybe there’s a way out of this. Or at the very least, staying here won’t be so bad so long as you’re here.”

Your gaze softens and you look away, trying to hide the tear leaking out of the corner of your eye. With his free hand, Kit reaches up to wipe it away with his thumb. He can’t stop himself from cupping your cheek, needing to feel the warmth and softness against his palm. You shut your eyes, leaning into his touch, a shaky exhale escaping through your parted lips.

Your lips.

Kit’s eyes can’t look anywhere else. They look so inviting. He bets they’re just as soft as the rest of you, maybe even more so. Without even stopping to think what he’s doing, he starts to lean in, so slowly that you don’t seem to notice until you open your eyes to meet his. You pull your head back. Not abruptly or angrily, but enough where he gets the message to stop. Kit sighs with disappointment at the refusal. But a second later, you’re leaning in this time, at the same achingly slow pace he had been before.

Your lips brush and there’s a heated charge that soars between you, making you pause before you even properly get a kiss. Your eyes are wide as they meet his, searching for the same thing he’s looking for in yours: permission, acceptance, desire.

Kit closes the distance.

With one hand still cradling your face, he kisses you deeply, drawing your body as close to his as he dares. He feels you melt under his touch and it urges him to keep going, to keep kissing you, to deepen the kiss so he can savor the intense waves of desire washing over him.

You let him, opening your mouth so that his tongue can glide along yours.

It all becomes too intense for the both of you and you have to break the kiss, panting as your foreheads rest against one another’s.

“This is such a bad idea,” you say, the breathlessness of your voice making Kit’s cock twitch. “We have to be smart and we have to be careful. If we really can’t stay apart, then you have to listen to what I say and follow my instructions. Okay?”

“I can do that,” Kit says. He’d honestly agree to anything you say at that point. “Trust me, baby. I know the stakes.”

“Me too.” You take a deep breath and pull away, breaking all contact with him. It immediately leaves him cold and wanting more. “My assistants will be coming to collect the meds any moment. I need to go prepare.”

You reach out to cup his cheek and Kit holds your wrist, keeping your hand there for another moment so he could savor the contact. The way your eyes soften at him only makes him want to kiss you again. Instead, he settles for a peck on your palm before letting you fully pull away.

As you stand and collect yourself, you take a step towards the divider before you pause and look back at him. “No one can know, Kit. Not if you want to stay under my care. If anyone finds out there’s something between us, they’ll transfer me somewhere else and I won’t be able to protect you.”

The fact that you’re scared for him in this scenario and not yourself makes Kit want to throw you on the bed and ravish you. “I promise, I will find a way to clear my name,” he says. “Then once I’m out of here, I’ll take you away. Far away where this place can’t reach us.”

You smile and reach out to stroke his cheek again. “Easy there, Mr. Walker,” you tease, stroking his bottom lip with your thumb. “Keep talking like that and I may think you’re already falling for me.”

He watches you walk away, only one thought on his mind. Too late for that.

#kit walker #evan peters #ahs asylum #kit walker x reader #kit walker x you

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plasticnightmaredoll · 4 years ago

Photo

(artwork is a commission done by @stillfuckinbetterthanyou)

I guess because it’s my birthday soon and I’ve been obsessed with Arkhamverse Riddler lately, I came up with a kinky little drabble involving Enigma/Edward Nashton (Riddler before he was Riddler, basically) and my Arkham Origins o/c, Lorelei Jones.

This may not be part of the main fic involving them, but can be seen as a sort of “bonus” side story or a deleted scene even.

But it’s canon (well, for this Arkham Origins A/U at least).

The main fic will probably be called, “Break All of Our Stigma,” which is a line from Lady Gaga’s song, “Enigma” (Yes, I know, I know, I just lover her, ok? And the song actually kind of fits Lorelei and Edward). This side drabble is called, “Cake,” and while it does involve Lorelei helping Eddie celebrate his birthday, the “cake” in question isn’t a literal cake.

If you know what I mean 👀👀👀👀💦💦💦💦💦

I mean, there is a cake mentioned in the drabble, but the cake Eddie gets to feast on isn’t that cake.

*cough*

Anyway, here is part 1 of what will most likely be 3 parts. Part 1 is the lead in to eating the “cake,” part 2 will be “eating” the “cake,” and part 3 will be...well, you’ll figure that out ;)

Hey, if you think this is spicy, this is NOTHING compared to what I’m writing for Telltale Riddler. Imagine all of this but, like........................MORE PORN.

Very NSFT/NSFW content under the cut because Eddie and Lorelei are horny little fuckers 😘

Cake (part 1)

Summary: It’s Edward’s birthday and his lovely GCPD detective, Lorelei, decides to plan something special for him, including a cake. He tells her she needn’t spend so much effort on him, especially since she just wrapped up a rather exhausting case. However, she shushed him and told him he deserves, at the very least, an excellent cake for his special day. However, the “cake” she has ready for him isn’t what he’s expecting...not that he’s complaining.

Edward was more than ready to get to his apartment after a long, tiring, frustrating day at the always “glorious” GCPD. How was it that so many idiots worked in one place? Why were people in general so damn annoying? And stupid?

As he made his way down the hall, he felt some of the tension leave him as he knew his lovely detective was waiting for him. She’d already given him a birthday gift that morning (a green-striped scarf and dark green gloves, both of which he loved but he told her she didn’t need to spend her money on him), and now she had a cake prepared for him. Sharing some cake with her on his “special day” (he still didn’t see what the big deal was) sounded like the perfect way to unwind (even if she didn’t need to go through the trouble to make one for him). Perhaps it would be relaxing for her as well, chatting over something sweet and enjoying some peace after finishing a very tiring case? He hoped as much since, again, he didn’t want her to feel like she had to spend time or money on him like this.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Lorelei’s text had said in response to him as he left work, and when he entered the apartment, he heard her call out.

“In here, Darling,” she said.

“Be right there,” Edward replied as he hung up his scarf and coat, then placed his gloves in said coat’s left pocket.

Loosening his tie, he placed it on the back of a chair in the living room along with his vest and ID tag. Undoing a few buttons of his dress shirt and rolling up his sleeves, he made his way to the kitchen, a warm smile on his face as he prepared to greet his sublime lover.

Edward stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he saw Lorelei sitting on the kitchen table wearing nothing except a green garter belt with matching stockings and green high-heels. He could feel his face turning red as his mind struggled to come up with something to say, something that made sense considering his thoughts were all jumbled up at that moment.

“Where’s the cake?” he finally asked, and he mentally kicked himself for asking such a ridiculous question.

“Right here,” Lorelei said as she opened her legs for him. “Disappointed?”

“Not at all!” he said with a little nervous laugh. “Just...really surprised.”

‘Well, it is your birthday...surprises are bound to happen.”

“Indeed…”

“So, are you gonna come over here and enjoy your ‘cake’ or…?”

Edward’s legs seemed to move on their own as he quickly walked over to Lorelei, stepping between her spread thighs and grabbing her waist as he pressed his lips to hers in a deep, passionate kiss. She was so receptive, moaning into his mouth as she wrapped her legs around him to keep him close. How did he get this lucky? Why was he even this lucky? The way she treated him, it was like he was the sexiest man alive, and while he honestly wasn’t, he couldn’t help but soak up all the attention. It felt good -- she felt good. Ah, more than good. He couldn’t properly describe it, especially not while he was making out with her as she was practically naked and had just invited him to enjoy her...to put his face between her thighs and…

“So, did you expect to come home to an invitation to feast on my cunt?” Lorelei asked, slightly breathless, as Edward kissed and nipped at her neck.

His cock twitched in his trousers upon hearing that, and he bit back a moan.

“N-No,” he replied, moving to her collarbones.

“Disappointed it’s not a real cake?” she asked, and he could hear the smirk in her voice.

“Not one bit.”

“There is actually a small cake in the fridge for us to share. I literally finished icing it before you texted me to tell me you were coming home. We can have some now if you prefer?”

“No, it can wait...I mean, thank you but I...I, umm...want this other ‘cake’ first.”

“Which cake?”

Lorelei had the most devious grin on her face, and she couldn’t help but think of how adorable Edward looked blushing like crazy and acting a bit shy while still feeling incredibly turned on. Yes, he knew how to fuck her just right so she was reduced to a moaning, panting, mewling mess, but he was undeniably sweet. He gave as much as he took, you could say, and sometimes, he didn’t take nearly enough since he always focused on her. She had no idea what she did to deserve him but she wasn’t going to complain.

“Ummm…” Edward gave Lorelei a cute bashful smile as he slowly reached down between them and pressed his fingers between her slick folds. “This one.”

“You naughty little geek,” she teased with a giggle.

“I haven’t even gotten started yet,” he said, raising a brow and smirking, feeling more and more bold as the seconds ticked by. “This is hardly naughty.”

“Oh? Then what is naughty?”

“This.”

Edward slipped a finger inside Lorelei, meeting little resistance with how wet she was, and quickly inserted a second one, curling them both against her spot and making her shudder. He watched her eyes flutter closed as he carefully stroked her inner walls with his fingers, using his free hand to help guide her head down onto the table.

“Mmm...that’s more like it,” Lorelei purred as he continued to finger her at a steady pace. “But is that all you--Oh!” Her eyes shot open when she felt Edward’s thumb rub her clit. “Oh, fuck…”

But Edward wasn’t done yet.

He hadn’t failed to notice the green-gemmed nipple piercings Lorelei was wearing (she really knew exactly what turned him on, didn’t she?) and he leaned down and gently sucked on her right nipple. Her fingers threaded into his dark brown hair as a sigh escaped her, and when he lightly tugged on the nipple ring, she inhaled sharply, her fingers scratching at his scalp.

“Mmm...Eddie,” she panted, chewing on her lower lip. “That’s so good…”

Edward started to use his palm to stimulate Lorelei’s clit as his fingers moved more roughly against her g-spot. Coupling that with the way his mouth was teasing her breasts and Lorelei was no longer as chatty.

“Yes, yes, Eddie, fuck!” she moaned. “Just like that, please, fuck, fuck...ah, shit, fuck!”

Or rather, she wasn’t very coherent anymore.

As much as Edward was loving the sexy noises Lorelei was making, the feeling of her elegant fingers grabbing at his hair, and the lewd wet sounds caused by his fingers between her legs, he knew he had to stop or else this would all be over too soon.

“Sorry,” he said as he slipped his fingers out of Lorelei, causing her to whimper at the loss. “But we can’t let things end too quickly…”

Edward kissed his way between Lorelei’s breasts, up the side of her neck, along and jaw, and stopped at her lips. Their eyes met and they both couldn’t help but smile warmly at one another, her hands cupping his face. Time seemed to stop in that moment, and all he could think of was how much he loved her, how much he craved her, and how he’d give up anything and everything for her. Her thoughts were nearly the same as she delighted in the fact that her life had become so much brighter since she’d let him get close to her.

The kiss they shared was tender this time since neither of them were good at being very sentimental with words. It was enough, though -- or they hoped it was enough to convey how much they cared for one another. It didn’t take long for the kiss to become hungry, however, both of them practically gasping for air as they clung to each other and nearly refused to take proper breaths.

Lorelei’s fingers moved to Edward’s shirt, undoing the remaining buttons before tugging it out of his pants, watching him sit up and practically tear it off before pressing his now naked upper body against hers and kissing her hard. They were almost forgetting what they were even doing on the kitchen table, and when she reached down to grasp his erection through his pants, he hissed into her mouth and rutted against her palm. She hastily unfastened his belt and ripped it from the loops, then went right for the button and zipper of his trousers, allowing her to reach into his boxers and take hold of his cock.

“Ah, L-Lorelei!” he groaned as he lightly bucked against her hand.

Honestly, she wanted to beg Edward to just fuck her already, forgo this whole kinky surprise ‘cake’ thing and let him raw her, but no, no, she wanted to do this right. It took all she had to resist but she managed to get herself together so she could speak.

“You haven’t had your ‘cake’ yet,” Lorelei said as she removed her hand from Edward’s pants.

“You’re right,” Edward said, letting out a breathy laugh. “I want to taste you, Lorelei. Can I? Can I put my mouth on you?”

“It’s your birthday, Baby. Have at it!”

Edward flashed her a grin before giving her a sweet kiss and standing up.

“Let’s get you situated,” he said as he looked her over.

“Yes, Sir,” Lorelei said with a wink, and a shiver ran through Edward.

God, she was going to be the death of him and he didn’t have one complaint about that.

#edward nashton #edward nashton x oc #arkhamverse riddler #edward nigma #edward nigma x oc #arkham origins riddler #edward nygma #edward nygma x oc #riddler #riddler x o/c #nsft #fluff and smut

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captaincravatthecapricious · 4 years ago

Text

Mabel AU- The Letters

@haberdashing

Martin is an at home care giver, trying to reach the Grandson of his latest client.

This is basically a rewrite of the first episode of Mabel. There really aren't many direct quotes, only a couple very short ones, everything else is mine.

Thanks for reading! If you want more of this AU, let me know, or just let me know if you enjoyed! Another fic of some sort or other will be posted next week!

ARCHIVIST: Hello, you’ve reached Jonathan Sims. I’m not here to take your call right now. Please leave a message after the beep. Thank you.

[BEEP]

MARTIN: Hey, Jonathan, right? My name is Martin Blackwood, and I’m with Kings County Home Help? I’ve been taking care of your grandmother for the past six months. I’m her at home carer? I know I probably shouldn’t have your number, but I wanted to check in with you. Nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong. Gertrude Sims is fine. Good, actually, for her age. Sorry, is that insensitive? In any case, I’d like a call back, if you aren’t too busy. Right. Let me apologize for how I got your number. I know it’s probably unorthodox, probably breeching some privacy agreement or something…

[SIGH]

[ASIDE]

Don’t tell him that, Christ what is wrong with you?

