#so i offer this ficlet as a way of coping

[starstruckkittensweets]

"Promise Me" | Gojo x Reader

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen Pairing: Satoru Gojo x Reader Words: 2.3k

A/N: no one talk to me, this is my way of coping with the latest chapter. This week is not a fun one for us Gojo lovers. Also this scenario has probably been written a thousand times at this point (thanks a lot Gege) but here's my two cents on the matter (go figure, my first official Gojo post and he's fuckin dead)

Warnings: JJK 236 SPOILERS, mentions of fem!reader, nightmares, brief mentions of violence/gore, pet names (baby, sweets, pretty girl), very self-indulgent and I apologize for that

Nightmares are a common occurrence in your line of work; you knew that even before you agreed to take the job. Usually you can stand them when they hit. Staring into the shadows of your bedroom, wide eyes raking over every little thing inside, too scared to even move a muscle. Knowing that, once you do, the illusion will vanish. The fear will go away, bit by bit, until you feel comfortable enough to fall back asleep.

Till the next morning, when you can’t even remember what you were so afraid of.

But this time is different. Your body isn’t frozen at all; you don’t snuggle deeper into the blankets, praying that they’ll be enough to protect you from whatever creatures lurk in the night. In fact they’re suffocating—but even when you throw them off you’re still heaving like a madman. Cold sweat clamming up your skin. Hands trembling at your sides. Eyes nearly bursting from your skull when you realize the other side of the bed is empty.

Empty, empty—where is he? Where did he go?

Was your dream not actually a dream after all?

You’re shaking so hard when you force your way out of bed. Nearly toppling over your own two feet as you stumble out of the bedroom. The door’s cracked open, but there aren’t any lights on, where is he, where the fuck is he?!

Another step, round the corner, and suddenly you smack face first into something hard. A soft oof reaches your ears, and through the darkness and the veil of your tears, you can barely make out the two blue lights glowing at you from above.

“Whoa, careful! Sorry about that, almost didn’t see you there. What’re you doing up so late, baby?”

Your eyes are still blurry, no matter how many times you blink. But you can still see him, his hair messy from sleep, wearing nothing but a pair of old sweatpants. He offers a lazy smile, but it drops almost instantly when he sees the tears spilling down your burning cheeks.

“…Hey, what’s wrong?”

Maybe it’s the tender tone of his voice, the soft way he speaks those three simple words. Or maybe it’s the fact you can see his eyes dim ever so slightly, signaling he’s turned off his technique for the moment. Or maybe it’s just knowing that he’s here, still alive and breathing and in one fucking piece, that makes you lose control. (Not that you had very much to begin with, but still.)

He visibly jolts at the shrill wail that rips from your throat, his whole body rigid as you throw yourself against his chest. Tiny arms wrapped around his waist, nails digging into his muscular back. Almost as though you’re scared he’ll disappear, anchoring him to you with every bit of strength you have.

What does he do? You’re obviously in distress, but why? He’d just left to get a glass of water, he’d been gone for less than five minutes! And now you’re blubbering like a child into his bare chest, sobbing so loudly he’s surprised none of your neighbors have come banging on your door.

“Baby, come on,” he tries, but the pet name only seems to make you cry harder. He winces before taking hold of both your shoulders. He doesn’t bother trying to pry you away; no need to make you even more upset. “You