[TO JON]

Right. Well I got your number from my coworker, Sasha, who’s friends with Tim, who’s friends with you. And he apparently hasn’t heard from you in a little, and would like him to call you back. He told Sash to tell me to tell you that, by the way. That was the price for your number. Sorry for that. I’m sure you have …things. A life in the real world and not in this distant and lovely house.

…Sorry, that was… Anyways, give me a call back when you can, yeah? Thanks. Bye!

[ASIDE]

Christ! What’s wrong with you… catch sight of one pretty photo… SHIT, right, hanging up.

[BEEP]

[MUFFLED THROUGH A POCKET]

[QUIETLY SINGING TO HIMSELF OVER THE SOUND OF KITCHEN]

…Onions in the paaaaaan. Why aren’t you hot enough yeeeet? The water sizzledddddd, but it isn’t sizzling noooow.

[NEGLECTED PHONE SOUND]

[REALIZING]

OH SHIT. SORRY.

[BEEP]

[CLEARS THROAT]

Hi, Mr. Sims. It’s me again. It’s Martin. I… I’m trying to reach you… again. …As you probably can tell. It’s just been three days, and I would really like a call back. I just realized I didn’t give a number or like, I know you can probably figure out that you can reach me through this number, but I didn’t say it and I didn’t tell you when I was available, and maybe that’s why you haven’t gotten back to me. At least I hope that’s why. I… I can’t imagine not calling one of my Mum’s doctors back. Anyways, my number is [CENSORED] in case you can’t just ring back or something. Maybe your phone blocks unknow numbers and you haven’t even gotten this. Maybe I was listed as private and you couldn’t call back. Maybe you’re very polite and didn’t want to bother me when you didn’t know my schedule. I’m available from 2-5pm and in the evenings after 9pm. Or maybe you’ve got phone anxiety. I know I do, heh. I’m sweating just leaving you this message.

Or maybe you’re just busy.

Or maybe you tried to call, and I just didn’t get it. The reception isn’t great out here, as …you probably know. Given you grew up here. But anyways I have made sure I can get your message even with the dead-phone zones. It’s all set up. So… just needing a call back when you can. Well, not needing. But… I’d like one. Thanks. Bye.

[BEEP]

Hi. It’s me …again. Just… trying to reach you. Whatever.

[BEEP]

Call me back and let me know you aren’t dead in a ditch somewhere, okay? Sash says Tim is really worried… And… I might be too. Not that I even know you. Not really. So if you aren’t rotting in some hole somewhere, give me a call back, please?

[BEEP]

Where did you go?

[BEEP]

Hi. It’s me. …I’ve heard a lot about you, you know? Mostly from you Grandmother, Gertrude.

[ASIDE]

Christ, Martin. He knows his grandmother’s name.

[TO JON]

Right. Anyhow. She’s told me a lot of stories, you know? She’s actually pretty sharp. Most of the time, anyhow. Mostly lucid. I’m not sure if that’s all because of her medicine or what. I’ve… I help a lot of old people, at the end of their lives. And well… when I say she’s sharp, I mean that she is sharp comparatively, and also just remarkably so. Her words are confident, and considered. She doesn’t waste words, but she doesn’t shy away from telling stories. (I’m sure it’s just because she has no one else to talk to. Not even you.) But… you’ve stopped feeling like a real person on the other end of the line. That’s part of why I wanted to call? I guess? The longer that it’s been since my first message, the more I doubt myself for calling, and why I called. Sorry, then, for wasting your time. Thinking of you more like a book character, than someone with feelings and thoughts and a life. Someone who I know too much about for us to be casual strangers, even if I am a complete stranger to you. It just feels like a weird imbalance, you know?

Also… it’s a bit lonely out here, you know? Gertrude has a lot of old photographs of you. None of them are recent. And I know it isn’t my business, but… never mind. It isn’t my business… and I get it.

But… she still has your photos up. It’s my job to dust them. So, every week or so, I get a really good look at them. There’s one of you on the tire swing out back… it’s still back there, you know? You have mud all over your dungarees. And in your hair. Then there’s one… you look about 7? Your hair is in pig tails, and you are scowling at something off to your right. I don’t know what it is, and I know I shouldn’t find that kind of adorable, but I do. And there’s one of you in uni. You’re flipping off the camera and your hair is short and you’re wearing eyeliner. You look some odd combination of pissed off and like you’re having the time of your life.

[ASIDE]

And really, really, really hot. Christ, Martin, keep it together. You are literally on the phone with him, and you haven’t even talked to him. Jesus!

[TO JON]

I.. wish I could have known you then. That’s the oldest you look in these. Most of these are pictures of you when you were little. Mostly just you. A few of your dad when he was young, and one of your parents. She’s pregnant, and it’s sunset. They look so …happy. Christ, I’m sorry about what happened to them. I… I didn’t really know my dad either.

Sorry. This isn’t about me.

I’m calling because this place is… spooky. Spooky like a dark fairy tale.

Everything here is a bit… magical and creepy.

This house is old. Like a museum. Dusty boxes in the attic, full of treasures and dust the relics of the past, like the Long past. Not just the past of one lifetime. The garden is overgrown, despite my best efforts. Sometimes, Gertrude comes out and helps me garden. Usually in her chair. Mostly I just wheel here out so she can get some sun while I work. That’s where I hear most of the stories about you.

It’s overgrown with twisting vines and the most beautiful roses I have ever seen, with scary-long thorns.

I feel like I’ve walked into the setting for a classic. Like Jane Eyre or Pride and Prejudice, or hell, even Tolkien. Or even Grimm’s fairytales. The original, dark ones.

It’s… unsettling. Especially when it’s foggy out.

The rest of the hills disappear into the fog and the condensation clings to the flowers, desaturated with the thickness of the moisture in the air, and the everything is coated in the most delicate, perfect little water droplets.

Anyhow. The reason I’m really calling… are the letters.

I was helping Gertrude move some things up to the attic. She’s one of the practical sorts of old people. She isn’t afraid of her death. She wants everything to be easy on you, you know? Make sure you don’t have to go through too much stuff when she passes on. I’ve lived with a lot of people through their deaths. It’s nice… making sure no one dies alone. Making sure they are comfortable. Making it as painless as possible.

[ASIDE]

Lord knows my efforts were never good enough for my mother… but if I can help other people…

[TO JON]

I know it’s a little morbid. But I like it. I feel… useful. I’m good at it. I’m good at keeping up conversations, and at cooking, and cleaning, and providing medical assistance, as needed. Not that I’m an actual doctor, but I, you know, do have a lot of training.

Anyway. The letters. I was helping her move some stuff into the attic, and bringing down some older boxes so she could go through them and decide what she was ready to toss, when I found them. This box full of letters. Hundreds of them. All unopened. Sealed with a kiss. Lipstick red. Red as dying embers. Stamped returned to sender. Slightly scorched around the edges. Tied in bundles. Identical envelops. Identical loose, looping cursive. All from someone named Agnes? All addressed to Gertrude.

That would be fine, I guess?

But she screamed when she opened it. An inhuman sound.

Like the sound was ripped from her.

And, I have never cared for a more grounded person. I have never seen her anything but… well not completely calm all the time, but mostly calm, you know? I’ve seen her sharp, I’ve seen her annoyed. Heh, half the time it looks like she wants to judge me, but then doesn’t… if that makes sense? Mostly she looks… like she knows so much more than I do and that she is calm in her knowledge? I’ve seen so much as a carer. There isn’t much that rattles me. Not death, not illness, not panic, but… but this was different.

After that… she was shaken badly. Screamed for what seemed like hours, then just stared at me and said “I’m going into the ground for you.” I… I couldn’t calm her down. Not until late evening, and I didn’t even have a break because the relief carer was off sick.

I finally got her to bed, and… I had to take another look. That’s when I got a good look at the envelopes. I… I want to open them. I haven’t. I know I shouldn’t…. but…. I want to know what could have shaken her that badly? Someone that stable and grounded, you know?

Heh, maybe you could call me back and make sure I don’t do something stupid. And ya know, let me know that you aren’t’ dead in a ditch. Tim’s started texting me directly now! He’s… he’s really worried about you.

Anyhow, I just need to know-

[BEEP]

[CONTINUED BEEPING]

AUTOMATED VOICE: The voicemail inbox for [Jonathan Sims] is full. Please call again later.

[DIAL TONE]

#the magnus archives #tma #martin blackwood #mabel podcast #fic #my writing #my words #my art #listen I know this is very niche

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artificialqueens · 4 years ago

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Galactica, Chapter 62 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Last Chapter: The assistant gossip network continued to do its thing, while Courtney lived her best life, Sutan offered Violet some wardrobe assistance, and Bianca planned a coming out.

This Chapter: The Galactica Holiday Party has arrived, and not everyone is prepared...

***

“Remember to find your light!”

Gigi turned her head, trying as hard as she could not to squeeze her eyes shut, the studio lights blinding.

“I said find it, not stare into the sun!”

Gigi blushed and moved her head again, doing her best to try and follow the instructions Sutan kept giving her.

They were in a photo studio in the Bronx, Gigi to get her first pictures for her portfolio taken, while Symone had practiced how to shoot in swimwear, her friend now waiting with her phone for Gigi to finish up.

Gigi had watched Symone move around, completely enthralled by how elegant the other model already was, Sutan barely correcting her.

“Straighten your back!” Gigi did as she was told, a pair of black jeans hugging her body, the long sleeved black shirt she was wearing clinging to her arms.

“Excuse me...” The photographer, who had introduced herself as Widow, looked out from behind her camera, “can I do my job in peace?” Widow smiled even though her tone was clearly sassy, her teeth blindingly white, her black box braids collected in a high bun. She was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, big red earrings hanging from her ears.

“You know what I hired you for,” Sutan smiled back, and Widow rolled her eyes, making Gigi giggle.

“Yes sir, right away sir,” Widow teased.

“Don’t give the models any ideas with your attitude.” Sutan grinned, his sleeves rolled up around his elbows, refocusing on Gigi who had tried to hold the position he had asked for.

“No, not like, you have to be more.” Sutan moved his shoulders, and Gigi tried to copy it. She knew they were doing this shoot so she could get an idea of what she looked like, so she could train what Sutan called her inner photographer, but it was really difficult.

“No, still not right.” Sutan stepped on the set, getting next to Gigi, the scent of his cologne instantly catching her nose. “Your strength is in your lines Gigi, so you have to stand tall. Use those legs of yours,” He smiled, tapping his own left leg and moving it forward, mirroring what Gigi hoped she was doing. “Try this.”

Gigi moved her leg to copy Sutan, her entire center of balance shifting.

“There we go!” Sutan grinned. “Good job. Now hold it, and find your light.”

***

Violet tried to turn to the side, watching her profile in the big mirror on the back wall of the dressing room.

Her and Sutan had each been swept up by a personal shopper the moment they stepped inside Barney’s, Violet whisked away to the woman's clothes department where everything was outrageously expensive and completely new.

Violet was wearing a beautiful red dress, the hemline just off the floor, her cast barely visible if she stood completely still, which suited her perfectly well.

Violet had every plan to get to the Christmas party, sit down, and then hopefully not move again for the rest of the night, Jovan’s offer of bedazzling her crutches still making her shiver.

“So, what do we think?” Violet’s shopper smiled, the woman standing behind her, her pile of rejected dresses four times the size of the approved ones for the upcoming events, but she couldn’t help being extremely critical, not when everything was so stupidly expensive.

“Well…” Violet looked in the mirror. The dress suited her, even though it didn’t sit snugly at her waist, but that wasn’t something a loose loop stitch couldn’t fix so she could undo it again later and hopefully keep the dress longer. It hadn’t been Violet’s intention to lose weight, and if she was being honest, she had actually expected to gain with a broken foot, but it seemed like that hadn’t been the case, her appetite even worse than usual, her pain killers often making it feel like she had knives stabbing her stomach.

“I’ll take it.”

Violet knew that the dress would be approved by Fame, and loved by Sutan, the low neckline and the opportunity for matching underwear always a treat.

***

“Kat? Are you gonna be okay?” Trixie asked, voice soft.

They were sitting in a little cafe across from her doctor’s office. They’d just gotten the official news - she was pregnant, no doubt about it. She’d put on a transparently false, cheerful face while they were there but barely said two words since they’d left, a croissant and mango smoothie sitting in front of her, untouched.

According to the doctor’s best estimate, she was 14 weeks along, which already limited their options, a fairly invasive procedure now the only way to go if they didn’t want the baby.

She looked at him, blue eyes clear, and said, “I don’t know.”

Trixie nodded, taking her hand in his and holding it lightly. He didn’t want to push her too much, could tell that she was in a fragile state of mind.

“Well...I’m here if there’s anything…Anything I can do.”

“Got a flask on you?” she asked drily, then closed her eyes, immediately chagrined. “I’m sorry, that’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny, babe.” He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, the two of them sitting side by side, their fingers intertwined.

***

Roxy looked up as Courtney rounded the corner from Miss Fame’s office, flashing her a bright smile. She had just gotten yet another delivery--Roxy was fast becoming BFFs with Greg, the Marie Claire office runner.

“Hey Rox! Whatcha got for me?”

“Hi, Court,” Roxy said, eyeing her suspiciously before handing over the bag, wondering why she was so perky today.

Courtney looked inside the bag and saw what Roxy had already - a large black velvet jewelry box.

“Open it,” Roxy said, and Courtney pulled it out, peeking inside before snapping it closed again. “Come on, you’re not gonna show me?”

A smile pulled at Courtney’s lips, and she leaned forward onto the reception desk, voice low, saying, “You wanna know something?”

“Yes, of course!” Roxy perked up. Was Courtney finally about to admit to her affair with Bianca Del Rio? It was gonna be a hell of a lot easier once she didn’t have to pretend to be in the dark anymore.

“You know how I said that I’ve been...uh...seeing someone who works at Marie Claire?”

“Yeah…you gonna tell me who?”

“Well, no,” she said, and off Roxy’s annoyed scoff, added, “But...we’re coming to the party tonight...together.”

“Oh really?” Roxy’s eyebrows shot up. This actually was pretty decent information, given the potential shit storm it could cause. The drama of Miss Fame’s assistant dating one of her best friends, and them showing up together to a company event? Absolutely delicious.

“Yeah, so...I guess you’ll find out soon enough,” Courtney said, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“I guess I will,” Roxy agreed, smiling placidly, already typing out a DM to Bob.

***

Fame breathed a sigh of relief as the car pulled up to the hotel she had chosen for the Galactica Christmas Party. The facade was decorated with dripping ice crystals, lights and fake snow making it the winter wonderland she had envisioned. The red carpet had been rolled out, guests already posing for photos and talking to reporters about their clothes, Fame recognizing the signature cameras from E! Network and one of Vogue’s journalists.

She had gotten the confirmation from Shangela that the string quartet had shown up, the musicians hired for the lounge area while the caterers had set up shop in the enchanted forest filled with actual pine trees, the bar carrying a line of gins specifically brewed for the event.

“So,” Patrick lifted an eyebrow, a curious expression on his face. The majority of Fame’s skirt was in her husband's lap since she refused to let the silk anywhere near the bottom of the car. “how are we feeling?”

“Me?” Fame smiled, leaning over to press a kiss against his cheek “Quite content.”

***

“Are you sure I can’t talk you into walking the carpet?”

Sutan looked over at Violet, the two of them on the bottom of the steps leading up to the hotel, Raja and Raven already halfway inside. Raja was in a tight-fitting emerald green suit with a deep cleavage, her hair twisted into a gorgeous updo, while Raven was dressed in a floor length gown in matching green, the two of them looking absolutely stunning together.

“Yes.” The message was clear, and Sutan could feel the tiniest curl of irritation in his stomach. Violet was beyond beautiful, her usually pink nails carefully painted the same red shade as her dress, a tiny purse slung over her shoulders, her black hair curled and spilling over her shoulders and back, her posture perfect even though she was leaning on her crutch, only one of them allowed to come along.

He wanted those pictures of them together, even if it was selfish.

“Lovely eyes-”

“I said no.” Violet’s tone left no room for argument, and Sutan pressed his lips together, taking a deep breath through his nose not to let his irritation win out.

“Sutan,” Violet reached out, gently touching his arm. “This isn’t a you issue, it’s a me issue. I’d love to go up there and be on your arm like a dainty little princess or trophy-”

“What?” Sutan raised an eyebrow. He had never thought of Violet as a princess, or even dainty, the muscles he knew she had and the iron will he had seen her possess over and over again so much more attractive than any trophy girlfriend could be. “That’s not what-”

“I know,” Violet squeezed, underlining her words, “But I’d honestly rather jump into traffic than talk to a single one of those reporters, and risk showing up in any of their publications.”

Sutan snorted, Violet’s dark sense of humor as always getting to him. He knew it also had to do with her relationship to her family, Violet’s choked hospital confession still rumbling around in his head, what little he had managed to piece together telling its clear story of a gossip magazine-obsessed mother, his girlfriend posing for his own mothers old canon camera at Thanksgiving without any issues.

“Okay, but promise me,” Sutan took a step, bringing them closer, his hand finding it’s now familiar place on Violet’s waist, “that I can get one soon.”

“A photo?” Violet raised an eyebrow, their hips almost touching, her free hand on his chest.

“Mmh, just for the two of us.”

“I’ll consider it,” Violet smiled, her fingers gently rearranging his tie, making sure it was sitting completely straight. “If you promise me that we can get a cab home.”

“A cab?” They had arrived with Raja and Raven, a driver coming back to pick all four of them up at the end of the night, “Why?”

“Because you, Mr. Amrull, look fucking fantastic tonight,” Violet looked up at him, a smirk on her lips, “and I wanna make out in the backseat.”

“You ready?” Bianca asked, looking over at Courtney as their car pulled up to the curb.

Courtney glanced outside, where a crowd of photographers and reporters were gathered, stomach seizing with the reality of what she was about to do, wondering if it was a mistake. Even walking the carpet with Bianca instead of taking the normal entrance with the rest of the support staff suddenly seemed audacious.

“No,” she admitted, looking back at Bianca apologetically. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Would it help if I told you how absolutely gorgeous you look?” Bianca asked, reaching out to take her hand.

Her outfit for the night was probably the most conservative of all the dresses Dan had pulled for her - a black dress--low cut, but not in a slutty way with a little bow at the front and full circle skirt, paired with a pair of Bianca’s beautiful multicolored Louboutins and simple, classy jewelry--including a glamorous strand of pink pearls that Bianca had sent over earlier in the day.

In spite of her nerves, Courtney couldn’t help but smile a little at the compliment, proud of the care she’d taken with her hair and makeup, hoping to make Bianca proud. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and responded with a cheeky, “Look who’s talking…”

Bianca grinned, and Courtney was once again struck by how fantastic she looked, in a red silk organza cocktail dress, the floaty feminine fabric accentuating her curves perfectly, a deep v-neck giving the perfect peek at her cleavage.

“What if we just stayed in the car for awhile?” Courtney suggested, fluttering her lashes.

“I promise to make it worth your while later, angel.” Bianca squeezed her hand, pulling her in close. “But right now, I’m pretty excited to show you off. So whaddaya say?”

Courtney took a deep breath, the churning in her stomach now a combination of nerves and excitement.

“Okay.”

Bianca signalled to the driver, who quickly got out and walked around to open their door.

“Here we go…” Bianca gave her hand one final squeeze and got out, giving the flashing cameras a polite wave before reaching back in to help her out.

Courtney’s mind was a mess. She suddenly had so many concurrent anxieties, like tripping on the carpet, or being dragged to filth by come gossip rag, or, given how lightheaded she now felt, fainting, here in front of all these people. She tried to steady herself, and Bianca’s arm slid securely around her waist.

“I’ve got you, don’t worry. You look amazing,” Bianca murmured in her ear.

Bianca led her down the carpet--a true professional, posing and smiling, calmly directing Courtney so that she knew where to stand and where to look, chatting jovially with reporters.

“Who’s your date, Bianca?” one of them asked boldly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” Bianca joked back. They’d discussed this ahead of time - better to keep Courtney’s name out of things for the moment, given her job title. Courtney understood, and agreed, and was even a bit relieved. For now, on gossip sites and fashion blogs, she’d just be ‘BDR’s latest blonde,’ and she was very much okay with that. After all, the people that mattered to both of them would know, and that’s what she cared about.

“Well, is it serious?” another piped up.

“You tell me,” Bianca said, and then Courtney really thought she might faint, Bianca pressing a sweet kiss to her cheek as about a billion flashbulbs went off in their faces, murmuring, “You’re doing perfectly, angel.”

She turned to Bianca, gazing at her with breathless admiration, feeling like the luckiest girl in the entire world. And then she took Bianca’s face in her hands and impulsively kissed her, right on the mouth, soft but sure. So what if it was only a fling? Courtney didn’t care anymore--she would remember this high for the rest of her life.

Bianca smiled against her mouth and whispered, “Well, that’ll make headlines...”

“Oops,” Courtney whispered back, both of them giggling.

They broke apart, matching grins on their faces as they looked into each other’s eyes, until Bianca turned back to the sea of paparazzi, now in a frenzy, shouting out questions too fast for Courtney to even process the words.

“That’s enough for you demons!” Bianca called, gently pulling Courtney up the steps, giving one last smiling wave at the top, Courtney’s hand still clasped in hers.

“Are you done?”

“Nope!”

Raja hid her grin, her shoulder touching Raven’s as they posed for the camera, her fiancée radiating excitement as she chatted and flirted with the photographers.

Raven had always adored the camera, and if there was a journalist behind it, she was practically in love, getting caught by the paparazzi a treat for her each and every time it happened.

Raja didn’t feel the same thrill, didn’t care as much about showing up in gossip magazines and websites since she had gotten more than enough of that in her youth, but she couldn’t be truly upset when it generated so many great pictures, Raven often looking sexy as sin when she got caught leaving the gym.

“Raja! Over here!”

Raja turned her head, the photographer catching her attention, and that was when she saw them, Bianca coming up a little ways behind her.

Seeing Bianca on a red carpet wasn’t strange, but what was frankly bizarre was the familiar blonde at her side.

Raja had expected Fame’s assistant to be somewhere in the crowd, since it was a company party and a big treat for the staff, but what the fuck was she doing on the red carpet? The support staff was supposed to enter the party through the normal pedestrian entrance.

And then, Bianca put her arm around Courtney’s waist, kissing her cheek as she giggled girlishly.

Oh, fuck.

This was not good. Frankly, Raja wasn’t shocked that Bianca had been messing with Courtney, her behavior at the meeting last week making it painfully obvious that she liked her. But this, this was next level.

Just when she thought it couldn’t get any more embarrassing, Raja witnessed something that made her blood run cold. Courtney grasped Bianca’s face in her hands and kissed her on the lips, causing absolute chaos from the group of paparazzi around them.

“Holy shit.”

“What?” Raven looked up at her, a concerned and confused expression on her beautiful face.

“Wait here.” Raja released Raven, leaving her behind on the carpet, prepared to ambush Bianca the second she got to the doors.

Bianca had done a lot of stupid shit over the years - they all had - and dating bimbos wasn’t a new thing for her, but making out with Fame’s assistant in front of the paparazzi?

That was a new level of braindead, even for her, and Raja had to stop it right now.

The moment Bianca stepped off the carpet, she felt someone grab her arm and roughly yank her into the lobby.

“Bianca!” Raja hissed, pulling at her arm. “Come here!”

“Ow!” Bianca laughed at Raja. “Let go of me, you fucking mountain gorilla!”

Just because the woman towered over her was no reason to be intimidated, and it was gonna take a hell of a lot more to bring her down at the moment than Raja looking at her like she was insane.

Beside her, Courtney let out a small gasp, and Raja tried to recover, putting an arm around Bianca’s shoulder and giving Courtney the most sugary-sweet, fakest voice she could manage to say, “Hey there Court, can you give us a minute? I have to chat with Bianca about something important. Great shoes, by the way.”

“Oh...yeah, alright. Um…” Courtney backed away, trying to give them some space. “I’ll just wait over here, then-”

“Perfect!” Raja dragged Bianca to the other end of the lobby, away from any reporters.

“This oughta be good,” Bianca grumbled, though she was still too hyped from the carpet to manage to be truly annoyed.

“What,” Raja pushed Bianca into a corner, inches from her face, her voice filled with venom though her eyes betrayed her geniune concern, “the actual fuck do you think you’re doing, Bianca?!”

“Wanna be more specific?” Bianca asked, tilting her head, an impish smile on her face.

"It's bad enough that you're fucking Fame's assistant, but to parade her around on the red carpet? Without even bothering to give us a heads-up? Are you insane?" Raja’s teeth were clenched, clearly trying to keep her voice down.

"Please. Our relationship has nothing to do with-"

"Relationship? Are you actually calling this a relationship?"

"Yes!" Now, Bianca was starting to get annoyed. Who the fuck did Raja think she was talking to?

"Oy, this is so much worse than I thought,” Raja groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Please don't tell me this is why you bailed on the tasting menu."

"So what if I did?"

"Oh god."

"Fuck you!"

"And what did you expect to happen, Bianca? What's your great master plan with this childish stunt?"

“Well...to be honest, I didn’t know she was gonna kiss me on the carpet,” Bianca admitted, a giggle slipping from her lips. “It was kinda cute, did you see?”

“I...am going to slap you.”

“Come on, Raj. I did give this whole thing a little thought.”

“Really? It doesn’t fucking seem like it!”

“Well, I have. Look, I know she’s gonna be pissed, but I also know she’s not gonna cause a scene in the middle of the party. And then after tonight, she’s got almost a full week to cool off before she has to see me again,” Bianca said, punctuating her statement with a charming smile. Bianca was no idiot. Of course she knew that Fame would be irritated, maybe even angry, but she figured that this was a situation where it would be easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. And besides, if she had to endure her friend’s wrath for awhile in exchange for being free to put her relationship with Courtney out into the open, then so be it.

“That’s what you think will happen?” Raja huffed. “Bianca, please, Fame hasn’t seen you guys yet. If we get Courtney out the back door, we can make an alliance with Patrick to get Fame drunk and unplug the wifi tomorrow so she doesn’t go online. It’ll be like it never happened, and we'll never speak of it again.”

“Raj, listen. I know this might be a real clusterfuck, but I’m willing to accept the consequences.”

“Oh jesus help me.” Raja groaned. “I hope she’s worth it, Bianca.” She pulled away, shaking her head. “I really hope she’s worth it.”

As she walked away, Bianca took a deep breath, looking back across the lobby at Courtney, who was doing a terrible job of trying to look casual, the anxiety on her face clear as day. Bianca sent her a big smile, reaching out a hand, and Courtney rushed toward her.

“Was she mad?” she asked, brows creased with worry.

Bianca cupped her face lightly, stroking her cheek, and promised, “Not at you.”

“Okay.” Courtney bit her lip, and Bianca leaned in to kiss her cheek.

“Shall we?” she asked, gesturing to the ballroom.

“Yeah...in a minute…” Courtney said, immediately adding, “I’m sorry.”

“Take your time, angel. There’s no rush,” Bianca promised. “In fact, if you’d rather get out of here and go somewhere else-”

“No, no, no…” Courtney laughed, taking her hand. “I’m fine. Let’s go in.”

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impaladolan · 4 years ago

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Capture - Grayson Dolan [ae]

summary: somehow, someway, y/n was rescued from her enstranglements and open to the world again..

warnings: lil smut & swearing!

a/n: sadly, this is the last part of capture :( i hope you enjoyed this little series! ily, mwah💕

later note: this is now an alternate ending, i am continuing this fic!

part one, part two, part three.

In the moonlit hours of the night, where the nocturnal animals are out and about, the slight creak of a door radiated through the room of which you lie awake and sleepless in. You didn't dare to move, but rather freeze. You held your breath and squinted your eyes towards the door, where a shadowy figure entered with ease and quietness. "Are you awake?" The shadow of a man calls in a whisper, edging nearer and nearer towards you. You decided not to answer, internally preparing yourself for whatever was to happen.

You had finally given up.

It's been presumably a month since that fateful morning run that lead to where you are now, stuck in a house you've barely ventured. You felt disgusting and a far different person from who you once were before. It's been a week since you've showered, to ward off the man you've named asshole. You've gone blank, almost mute. You haven't talked in days and you don't plan to. But what looks to be a man, in the dark, in front of you had altered your motives. "Y/N, I've come to take you home. We don't have much time." Hands begin to shake your shoulders as the unfamiliar voice awakes you from your thoughts. "How?" Your voice comes out raspy, breaking a fresh load of tears that you haven't been able to cry in days. "Come with me, and be quiet." He orders as he pulls your hands to help you out of bed.

He presses his fingers against his lips, faintly saying "It's okay," to calm your overwhelming nerves. He leads the way, opening the creaky door just enough for the two of you to escape. He smoothly walks down the hall, with you following suit, and through a couple rooms until he opens another door, leading into a garage with an already started black car. He quickly opens the passenger seat and lets you in, waiting until you're fully seated before softly shutting it. You quickly buckle your seatbelt as he jogs around the front and into the other side. He seats himself and immediately backs up once the garage door is opened.

This can't be real.

You begin to pinch yourself, letting your tears run down your cheeks as you giddily smile, watching as you pass the wire fence and roll down the entirely too long driveway. "I'm sorry." The man, who you've not given a good look at yet, muttered. He didn't look at you, but he kept his eyes on the road and quickened his speed. You didn't respond, because you have nothing to say exactly.

"It's not my brothers fault, I promise." He gives you quick glance, his striking features an awfully good resemblance to asshole. "Then who is at fault!?" You felt your anger arise in you, but you hiccup and sniffle afterwards, clearing the fury-filled facade you were trying to encapsulate. "I've been trapped in a room for a month, sexually assaulted, malnourished, and taken away from all the people I love without an explanation. So tell me, who was it?" You asked, a hurt in your voice like the man had never heard before. He felt himself almost shed a tear at your words, shaking his head.

"He was forced to, by our leader. I can't give you names or details Y/N, but I must ask you not to press charges. I'll reimburse you with whatever kind of money you want, but if you fucking snitch, we're all dead. Including you, understand?" The tone of his voice caused your sniffles to hush and your eyes to bulge. Before you could answer, you feel his car halt and the view of your house, seemingly untouched, outside the tinted windows. "Grab your things, shower, and get back out here as quickly as possible." He demanded unlocking the doors and following you up to your doorstep.

You didn't question anything, grabbing your spare key from under the doormat and bursting into your home, the recognizable smell instantaneously calming you.

Wow.

You missed this place so much. All the pictures and nicknacks placed strategically around the place. You wished to lay on you sofa and squeeze all your pillows and smell all the smells that were so homely, but the man hurried you, standing guard at the door as you did all the things he asked, starting with a well needed shower and a change of clothes. After packing up things that you thought you'd need, you follow the man back to his car and hop in, waiting for his words. "Where's your nearest relative located?" He openly questions, starting the vehicle and beginning a slow drive, opposite to how he drove before.

"200 miles away, in a grave yard." You answer monotonously, staring straight ahead. "I figured, since there wasn't any search warrants out." He mumbled under his breath, though you heard. Your hearing had increased very much so throughout the entirety of a month, as well as your sneakiness you'd guess.

"Is there a place you can stay for the next week?" He furrowed his brows in question giving you his full attention the moment he stopped at a red light, where no other cars eerily surrounded. The moment he asked that question, your mind immediately went to one of your closest friends, whom you met in college and have stayed in touch with for the most part. Well, all except for an entire month. "Yes, drive to Belmont. I'll give you directions once we get in the city." You direct with a nod, pulling your knees to your chest and closing your eyes softly.

It's gonna be a long ride..

"Please, Daddy, I'll be good!" You beg as you watch him look over you with a wicked grin, his large hand stroking his erected length. You had your legs spread wide open, ready for his touch and warmth— whatever he could possibly do to make you feel good.

"Good girls don't run away." He sternly said, with what seemed to be an angered chuckle. His cold, merciless eyes beamed right into your own, his signature smirk dancing on his lips. He grabs your hips, flipping you onto your stomach with an ease, his hands softly gliding up and down your back. His fingertips alone sent core-aching shivers down your entire spine until your back was arched to his liking. His index finger traced a line all the way down your backside until it delved into your incredibly drenched pussy, shooting a foggy sense of mentality to your brain. He toyed with your folds, inserting two of his fingers at a relaxing slow place that made your stomach twist and turn with glee. You let out a couple sheer moans to yourself, basking in this quick moment of sensation before it turns to dust.

He continues his motions, gliding his other hand further up to caress your breast while he leans his mouth up towards your ear to lowly whisper; "You'd like to have this, wouldn't you?" You bit your lip with a happy sigh as his skillful fingers pick up a little speed, nodding your head for a slight yes to answer his question. "Words, sweetheart." You gasp when you feel his lips connect to your neck, his harsh sucking creating a slight difficulty to speak, as he wanted you to. "Yes, Daddy, I'd love to." It wasn't hard to figure out that he'd cease all of his orgasm creating actions just at your words.

"If only you didn't run away, you could've gotten what you wanted." His gruesome chuckles startled you, making you whimper with need. You look behind to see him licking his fingers with a smile, a smile you'd never forget.

"Y/N, wake up we're in Belmont." The man taps your arm lightly as his soft and soothing voice wakes you from your gut twisting slumber. You felt your entire body shutter with desire for more, and you felt a pooling within your panties.

Did you just have a wet dream about a kidnapper?

You caught your breath and blinked your eyes to get acquainted with the newly risen sun, trying to regain your memory. "What were you dreaming about? You kept saying daddy and shit, kinda hot." He gave you a suggestive smile as he chuckles, all the while your face burned up with embarrassment. You were almost annoyed— no you were peeved that he had woke you up from an amazing, imaginary sex marathon. "Nothing much, just fucking your brother." You shrug with a blank face, a hollowed chuckle emitting from his throat. "Ouch, women." He continues his small laughs, turning into a gas station and sliding right next to a pump.

"What do you want for breakfast?" He asks, getting out of the driver's side with a yawn. "To piss." You yawn as well, leaning back in your seat to stretch.

"I'd let you, but you'd probably make a run for it or something." He twists his body around, letting it breathe rather than being crunched in a car any longer. "Fine, a hash brown." You quickly answer, your mouth watering just to the thought. He nods, shutting his door and locking the vehicle twice. Once he's inside, you quickly scribble something on a random envelope, placing it in his seat before looking in the backseat for your bag. You quickly grab the straps and put your arms through the loops. With one last look at the man, who seemed to be getting your desired hash brown, you open the passenger side door and sprint as fast as possible before he'd notice the cars alert system sounding.

You run as fast as your legs could take you, keeping up a solid pace until you're in a recognizable neighborhood. You could still hear the car's endless beeping, which gave you hope that you'd finally be—

Free.

Thank you, for helping me escape. I've decided, within the few minutes of planning my escape as well, that I will not bring any of this up to the police, as I probably should. Yes, I was held there against my will, but I can't say I was exactly unhappy. So with that being said, never contact or try to find/kidnap me ever again. I will carry this baggage for the rest of my life, don't make it worse.

good riddance,

Y/N Y/L/N

(masterlist)

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pricemarshfield · 3 years ago

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the killing kind

A post-canon Drarry fic. Read on AO3 here.

Harry would like one day away from the press, from being the Boy who Lived, to just be Harry. Polyjuice would work, but it's disgusting and difficult and also possibly illegal, but wizards are bad at recognizing anything non-magical, so this might work.

At least, that was his reasoning for walking into Diagon Alley with a Muggle stage prosthetic that makes his chin look completely different, a fake mustache, and his hair enchanted to be long enough to finally, finally cover his scar. He's sure that last one will wear off in an hour, but that should be enough to get an ice cream at Fortescue's and sit outside and eat it without being swarmed.

You'd think, years after Tom Riddle's death, that they'd stop caring about him. But no, they need to report every little thing he does. Harry Potter rushed through Auror training. Harry Potter quits Ministry work, possible run for Minister? Professor McGonagall had tried her best to keep his professorship at Hogwarts under lock and key, but after his first day, the papers had a tell-all. He's not sure which student it was, but they're children. He can't blame them.

The first Prophet reporter he sees, a woman with shockingly long hair he recognizes as taking photos outside a restaurant near the Burrow (preceding an article about his break-up with Ginny that made it seem like something tragic and not like school sweethearts amicably parting weeks before the photo was taken), doesn't give him a second glance. He has to force himself to walk normally past her and not rush.

It's the one thing Auror training actually taught him. People won't pay attention to you if you act like everything's fine. One art thief he'd caught in the three weeks he'd actually worked at the Ministry had just walked into places and taken paintings, not bothering to sneak or disguise himself whatsoever. They'd assumed he must have been there. Harry had felt bad taking him in, actually; he was taking better care of the paintings than the rich assholes he was taking them from.

"Was going to take one from the Malfoys next," the guy'd said. "I know apparently the wife and the kid aren't actually, you know, Death Eaters, but they sure don't need all that art, don't they?"

"Don't suppose you'd let me catch you right after you stash that one somewhere," Harry'd joked.

"Nope. Sorry, mate," he'd said, and sounded so much like Ron that Harry made idle conversation about how Animagi tended to find it pretty easy to escape from wizarding jails, and how Azkaban was much more--ethical, now that the Dementors were gone and Hermione had aggressively campaigned for prisoners' rights. (With Harry's quiet support and financial backing, remembering how haunted Sirius had looked.)

Anyway. He's getting lost in his thoughts again. It does mean he doesn't notice if there's any other reporters on the path to Fortescue's. It also means he doesn't process the words on the sign in front of him for long enough that he's getting a couple weird looks.

Aguefort's Chronomantics Romantic Novels

Books to Transport You Through Time, Space, and Dimensions!

Harry blinks at it, looks around. This is the corner where Fortescue's was--and he briefly considers hexing himself when he remembers that Florean was one of the people who disappeared, back in the war, who never came back after. Sure enough, there's a little in memorial metal plaque on the front door of the bookshop.

He swears under his breath. He should have remembered this. But no, he's stuck.

There's probably some other shop he can grab something at, right? Other than what looks like overpriced romances? There's a few sit-down restaurants, but he needs to be in and out in forty minutes, max.

He wanders aimlessly down the streets, hoping to catch a whiff of something. Churros, tacos, some sort of street cart or something. Diagon Alley's not really that type of place, but he hasn't been here in a year and a half, so maybe someone's pushing convention.

There doesn't end up being any cheap little shops on the side of the road, but fifteen minutes later, he does see a place that sells chips and has outdoor seating, and that'll have to do. When he walks in, the place is packed, but the line's moving quickly enough that he should still be fine, if he eats quickly. Worse comes to worse, he can just Apparate away when his hair starts to act up.

He gets through the line, pays, gets his chips, adds some more salt to it, and sits outside in under six minutes. (He counts. Also, he has a watch that he remembers to look at three minutes in.) Outdoor seating's a little cramped, and he can feel himself tense, shoulders higher than they should be. He lets himself sit with his back to the wall, eyes on everyone, ignoring the reminder for CONSTANT VIGILANCE in his head from old Mad-Eye, and begins to eat.

Now that he's got some food in him and he knows...well. He's pretty sure that no one's watching him from behind, he's able to look around and appreciate his surroundings, being in the world without being stared at. It's then that he realizes a few things:

1. Most of the people here have notepads next to them, quills writing notes on their own.

2. The building across the street has a sign in looping, dramatic script that reads Daily Prophet.

3. Draco fucking Malfoy is at the table next to him, and

4. He's looking right at Harry.

Harry tries to express please, for the love of God, don't make a scene with his face. Malfoy doesn't seem to pick up on it from the way he leans forward, drawing the eyes of someone nearby. Harry casts a quick Muffliato around the pair.

"Potter," Malfoy says.

"I'm just trying to grab a bite," Harry pleads.

"What, you think they wouldn't serve you if you showed up?" Malfoy asks, arching a brow at him like he's said something oh-so-intelligent. Harry wonders if cursing him is worth the attention. But Malfoy being annoying isn't enough to get him on the front page of the Prophet, probably, and Harry didn't speak at his trial for nothing.

"No," Harry says. "But sometimes someone might like to eat without everyone staring at them, yeah?"

Malfoy narrows his eyes at him. "I can understand that."

That was more than Harry'd expected. His shoulders drop a little. "Good. I'll be out of here in just a few minutes anyway." He looks back down at his chips.

"Why?" Malfoy asks.

Harry looks up at him. He hadn't exactly anticipated a conversation with Malfoy. With a glance at the Prophet next door, Harry says, "Hungry."

"I didn't mean why here, Potter, have you really not gotten any smarter since we were at school?"

"Have you really not changed since Hogwarts either?" Harry snaps, knows it's a low blow right after it's left his mouth. Malfoy's face blanches, and he turns back to his book with a pinched expression that Harry doesn't feel guilty about. Decidedly not guilty. Not even a little. His hero complex has gotten better, and he can tell Hermione that later.

One minute and fifteen seconds later, Harry caves and hands Malfoy a chip. He has to lean way too far, two of his chair legs leaving the ground, but the scrape of that means at least Malfoy glances up and he doesn't have to say anything to get his attention. Malfoy takes the chip with an expression of distaste. He doesn't seem to have any food.

"Did you come here for food and get turned away?" Harry asks, connecting a couple things in his head like those mystery boards Ron still uses at work.

Malfoy glares at him. "No, I'm sitting here because I'm fond of being by a bunch of reporters."

"You could leave," Harry says. "It doesn't look like you're chained here."

"That would be conceding, Potter," Malfoy says primly. "I don't expect you to understand."

"Alright," Harry says. "Look, I just wanted some food, the charm on my hair's wearing off soon, and I didn't mean to rub it in your face." After an awkward pause, he adds, "Also, wizards don't notice anything with Muggle prosthetics, so. You could try that."

"Is that why your chin looks like that?" Malfoy asks, horrified. "It's horrific, Potter, you're better off just taking off those glasses rather than completely destroy your appearance."

"It's temporary," Harry says, ignoring the little thrill up his spine when Malfoy almost-implies something nice about how he looks. "And I'm trying not to get looked at, git."

Malfoy gives Harry a quick up-and-down look then flicks his wand. Harry braces himself, but instead feels his hair cool a little, like a more pleasant disillusionment charm. When he glances at the shop's window, he can see it's fallen even further flat.

"Thanks," Harry says. Malfoy nods at him. "Sorry."

"What are you talking about?"

"That that happened," Harry says. "The shop thing, not the--not the hair thing."

The corner of Malfoy's mouth quirks up. "I'm used to it."

Not for the first time, Harry's struck with a quiet sense of injustice that he doesn't really know what to do with. In school, it was simple: pass his classes, defeat Riddle, and try to win the House Cup. But there's things he can't tackle quite as easily, or at least the path towards them are less clear. The right of blood over anything else in wizarding families, the existence of house elves, the way people are judged years later for what they did as a child in war.

Harry's under no illusions about Malfoy being a good person; he was still a bigoted little git in school. But he also knows he's made an attempt to do better, to be better.

"If you want," Harry says, wincing at how awkward and halting his voice sounds. "Next time the Prophet corners me, I can say something nice about you. Might change things."

"Why?" Malfoy says, brow furrowed, the picture of distrust.

Harry shrugs. "Dunno. Seems unfair."

"You really do have a hero complex," Malfoy says despairingly. "I thought it was just a pathological need for attention, but no, you really do have to step into situations that don't need you if you have even the slightest inkling someone might be a bit upset."

"I don't have to," Harry says, rolling his eyes. "It was an offer. You know, something people do when they're trying to be nice?"

"Gryffindors," Malfoy sighs. "This is why you lot end up being Chosen Ones."

Harry wants to yell at him or just throw a hex, reporters be damned, but Malfoy's smiling slightly, and his tone was almost joking, maybe.

"At least we didn't have to live in a dungeon," Harry says, and meets Malfoy's gaze with a slight smile back.

#okay gonna crosspost a bunch of my stuff from ao3 all at once BUT it's 1am so hopefully no one's up <3 i just need to for my adhd #drarry #harry potter #harry james potter #draco malfoy #my fics

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slightlyrebelliouswriter23 · 5 years ago

Text

We’re All Mad Here | Jurdan College AU

Summary: It’s all for show, I tell myself. To see if I can make him flinch. It’s just a game of Russian Roulette, after all. Harmless, as long as I am the one with the gun.

Rating: T/M

CW: Very mild cursing. Zero explicit content but there is a fun little tease. It’s all very soft focus, though. Also, at the end, a brief flashback of Jude’s backstory in this fic which might be triggering for some. I’ve marked the start of her trigger with a ~~~ in case you want to avoid.

Part I | Part III | WAMH Masterlist | AO3 | Fic Masterlist

Part II- Simmer

Unfortunately Attractive Dude leads me around the counter like he owns the place. If a stranger leading me into a back room is not alarming enough, the mirthful bound in his step makes me all the more suspicious.

I glare very hard at the back of his head and hope he feels it.

“Liliver,” the man says to the white-haired barista as we pass behind her, “Another hot chocolate and one large caramel cappuccino, extra shot, to-go. And make it snappy, we’ve got places to be.”

Liliver throws a sneer over her shoulder. “I’d make it much snappier if you said the magic words.”

“Oh, Liliver. Magic isn’t real,” he croons, “And we both know I’m above begging.”

Liliver looks like she’s considering punching him in the face. If it came down to it, I know I’m not above begging for that. Or cheering. Or joining in.

“Whip?” the man says.

I blink. It takes me a second to realise he’s speaking to me. “Huh?”

A wicked smirk settles on his mouth. “Do you want whip?”

I scrunch my nose.

“No whip,” he says to Liliver, backing toward a set of silver doors in the corner.

“Who puts whipped cream on their cappuccino?” I mutter.

“Weirdos, that’s who,” Liliver tells me. “Off his rocker, this one. Be careful around him.” I give her a conspiratorial smile. I decide I like Liliver.

I decide I hate Unfortunately Attractive Dude when, for reasons entirely uncertain to me, he gives me a shit-eating grin and ducks through the swinging silver doors. Against my better judgement, I follow.

Suddenly, I’m in a small kitchen where everything from the countertops to the large fridge in the corner is made of stainless steel. The air is cold and damp, like a clammy hand. An unsettling combination of wet rags and baking bread permeates the air.

The man busies himself, pulling various items down from shelves and out of cabinets.

“Are we… allowed to be back here?” I ask. He knows the barista, that much is apparent. But surely that doesn’t excuse customers from wandering back on a whim to use the kitchens as their own personal laundromat.

“One never needs permission to be anywhere if one never asks and is never perceived,” he muses. I shoot him an incredulous look and he laughs. “I work here.”

“In that?” I jut my chin at the man’s outfit. His jacket alone is garish. Paired with all the prim and tailored rest, it seems more like something strutting down a high-end runway than any work attire I’ve ever seen.

“No, of course not in this,” he scoffs. “Come sit.” He pats the metal countertop next to the sink before continuing his search, a flurry of black and red.

“Why?” I don’t try to hide my scepticism. Better he knows I am wary of him still than try to be accommodating and find myself axe-murdered.

“Because after I’m done with your shirt,” he says, pausing to look at me, “I need to make sure you’re not hurt.”

How poetic, I think, then narrow my eyes. I mislike the idea of this strange man inspecting an injury conveniently located on my cleavage.

“I told you,” I say, sliding my backpack off my shoulders and setting it on the floor, “I’m fine.” But when I peel out of my coat, a sharp pang shoots across my chest. I cannot help the wince that escapes.

Clearly not fine.

An arch of one dark brow tells me the man agrees with my unspoken thought. His oil-slick eyes rake over me once more, assessing. My traitorous heart does a little leap.

He pulls one shoulder into a half-shrug. “Company policy. Sorry.” His rings clang against the metal as he pats the counter again.

My teeth grit against the sound. “A likely story,” I grumble, though I am not sure he hears me. Already continuing his disassembly of the kitchen cabinets, the man does not respond.

I clamber up onto the counter with no amount of haste and sit begrudgingly amongst his collection of searched-for items: Dish soap, white wine vinegar, rubbing alcohol, a sponge, a large metal mixing bowl. He adds a first-aid kit to the growing horde.

I watch as he removes his many rings from moon pale fingers. They’re long and nimble, and I find myself wondering if he sews, as well. Or perhaps he’s a skilled pianist.

Warmth spreads across my cheeks. Then again, it’s probably a bad idea to think too much on his hands.

He flicks a handle of the faucet and tests the steady stream rushing out. Satisfied, he holds the mixing bowl under the tap.

“It’s my day off,” he tells me while the bowl fills.

“Fascinating.”

“It’s why I’m not in uniform.”

“You’re telling me you chose to wear this?” I wave a hand at his ensemble.

The man turns the faucet off, frowning. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” He places the bowl of warm water on the counter next to me.

“Your coat looks like a bathrobe.”

“I beg your pardon?” He presses a hand to his chest in mock offence. “This jacket happens to be a masterful work of art by a very coveted designer.”

I roll my eyes. He sounds like the most pretentious kind of asshole. If I hadn’t already decided whether to like him or hate him, this would’ve given substantial weight to the latter.

“Yeah, well, it looks like something an old rich dude would wear,” I say. “Probably while having a post-bath cigar and reading the obituary section of the newspaper.”

“Personally, I much prefer the comic section, post-bath,” he mutters, squeezing a dollop of dish soap into the bowl.

Somehow, I can imagine that. This odd man in a bath full of bubbles and oils that smell like the forest, getting out only when his hands go pruny to read the Sunday comics. Then I very much want to un-imagine that.

I shake my head. I need coffee. Now.

“Lucky for you,” the man says, ripping me from my internal spiral into damnation, “You get the privilege of wearing the old dude bathrobe. Give me your shirt.”

He shrugs out of the jacket and holds it out for me, his free hand waiting expectantly for a swap. Those coal-black eyes sparkle with a dare. It’s then that I realise: They are waiting expectantly, too.

As if he anticipates I will blush and ask him to turn around so I can change in some modicum of privacy. Like a good girl. As if he expects I’m the type of woman who is accustomed to gentlemanly behaviour from men.

Little does he know, I don’t much care for chivalry—and I am most certainly not good. If he does not want to give me the courtesy of privacy, then I will not ask it of him.

It is an effort to swallow my pride. With slow hands, I pull my blouse from the waistband of my skirt. I hold his gaze steady, out of spite.

Surprise steals across his face. It is there and then gone, brief as a breeze, and the only thing he yields.

As my fingers graze the top button, a little thrill runs through me. I must be mad for doing this. Between the interview jitters, my state of panic, and a desperate lack of caffeine, I must have completely lost my mind.

Or more likely, there was already something very wrong with me, to begin with.

Sensing my hesitation, the man’s mouth furls at the corners like unrolled parchment that reads: You won’t do it, in the looping, self-important scrawl I imagine someone like him must possess. That small smirk, the second dare.

I glare at his mouth. The first button is the hardest, but I clench my jaw and undo it; then the next.

He tracks my every move from beneath the eaves of his thick lashes. The sight of him so suspended by the strings of my fingers makes my heart rush, and I am struck by a mix of irritation and dizzying lust.

Cool air pebbles the skin on my chest as I work. I take my sweet time about it. This prick wanted a show, so it’s a show I will give him.

My fingers move carefully down the line. Pulling my bottom lip between my teeth, I knit my brows in feigned concentration and pretend that this is nothing.

Even though my heartbeat is a war drum in my chest.

Even though his gaze is heady and my head is spinning with it.

Even though I am very glad this task does not require me to speak.

This is nothing. This is nothing but three more buttons. His breath hitches as my shirt falls open further. I am a matchstick under his flint-like gaze.

My cheeks blaze. I think about how every bit of this is his fault. I think about how I hate him and his annoying charm for tricking me into coming back here. About his paramour eyes, his satyr’s smile—I think I hate those things most.

Such ire grounds me.

I pop the final button, slip my shirt off one shoulder, then the other. The pale blue fabric pools at my waist, draping over the crooks of my elbows. A subtle shift and I’m pushing my arms flush against my ribcage, giving him the best view.

It’s all for show, I tell myself, over and over. To see if I can make him flinch. It’s just a game of Russian Roulette, after all. Harmless, as long as I am the one with the gun.

When I meet his eyes again, at last, every second of this humiliation is worth it. The man’s arms have fallen slack at his sides. His precious designer jacket all but forgotten, nearly grazing the floor.

Gone is the taunting smirk. Every sharp edge of him smoothed over by wonderment. Or maybe it is consternation.

Either way, I am plagued by the thought that I should very much like to see him dishevelled.

I should like to see him come undone.

I give a coy smile and bat my lashes mockingly. “Did you get a good enough inspection, doctor?”

To my delight, he swallows audibly. Opens his mouth as if to speak, then snaps it shut.

Maybe he needs a doctor, I think and give a little snort. With a roll of my eyes, I try to beat back the tide of my own desire.

I shove my wadded up shirt into his chest, unceremonious. “You’re drooling,” I tell him, my voice miraculously even. That seems to snap him out of it.

He blinks twice, clearing his throat. “Shouldn’t need more than ice and a bit of aloe,” he says, then takes my shirt in his free hand.

I snatch the jacket from his other and shrug it on. My arms slide easily into the satin-lined sleeves. It’s still warm and smells like him. A forest and something burning. I hate that I notice at all—that whatever odious perfume he’s wearing is something I’ve committed to memory. Most of all, I hate the shiver that roils up my spine because of it.

I fold my arms across my chest and risk a glance at the man.

He’s frowning at the bottle of white wine vinegar in his hands. The way he glares at it, you’d think it had committed some heinous crime. There is a slight tinge of pink on his moon-pale cheeks.

A trifle smile tugs at my lips. It’s good to know I get under his skin as much as he gets under mine.

“So,” I say, flipping my hair out from under the jacket, “How do I look?”

He glances in my direction, face unreadable. An unbothered sweep of his gaze. “Not at all like an old man in a bathrobe,” he says, opening the bottle.

With a flourish, he adds a splash of vinegar to the bowl.

“I should hope not,” I say, raising my arms slightly to examine the jacket. “I think I look like the finest baroque rug Insmire has to offer.”

The laugh that barrels from Unfortunately Attractive Dude is genuine. “I’ll pass your compliments along to the artist.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Nonetheless,” he says, “I suspect it’s as close to one as anything you usually give.” He reaches for my shirt and dunks it in the water. Immediately, a bit of the stain lifts away, turning the water a cloudy colour.

He’s not wrong, and it irks me. I shift my gaze back to the jacket.

All things considered, I’m shocked at how well it fits. It’s a little long, and the sleeves swallow my hands in a river of red and black fabric. But what I lack in height, I make up for in other things. The man is lean enough to where the rest of his jacket is filled easily by the swell of my breasts, the sweep of my hips.

“I’ll admit,” he says, swishing the contents of the bowl around with his hands, “It suits you. Might even look better on you than it does on me.”

“Really?” I gasp, a teasing thing.

“I said might,” he mumbles, stirring and pointedly not meeting my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, I most certainly will.”

A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, but he says nothing and adds dish soap to the bowl.

“You never told me your name,” I blurt. Mostly to fill the silence, but also because my not knowing is starting to get a bit weird.

He furrows his brows as if he’s never been asked the question before. Or he is surprised I even have to ask. Like I said. Self-important.

“I didn’t,” he says, smirking down at the bowl.

I wait. When he does not oblige me, I give him a stern look. “Is that information classified or something?” I ask. “Too personal? Because let me tell you, pal, you’ve seen me in my bra.”

“Yes. And?”

I almost cringe at the reminder. He has probably seen many people in various states of undress. I am no one special.

“And,” I say, pasting a sickly sweet smile on my lips, “I usually like to know the names of people who’ve seen me in my bra.”

“You say that as if it happens often.”

I narrow my eyes, ignoring the blush rising in my cheeks. “And you say that as if you mean to distract me.” He continues to work my shirt around with his hands, dutifully ignoring my glare. “Why won’t you tell me your name?”

“Because,” he says, voice contemplative, “I thought you already knew it.”

“Should I know it?”

He shrugs. “We’re in the same politics lecture. With Dulcamara. You sit in the back row every week.”

“So you’re stalking me.” I’m only half-joking. The other half is starting to get worried that maybe I will end up in tiny little pieces out back if I’m not careful. My eyes flit to the bouquet of knives at the end of the counter.

“No,” he says, adding a squeeze of rubbing alcohol to the mix. “I’m just good with people. And faces.”

While he stirs, I cock my head to the side, trying to dredge up his likeness from the faces in my memory. I’m quite certain if I had ever seen a face like his, I would’ve remembered it.

Though truth be told, Dulcamara’s lectures are the most interesting my department has to offer. I often do not notice the people around me.

“You really don’t know who I am?” He looks at me, brows arched in amusement.

I grit my teeth. “That lecture is one of the busiest ones. And why should I pay attention to the people when the lecture is far more—”

“Gripping?” His grin is a slash of white. “You’d certainly be the first to think so.”

“At least I think for myself,” I snap.

“A good quality to be sure,” he says. “But as driven a person as you are, Jude, I’d have thought you’d be more observant.”

My heart skitters to a halt. It’s one thing to know my face but…

“How do you know my name,” I demand, boring a glare into his skull. “You are stalking me.”

“It’s hardly stalking, darling, if neither of us has any choice in the matter of attending,” he points out. “Besides, it’s really hard to not know your name. Since you answer all of Dulcamara’s questions with such… thoroughness.” Some emotion I can’t quite read, settled so perplexingly between admiration and disdain, feeds his expression as he says this.

I am not entirely sure what to make of it.

But I do know what he’s said is true. I am usually the only voluntary participant in Dulcamara’s lectures. And I suppose if he knows enough about my track record for participation, he probably does go to Royal Greenbriar.

I’m weighing my options when Liliver careens through the door.

“Sorry ‘bout the wait,” she says, making for our counter in the back of the kitchen. She has two steaming cups in her hands, and had I not been sitting so high up, I might’ve dropped to my knees to kiss the ground she walks on.

“Busy out there?” the man-who-has-annoyingly-not-been-named mutters.

“You were at the tail end of the rush,” Liliver says, then frowns. “Though it doesn’t seem like you’re in much of a hurry here.”

She eyes the array of supplies, my shirt in the bowl of now-dirty water, her co-worker’s jacket on my shoulders. She says nothing. Only hands me one of the cups.

“One large caramel cappuccino, extra shot, to-go,” she says, giving me a wink.

I thank her and take a much-needed sip.

Liliver turns to the man. “And one hot chocolate for you, Your Highness.” She makes a mockery of a bow as she hands him his drink.

He scowls but grunts his appreciation, placing the to-go cup on the counter next to him. When he turns back to the bowl, the barista grins wickedly at me. I return it in kind. Yes, I very much like Liliver.

“Any luck with the stain?” she asks the man.

He fishes my blouse out of the bowl. “Don’t see how that’s any of your business, Lil,” he says, then shuffles over a few steps before wringing the fabric over the sink.

“As star employee, anything that happens in my kitchen is my business.” She offers a lewd waggle of her brows.

I take a sip of coffee to hide the blooming heat on my face. I was sure the door had been closed… Then, a small, dreadful thought bubbles to the surface.

Perhaps her coworker has a reputation for luring potential conquests back here. Perhaps he’s done this one-hundred times before, and Liliver has learned the basic machinations of it.

Though it’s doubtful anyone gave a show quite so revealing as mine. Also doubtful he’s had quite that many conquests, even with his considerable beauty. One-hundred is a very high number. Isn’t it?

Still, if I am correct in guessing his design, I vow to make the man pay in more than just coffee and laundering expertise.

“Need I remind you,” Unfortunately Attractive Dude drawls, “It is technically my kitchen always. So I am under no obligation to tell you.”

His kitchen? He’d been modest before, I realise, when he told me he works here.

“Not like you to pull rank,” Liliver huffs, affronted. “What’s got your panties in a knot, Greenbriar? Is it girl troubles? Because if it is—”

But I don’t hear the rest of what she says.

~~~A single word and everything becomes slow, slanting. I stare down at the tile floor. The world warps around me, as if held on the end of a bungee cord stretched taut, and I am about to be flung helpless back into the air.

Something in my stomach curdles. It has nothing to do with the coffee.

“Anyway,” Liliver is saying, her voice very far away, “You asked me to remind you if you’re still here that you have a meeting in ten minutes.”

I am still staring at the grout between tiles. At the grit there. The grime. My skin is awash with the slick feeling of it.

“Yes,” the man says in my periphery. “Thank you, Liliver.”

“For the record, I don’t get paid enough for this,” she says, and I have the vague sense she is heading for the door. “The personal assisting. The moods. The general… weirdness.”

His laugh is muffled, awful. Like the thud of marbles on carpet. “I’ll give you a raise, then.”

“It’s the least you could do,” she sings over her shoulder, and she’s out the door again.

Then, we are alone. But I am not here. I am sometime else.

I feel all that black water clapping at my ears as I swam that day. My lungs burning raw with panic and bile and sea salt. The boat, a little orange firefly flickering in the distance, appearing and disappearing with the rise and fall of waves.

The sea is a lady. When she swallows you whole, she does so without a sound. Drowning is always quiet. So is rage, which is an awful lot like drowning. Everything happens beneath, simmering to the surface like so many bubbles. They were certainly one and the same that day.

I think they are one and the same now.

Flame licks my face, static pricks my tongue. My heart thrashes slow in my chest, a kind of silent drowning. My head is swimming just as poorly. ~~~

When I resurface, I am met with only silence and that one word ringing in my ears.

Greenbriar. Greenbriar. Greenbriar.

☽☽☽☽☽

Last Part

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AN: Sorry for the major cliffhanger but the evil author in me had to *cue villainous laughter* 😈 so it’s been an age and a half since I last updated this fic, but here it is! Thank you so much for reading!! Hope you enjoyed :) If you did, please let me know in the comments, reblogs, my ask box/inbox. Even if it’s just a keyboard smash, it genuinely brightens my day to read.

I’ve been busy developing the plot for this one and let me tell you, there is SO MUCH to be revealed, I can hardly contain myself. No promises, but I’m about halfway through writing the next chapter so hopefully it will only take me one single age to post that.

If you’d like to be added to the tag list for all future updates of We’re All Mad Here (or any other Jurdan content I post), let me know via comment/ask/message!! Thanks again for reading! Back to the forest now.

-em 🖤💫

Title Inspo: Simmer by Hayley Williams

Tag List: @the-mithridatism-of-jude-duarte @velarhysismine @knifewifejude @danieldesario @annihliation @wickedqueenoffantasy @not-tess @clockworkgraystairs

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itsclydebitches · 4 years ago

Note

Re the BTD recap: "the prose is still incredibly messy in places" "To be frank, it’s not that I think this is all particularly good… just not particularly bad either." If it's not too much trouble, can I get some concrete examples for why? I feel like I often don't notice this sort of thing, so I want to know what I'm missing. Might help me to be a better writer.

Challenging request, anon! :D I feel like I need a few disclaimers here:

The book is serviceable. It’s just not going to be winning any awards. Talking about how the prose and dialogue can be better isn’t meant to translate to, “This is the worst thing ever written.” Because it’s not.

This is very much a pot calling the kettle black situation. Anyone here has the capability of hopping onto AO3, finding a horribly written passage of my own, and shaking it in my virtual face. So this is likewise not intended to be me standing atop a pedestal going, “Anyone - myself included - could do better.” I often can’t do better because writing is hard.

I’m not a creative writing instructor, thus it’s often difficult for me to articulate why I think a piece of literature doesn’t read well. If you’ve ever, say, come out of a movie with a strong sense of it not being “good” but can’t easily explain why it failed? It’s similar to that. By consuming lots of media we get a sense of “quality” over “badly written” that then informs our reactions to new texts, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to boil that response down to, “See here on page 3? They shouldn’t have done this. Fix that and it’s ‘good’ now.”

Nevertheless, let’s try. I’ll take a passage from the prologue where Sun is facing off against these “goons”

Two glowing clones of Sun flared into existence, one facing Pink and the second squaring off against Green. That left Brown—whom he figured was both the leader of the group and the most dangerous. Why? Because he was hiding the most.

Brown slashed a hand toward Sun. “Take him.”

“Which one?” Green asked.

“The real one,” Pink said. “These are just flashy illusions.”

Sun directed one of his clones to punch Pink in the face.

She blinked and looked more annoyed than hurt.

“That’s no illusion!” Green reached for clone Two.

Sun’s clones were physical manifestations of his Aura, every bit as capable of inflicting damage as he was. But it could be difficult to control them, especially while he was fighting. They were better suited to giving him the element of surprise, extra pairs of hands, or emergency backup when he needed it.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t sustain them long, and they couldn’t take much damage, as they drew Aura from Sun himself. If he kept them going too long, or tried to create too many clones, it usually weakened the Aura shield protecting him. But he’d improved a lot with training, and his Semblance was a lot stronger than it used to be.

Sun whipped out his gunchucks, Ruyi Bang and Jingu Bang, spinning them as he and Brown circled each other slowly. At the same time, Sun was fighting Pink and Green through his clones. Pink was some kind of boxer, dancing around and jabbing with her fists, which One was managing to block. Meanwhile, Green was trying to grab Two and wrestle him to the ground.

Brown had some kind of martial arts training similar to Sun’s—but he wasn’t nearly as good. Sun leaned back as Brown did a high roundhouse kick; he felt a breeze as his opponent’s booted foot swept past his nose with a lot of power behind it. Sun flicked his right gunchuck to loop it around Brown’s ankle and pulled him out of his stance, hitting him with the closed gunchuck in his left hand. The man took the full blow, but it didn’t even faze him.

Now let’s break down some of the reasons why this passage doesn’t work for me. I’ll work chronologically.

As mentioned in the recap, it’s rather awkward for a PoV character to ask and answer their own questions. Especially when they’re not presented as literal thoughts. The “Why? Because...” takes me right out of the story. It suddenly sounds like I’m attending a lecture or reading an article. Sun believes X. Why does he believe this? Because of Y evidence.

The dialogue is clunky. This problem is admittedly more obvious at other points, but there are a lot of moments where it doesn’t feel like this is a natural thing someone would think or say. Which again, is really hard to write. How people speak is quite different from how we think they speak and finding a balance between that (eliminating most pauses like “um” or “like” that would be too frustrating to read, giving characters more flowery language to serve the story’s goals even if it’s not realistic, etc.) is hard to nail. Here, Sun is often thinking things that don’t sound l like an actual thought in a panicked teen’s head.

Oh crap, Sun thought. I’m losing. How am I actually losing?

It just sounds like exposition. The reader needs to know that Sun is losing! So Sun will tell them that.

The villains, so far, are a bit too cartoony for me.

“You got lucky, monkeyboy,” Green said as he walked off, his companions following him through the cloud of foul vapor. “This time.”

Which is admittedly a matter of taste and does have some justification given RWBY’s early writing (think Roman). Still, it’s hard to take lines like this seriously, especially when we just had the group making fun of Velvet for cheesy quips. But the villain’s quips are supposed to read as daunting?

Connected to Sun’s thought above, there is a lot of telling rather than showing throughout. For example: “She blinked and looked more annoyed than hurt.” There are ways of showing the reader that Pink is annoyed (indeed, just leaving it at “She blinked” would have gotten the point across) rather than resorting to, “She looked ___”. Another good example would be “ Sun leaned back as Brown did a high roundhouse kick; he felt a breeze as his opponent’s booted foot swept past his nose with a lot of power behind it.” You don’t need to reassure the reader that there was “a lot of power behind it.” The action itself - feeling a breeze, his boot passing close to his nose - conveys that on its own.

To be clear, telling isn’t something you can’t ever do (break those writing rules!!) especially when sometimes you just want to be clear/convey something succinctly, but it is something to keep in mind. It’s another balancing act. Too much telling and the reader feels like they’re just being told a list of things to believe. Too much showing and it feels like the writer is trying too hard to make everything detailed, exciting, etc. Still, a good writer is going to be able to convey everything (Sun losing a fight, annoyance, a powerful kick) without feeling the need to remind the reader of things every few lines, “This is what’s happening. Don’t get confused!”

After the fight starts we immediately get a two paragraph info-dump about Sun’s semblance. How it works, what his limitations are, and what that means for this fight. Again, show that! We’ve just started an action sequence. The fight is underway. The reader doesn’t want to get pulled out of the action for another lecture. Rather than hitting pause on the fun stuff to explain things, create scenarios where these details become relevant and can be shown to the reader. Right now we don’t care what Sun’s limitations are unless those limitations become important.

We get another announcement in the form of “[Brown] wasn’t nearly as good [as Sun]” instead of (again) showing us that. Indeed, as I mention in the recap all the action that comes next contradicts this. So where did this assertion come from? If Sun knows that Brown uses a martial arts style similar to his then theoretically they’ve been fighting for at least a few seconds... but the reader doesn’t get to see that. Meyers was too busy telling us about Sun’s semblance.

Finally, there are pockets of Meyer’s writing that are all roughly the same. Meaning, sentences have little variety to them. This isn’t a consistent problem (and it’s certainly not the worst example I’ve seen of this) but on the whole he could use a more engaging flow to his work, both in terms of sentence length and balance among actions, dialogue, descriptions, and thoughts. Otherwise you get prose that reads, “This happened. Then this happened. This happened next. See the length? It’s all the same. Very little changes. And the reader gets bored.” Again, not a consistent problem, but one he should keep working on.

There are a number of other, smaller issues that are beginning to pop up. Such as the in parentheses pronunciation of the teams’ names, or the overuse of “he sent” whenever Fox communicates telepathically. In contrast, there are things about the writing that I’ve enjoyed. There are moments of dialogue - such as Fox’s joke in Chapter One, or how Sun’s instructions to “find Shade” literally refer to the school but also remind the reader that shade, in such a hot environment, is crucial - that I think are worth pointing to and going, “Yeah. That was a nice touch.” Overall though? It’s that, “I just came out of a bad movie” feeling. There’s too much clunkiness throughout. The writing often lacks variety or feels absurd. I’m taken out of the story more often than I fall into it. Is it the worst thing I’ve ever read? Far from it, but fans aren’t wrong when they say things like, “I’ve read better fic than this professional story.”

#rwby #rwde #mymetas #Anonymous

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rakuraiwielder · 5 years ago

Text

to expel a bouquet

Beneath the clinical scent that cloaks her body, she always smells of wisteria.

Giyushino. Of a secret and words left unsaid.

A Kimetsu no Yaiba Fic / Major manga spoilers.

Also on A03

Foreword:

giyuu’s POV is hard to write since he’s sharper than people give him credit for but he’s emotionally stunted like a rock and his self awareness flip flops from zero to hero at least 20 times in 0.5 seconds its honestly ridiculous

that said i had a lot of fun juggling that and his 1 emotional brain cell personality lmao

“Have you been eating well?”

The question makes Shinobu pause, looks up from the bandages that littered their hands. She blinks once, twice, and Giyuu sees the focused haze in her eyes fade as her fingers retract slightly from the still raw skin of his thumb. Her wrist reaches up to rub at the bags below her eyes, and he feels something break the strange lull that had surrounded them both.

“Hm?” She blinks at him, present yet not there, eyes flickering in distracted beats as she gazes up with a look that held less of a smile and more of a quirked lip. Not for the first time he notices how sluggish she looks, shoulders slumped and drowsy under the humid heat that bathed the floors of the Butterfly Estate. It only adds to the curious weight he thought to voice; heavy behind months of grudging observation as she had wormed her way into parts of his life, implications he knew would make her retract if he did not thread carefully.

Shinobu was prideful, but even this he finds cannot deter from his own desires to pry.

He would ask, but already she was looking down again, rolling the gauze carefully over healing wounds and old scars. Shinobu hooks the white strip across the back of his palm, movements all precise and gentle, before turning to the table to look for the scissors. Giyuu can only watch, tongue tied and heavy from another of countless opportunities missed, noting the pale colour of her cheeks (did she think blush could fool anyone?) and how the softness of her sigh echoes the snipping of the blade. She moves back after, gathering the spare bandages she had placed in his hands, and he spies the barest hint of a similarly covered wrist as the sleeves of her uniform shifts. The sight of it jerks him back, wounds up something tight within him, and before he knows it the words were slipping from his mouth as easily as a sigh in the breeze.

“You smell like wisteria poison.”

The abrupt silence that envelops the room then hits different, and he feels -more than sees- her freeze, hands going still before pulling away completely to rest on her lap. Something flickers behind her eyes; sharp and unsettled, almost guarded, but then she was smiling at him before he could pull it apart. A stilted smile, he thinks, and almost regrets opening his mouth. Internally he curses himself for having a horrible sense of tact.

“Tomioka san,” she lifts her finger and pokes his cheek playfully, hard enough to make him wince. “Are. You. Saying. That. I’m. Neglecting. Myself?”

“You are always smelling like poison.”

“Not to be obvious,” she tilts her head in an annoyed fashion. “But I do work with them after all.”

Behind wooden lattices, Giyuu can hear the distant screams of the boar child overlapping with Tanjirou’s other friends. He can’t help but restrain another wince. It seems more often than not their supposed training dissolved into chaotic screaming matches. Alas, all distractions to the soft jabbing above his jaw. He was acutely aware he had stumbled upon something delicate, and he needed to take the time to formulate his responses right, lest he get a blade to his throat from riling the Insect Pillar up.

He had a habit of doing that, he thinks belatedly, though not through all fault of his own. Words don’t come to him right, and it was difficult to dance the fine line between talking and teasing that Shinobu lays out for him. Specially for him too, he thinks some more, and feels envy for all the times he sees her acting otherwise with the other demon slayers.

She would be an awful first conversational partner if she wasn’t his only conversational partner. (And no, Tanjirou doesn’t count.)

“I don’t mean that.” He says, softer than he would have liked, feels his misgivings rise as her smile wavers and her hand drop.

It had been barely discernible, but time and time again as they were forced into close proximity he had begun to notice; beneath the clinical scent that cloaks her body, she always smells of wisteria. He had paid it no mind at first, figured it was a by-product of the line of work she was in, but once he had realised it was hard to ignore. The scent blankets her like a layer of pollen, clings to her skin with a stubbornness that only grew more potent as the months pass.

Even now he can sense it; under the layers of disguised musk and fragrances, the lightness a tickling sensation at the back of his throat, whiffs of the purple flowers sweet on his tongue. It would suit her, were it not the reason he suspects led her to look the way she does now.

“You look tired.” Are you taking care of yourself?

For a moment she was still, eyes widening in bafflement, rendered speechless by knowledge he cannot quite grasp. He briefly ponders running his mouth again to explain before she starts to laugh, slowly at first before increasing in stride, shoulders shaking with mirth at a joke he wonders if he was the target of again. He wouldn’t know; she wasn’t looking at him anymore; eyes closed as she swallows peals of laughter. It throws him for a loop, even as she cups a hand over her mouth and turns to the side, trembling with an intensity that has him frowning.

His indignance only grows when he realises she wasn’t stopping anytime soon. Giyuu huffs, feels a churning weight behind the back of his ribs. It was not an ugly feeling, but the discomfort brought back memories of younger times -- of naive times, when he was unassuming and could afford to be childish. Even now he feels a pout tugging at the edges of his mouth, the back of his neck warming under the persistent giggling that smothers his ears.

How curious...

It irks him.

His hands hover unconsciously, makes to reach for her just as she opens her eyes, soft violet crinkling in amusement as she clears her throat in a bid to regain her composure. Her eyes flicker again, unaware of how he had jerked them back inches from the sleeves of her haori. Was it his imagination, or did she look relieved? Why-

There was an ache in him that desperately wants to know.

“What’s so funny?”

“Are you worried?” She snickers, smiles and waves away his prodding gaze with a lightness that makes his eyes narrow. “It’s fine, I have been eating properly. The girls wouldn’t leave me alone if I didn’t. Why just yesterday, Ao-”

She turns, and the scent of wisteria hits his nose again. Stronger. More potent. A sudden cloying reminder as the tightness within him snaps, and then he was reaching for her, cupping her chin and tilting her head up as he bridges the distance between them to follow the scent.

His thumbs press into her skin, traces the dark rings under her eyes as he shifts, mindful of the way the loose ends of his haori drag across the expanse of her own. The rustling sound barely makes a dent in his mind; a mere distraction, not when he could smell the faint odour of the flowers growing heady, headier than the soft breezes of wind he could taste from her clothes. Strange, it made no sense why the wisteria scent would congregate on her face. He was not familiar with the creation process of Shinobu’s poisons and antidotes, but he was fairly sure she’d wear adequate protection, do nothing to ensure harm to herself.

It would be foolish to think otherwise. He knows just how capable she is.

But yet…

“Tomioka-”

Giyu squints, gentle with his tentative grip over her jaw as he tries to trace the source, bandaged fingers brushing the corner of her lips with furrowed brows. Even her face was soft, mirroring the smoothness of her fingers every time they press onto an exposed patch of his skin; to dress a wound, check for a fever, brush or pat or poke him in an overly aggressive display he knows she does to establish the boundaries between them. For someone who made clear her dislike of him when they first met, she had engaged in much physical contact even before the tangled threads that bound them through necessity had started to change.

“-san-”

It was all superfluous musings. His mind was beginning to wander, and with a figurative shake of his head he pulls back slightly, angles his palm roundabout so that her chin rests between the spaces of his index and middle finger instead, careful not to brush the back of it against her throat. Perhaps it was a good thing that the gauze hid his calluses; the thought of her startling from his rough and cracked skin stirring up something unpleasant, but the notion leaves before he can wonder why. The scent eludes him still, no matter how hard he concentrates, even as he closes his eyes and leans in to breathe in the floral tones of it again.

“W-What..are you doing..?”

Always, it came back to her mouth. He doesn’t understand. His eyes flutter open, traces the shape of her lips as his fingers press gently against her cheek, tilts his head to follow the familiar scent. The wanting in him only grows when he cannot find the answer.

Why do you smell of it here?

“Kochou-”

Navy eyes glance up to see the woman before him flushed and livid. Shinobu had gone deathly still, and it is only now that he notices a stiffness present in the set of her jaw as she stares at him incredulously, deepening flush staining the softness of her cheeks.

“...You are turning red.”

“My, that’s a pretty rude thing to say to a woman.” Her voice trembles ever so slightly, but there was a dangerous glint in her eye, and confusion blinds him for just a moment before he finally takes stock of his hands, knees, clothes, the closeness of their bodies as he towered over her.

Giyuu colours, hands flying from her face as the realisation hits and he jerks back. His mind jumbles, blanks out into static as the weight of the gesture threatens to leave him free falling. A sudden compulsion; this breach of space, one he doesn’t quite know how to answer for. (And yet...) He swallows the sudden lump in his throat, feels the tips of his fingers tingle still from the warmth of her skin. The repressed panic must have shown on his face, because Shinobu’s eyes only grow darker.

“I overstepped, I’m sor-”

“You are an idiot, Tomioka san.” A hard tug against his sleeve leads him to glance back at the corner of his eye, seeing a hand gripping the checkered fabric. It only served to once again make him all too aware of the distance between; he had pulled back, but not far enough that he did not hover over her still, their proximity still close, too close for the two of them (colleagues? friends? mission partners? what were they supposed to be?) to be considered anything but compromising. His hand curls over the layers of butterfly winged cloth that pool off her lap. Another insistent tug on his haori. He does not pull away.

“Let go of me.” Shinobu narrows her eyes, sounds almost breathless as she glares harder with a sharpness he cannot feel. Her shoulders tense as her eyes flicker again, reflecting an anxiousness he can feel drumming in his own bones.

“But your mou-”

Her palms push hard against his chest, shoving him away before he could protest. It knocks the wind out of him; his instincts flare in resistance, but then her fingers were pinching his nose, and the sudden discomfort of it swallowed any retaliation he meant to do.

“Honestly, this is why no one likes you! You can have no concept of personal space.” She sounded more rattled than razor-sharp when he squints to stare cross-eyed through the blur expanse of her hand. He frowns back anyways, mouth twisting in awkward annoyance as her grip shows no sign of letting up. (If this was how she wanted it-) With a nasally grunt he grasps the wrist over his nose to prevent her from pulling away, takes an immature sort of pleasure at her widening disbelief. At least this bit of theirs was familiar.

“I do so. Also, people do like me.” His hold over her wrist tightens as she pinches him harder. (Really? Was she really telling him that?) “I’m not the one that goes around poking someone’s cheeks to get their attention.”

“Getting cheeky with me, are you?” Shinobu fumes, huffing through her nose as she glowers at his fingers and the thumb over her pulse -- as if glaring hard enough could burn a hole through the odd interlock of their hands.

Any moment now he expects a hard knock on the head, a violent gesture that would take her careening away toward the other side of the room and against sliding doors. One moment closer to reversing the distance between them.

He finds he does not care.

“Seems like you can take care of yourself just fine.” Her cheeks were flushed, and she would not look at him, no matter how he tried to angle his gaze. She catches him trying to do it all the same, and with another loud huff shoves a roll of spare bandages into his face. The pinching grip on his nose ends suddenly, and Giyuu finds himself swallowing the catch of his breath as air fills his lungs, cannot orientate in time before the Insect Pillar stacks more bottles onto his lap, pushing the remaining bandages and cotton and half empty medical kit to his side of the table.

She meant for it to be callous, but when she thrusts a bottle of salve into his other hand, curling his fingers around it securely with a firmness that betrays, he knew otherwise. The odd softness he feels subsides somewhat when she reaches up to tug roughly at the hand that still held hers, planting her knees on tatami flooring as she makes to stand. “I have a lot of things to do, so I’ll be taking my leave-”

“Wait.” His grip on her tightens, causes her to fumble as she wobbles on half-risen feet.

“Let go Tomioka san.” She pulls at his fingers again, her protest coming out a little too heated, makes him pause and reevaluate when she flinches in self regret.

“Not until you tell me.” Do you know? Your fingers are shaking.

“Tell you what?” She laughs, her eyes conflicted. “There’s nothing to explain.”

Her calves choose to buckle inward then, and Giyuu hears her yelp as she teeters off balance from her awkward posture. Unconsciously he loosens his hold on her wrist, scattering pill bottles and bandages on the floor as he makes to get up, reaches out to grab her waist steady before she can fall into a crumpled heap as her breath catches.

She startles at his touch, shoulders stiffening at their half-bent angle, body betraying her more as she curls into herself. Giyuu doesn’t want to think too much into it as he lowers her back to sit on the floor, can sense her distress as clearly as he buries his own while his hand turns clammy. It was disorienting. For a moment he fears she would struggle, but Shinobu bites her lip and says nothing, so he snatches his offending hand back before she can find a reason to.

A glance towards their other linked grip. Through their prior scramble their arms had come to rest on their laps, fingers linked between the empty space that separates their knees. He hesitates. Doesn’t let go.

Even now she won’t look at his way as the tension thickens within the room, threatening to choke them both. The realisation stings, just a little; an itchy prickling he spurns away in lieu of poised patience. It would do no good for such thoughts to get the better of him, even when the knowledge of being ignored leaves something to be desired.

It takes far too long for her to start fidgeting, giving into words as she swallows bitter resignation. In battles like these he always comes out victorious, the cursed stoniness of his face finally useful for something. An underhand method perhaps, but Shinobu never really played fair either.

“...It’s just residue wisteria powder.” A glance at him, hesitant and regarding as she says softly, stares at the tangle of medical supplies on his lap before reaching out to upright a fallen bottle. “A small breeze is enough to stir them into the air so they are hard to dust after. They stick to clothes easily; I supposed that was what you smelt. Careful,” the hint of a self-reflecting grimace as he makes to open his mouth, “they are still poisonous.”

His heart rate spikes. “Poisonous.”

“I wouldn’t be showing my face to anyone if I haven’t disinfected myself, Tomioka san.”

“Doesn’t seem like you to be so... careless.” It is a clumsy excuse, a half truth at best, and he doesn’t know whether to be exasperated that she knows that he knows this.

“Doesn’t seem like you to be so patronizing either.” Shinobu tugs at her arm experimentally, curls her fingers away. Her voice echoes, quieter than he’d expected. “Won’t you let go?”

Giyuu does not. Not yet.

He doesn’t like this; how at odds with her usual self she looks, gaunt and spent, the unsettling notion in his gut swirling the more he thinks about it. Too many things did not line up, and the scent of wisteria looms ever present, burns his lungs with their weight. They each have their own secrets to keep, the masks they wear a kindness to others from their grief, their suffering, themselves. Yet he knows he cannot brush this aside, even as he pulls back slowly, loosening his hand and releasing his grip.

“...Donburi.”

“Excuse me?” The backs of their fingers brush as they break; Shinobu is quick to draw back, cradling her arm over her chest as she finally meets his gaze, regards him with a look he cannot decipher.

“The owner of the corner diner in town came back. I haven’t been there for a while.” Giyuu inhales, clutches the spare folds of his haori in reflex and turns his head to the side; now the one avoiding her gaze. “You don’t have to get salmon daikon.”

Why is it, that I suddenly find it so difficult to meet you head on?

“...Idiot, have you been listening?”

He cannot see her expression like this, try as he might, cannot gauge if that was a positive response or not. Giyuu spies a look over the shadows of his bangs, catches her looking bewildered.

“You need a break.”

“And if I refuse?”

“...It’s my treat.”

Her mouth parts wordlessly, but he takes no pleasure in having the last word, bites his tongue as a million and one thoughts reflect through the deep pools of her eyes. He doesn’t chase this time; they were both frazzled enough as it is, can only hope the results would be the same.

“My, you can be such a handful…” Shinobu shakes her head, but her lips curl into the semblance of something wan, and the relief that runs through him was nothing short of palpable. “But I suppose a chance to stretch my legs outside would be nice.”

She must have caught onto his pleased expression, because her eyes narrow again, lips slanting further up into something more genuinely playful. All bark and no bite. He braces himself against it, feels the mood lift as they fall back into old habits.

“Tomioka san, you are kind of a brute, aren’t you? Touching a woman’s body like that.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“You owe to be more straightforward. This is why people misunderstand.”

“You understand.” He tilts his head, finds it strange that she would say that. She alone knew his intentions, but that was all he needed. Wasn't it enough?

For some incomprehensible reason Shinobu colours, flushes red again as she diverts her gaze with a huff. But he thinks she looks better like this; less pale and more alive under the natural glow of her skin. Cosmetics could only go so far, and well, he liked it better if she could look healthy without it. Not that he could look for long; already she was picking on another unredeemable feature of his he knows was blatantly not true, the mocking smile on her face an open invitation for him to snark back.

Giyuu takes it gladly, ignores flashes of an odd regret on her face even as their petty squabble ends and they stand, packing the medical kit away and heading for the room’s doors, parting ways. He wonders why she would look at him like that, as though she could find something on his face if she searched hard enough, wonders when he can next bring their unfinished conversation up, if she would ever deemed it alright to tell him about the wisteria scent unfurling from the corner of her lips. He doesn’t want to think about the implications of it, wants to accept the truth from her mouth alone.

He only wishes he had pushed the matter further, wishes he had more time before the inevitable.

Above, the crow’s frantic squawks as their heavy footsteps stumble under the uneven terrain of the fortress breaks him from his reverie. Every utter of her name from its throaty caws sends unpleasant tingles down his bones. It shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be like this.

His feet skid as they round the corner, and behind him he hears Tanjirou swallow a sob. The sound echoes deep in his chest, feels almost like pain. Giyuu grits his teeth, fuels that ache into the spring of his jump before it can take over. He cannot waver now, not after-

(A memory. Of a question swallowed within the flurries of gentle snow. Of pursed lips and a sad smile. Why was it, he realises now, that all the genuine smiles she had given him had been tinged with sadness?)

Fool, he thinks to himself, sees the visages of a butterfly leave him and feels something crack within his already broken heart. Unbidden, something wet slides down his cheek.

A/N

me: i want giyushino angst where they argue also me: i want them to squabble like children while doing it

i wished their days of eating at small nook-and-cranny diners and enjoying warm meals together after missions could have continued forever :,)

#giyushino #kochou shinobu #tomioka giyuu #kimetsu no yaiba #writing #Property of the Rakurai #if some of the prose comes off as suggestive or lacking propriety just know its 100% intentional #giyuu’s no filter brain be like that sometimes with his lack of self-awareness #shinobu's at her limit lol

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ultrakeystotheheartblog · 6 years ago

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

Part 2 of 2

Request: Requested by multiple people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things are quiet.

Too quiet.

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

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

Ha.

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

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

You don’t want it to.

You really don’t want it to.

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

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

So.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s not too hard to understand why.

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

Your once positive opinion on lizards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glare down at them in admonishment.

Well then.

Earlier sentiment revoked, actually.

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

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

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

It takes a total of three, distracted seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh.

Strange.

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

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

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

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

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

“WEAR PANTS.” You demand in alarm.

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

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

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

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

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

…..

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t move.

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

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

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

“Debatable.” You snap back.

“Rude.”

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

Okay. Double suspicious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh shit, what a hero.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait, what?

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

“So not the point, batboy.”

“Hey! Bats are cool!”

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

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

“Point taken.” He agrees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The….roof?

What’s so special about the fucking—

Oh.

….

Sonuvabitch.

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

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

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

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

Beast Boy’s jaw drops.

"That was you?!"

Of course it was.

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

It was so good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Near death experiences are the worst.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, not you too, ZuZu. You traitor.

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

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

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

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

Uh, donuts??

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

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

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

“Are we still going to the roof?”

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

…..

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, your priorities might need a little sorting out.

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

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

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

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

The plot thickens.

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

“By...”

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

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

“Easy.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Comfortable there, Grumpy?”

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

And then her eyes eagerly snap to Cyborg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, Kori. Damn.

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

....both?

Alright, okay, here’s the thing.

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

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

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

....

Or.

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

Step up your game, Gar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I get a—"

"Victor don't you dare!"

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

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

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

"Dazzle me, Star."

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

"HA! Yeah, that’s wassup!"

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

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

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

…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh…look at that.

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

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

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

Oh. Oh.

Now this is awkward.

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

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

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

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

"You are unhappy." She concludes sadly.

Aw, cripes, why are you like this?

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

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

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

Your own Breakfast Club of heroes.

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

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

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

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

Well, that’s a heavy question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dude, come on, be cool!"

Ah, now that makes sense.

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

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

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

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

Well, well, what do we have here?

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

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

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

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

Oh, Dick Grayson.

You are the best of us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Robin! You have made it!"

Alright.

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

How long has he even been standing there?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh. O…kay?

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

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

"Yeah, way creepy, dude."

Robin frowns, “I was being mysterious!”

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

“Well, don’t.”

“Damn. Don’t hold anything back.”

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

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

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

It’s a familiar, wrenching image—one you could only dream of seeing again after the brutal attack on Jump City.

"Lucy!” You burst out instantly, and much to the Robin’s immense enjoyment, hopping forward in your excitement to reach your beloved cycle. You trace your fingers over the glowing triangle, pressing your palm to the leather seat with stinging, blurry eyes. It feels warm. Alive. “Oh my crap, you resurrected my bike!"

Cyborg gently pats the cycle with pride, "Rob and I spent weeks trying to fix her up. Finally got all the parts working again."

"You—this is—holy shit."

"Glad you like it."

Robin throws an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side, pretending not notice your muffled sniffling like a super-star best friend. "Happy birthday, (Y/N)." He mutters, loosening the fancy watch so he can clasp it around your unbroken wrist in a nimble flourish.

Cyborg pumps his fist in the air when you choke out a disbelieving laugh, victoriously striding to the centre of the roof to proclaim:

"Well, what are we standing around here for? Let's get this thing started!"

“Oh yes, let us start the celebration my friends!”

“Eh, sure.”

"Party people!" Beast Boy cries out in agreement, finally leaping down from the ledge.

"Alright, Alright. You don't have to tell me twice." Robin chuckles, gesturing for the others to go ahead with the festivities. He stays to hover around you though, and is suspiciously quiet at first, simply stepping around you and your newly built cycle to pluck a can of soda from a food table. He idly brushes away condensation with a broad swipe of his thumb, waiting for the others to further disband around you both.

When the coast is clear, evident by the way he glances from side to side, he turns towards you with his head down, popping the tab on the can and taking a heavy gulp. You raise a brow and wait, more than aware of his tendency by now to try and constantly torture you with the value of patience. He purses his lips in thought, before he finally meets your gaze with a playful twist to his usual smirk.

“So, hey.” He begins somewhat offhandedly, drumming his fingers across the surface of the table, “We should take a team picture at some point. All of us. Like a…memory of tonight’s occasion—if you want.”

You shouldn’t make it this easy for him—because he’ll never stop teasing you about how quickly you caved—but you find that you truly do like the idea. He just doesn’t need to know how much at the moment. So you settle on feigning tired reluctance, hoping (fooslishly) that he doesn’t see right through you.

“It wouldn’t hurt, I guess.”

“You guess?”

….

It’s really annoying when he does that.

You pout at the light amusement in his tone and follow his earlier path to the table, seizing a donut in a moment of pure impulse from the tray Beast Boy had previously vacated. You feel satisfied when you notice that it’s one of the unfortunate monkey feet ones, and then thrust it into Robin’s free hand.

He must have been around long enough to see the offense for himself, because his nose crinkles in distaste when he registers what you’ve given him, letting the tainted pastry dangle from two fingers.

Sweet revenge.

You dole out smirk of your own.

“Eat your donut, dick.”

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

It’s well into the evening, sunset colours already fading calmly from the sky, when Robin parks himself next to you on the ledge of the roof, smoothly swinging his legs over and dropping to sit with a long sigh of relief. Huh…it seems like someone definitely had a longer day today than they let on.

And honestly? Mood.

You tap him with the rounded bottom of the crutch lying across your lap, throwing him a cursory glance and a smile in greeting. But he doesn’t respond the way you expect him to, no. Instead, you’re surprised to see that rare, relaxed grin of his already peeking through all of the obvious exhaustion.

"What are you smiling about, Grayson? You're creeping me out." You muse gently, brow arching at the amusement that grows all the more in the curl of his smile. It’s like he’s proudly uncovered some great secret in the time it took you to voice your thoughts, and is now going to make you work for a satisfying answer. Which, you have to admit, isn’t a very unusual outcome when it comes to your friend and his bat-crazy mentor.

Heh.

Gar would love that one.

"Oh, you know…nothing too important.” Robin counters with a non-committal shrug of his shoulder.

Uhhh, yeah, that’s not comforting in the slightest, you decide.

You narrow your eyes at him and poke at his upper arm accusingly, “You’re never really this terrible of a liar usually.”

“Well, usually isn’t now.”

You pause to let his utter nonsense sink in.

“Are all detectives this uselessly cryptic or is this just a you thing?”

“I think it’s a family thing actually.”

“That I believe.” You laugh, gripping tight to the edge of the concrete ledge with one hand as you lean forward to admire the twinkling darkness of the water far below—a beautiful, convoluted gloom in the beginnings of silver moonlight. You catch his lingering stare in your peripheral when you shift, an odd amount of softness there you’re not exactly used to seeing directed your way.

“What?” You ask again in exasperation (and maybe a tad more overly sharp than you wanted). He only winks when you turn to get a better read on him, and looking much too smug and unconcerned, tips his head back to study the distant, firefly-like pinpricks of light just now glittering through the encroaching dark above you.

There’s a blissful beat of silence between the continuously wafting smells (of heavy spices and cheese and the lingering sweetness of fancy chocolate) and the nearby ambient sounds of your friends locked in an intense game of Jenga (their laughter and conversation—Raven is definitely on a roll by the sounds of it—the clinking of cutlery and plates, and the low, near-constant pop music blanketed beneath it all), and then—

“Welcome home.” He says quietly.

You stare at him a moment longer; hesitant, flustered, warm—like some kind of utter punch-drunk goober—until your gaze slips mercifully back to the sky, drawn in by the trembling might of the stars far out of reach.

And you let the moment sit within the unexpected, peaceful calm his voice brings, unbroken without a sarcastic quip or cynical remark, just this once. A moment to find value in.

Because this is your family, or….what you’d always imagined one to be.

So, even though you’d never truly been privy to a lot of happiness before this—this tiny, momentous moment right where you need to be; sitting on the roof ledge of your home—you find your own sense of peace in thinking that here and now, if there ever was a happy place in this life for you—

This is it.

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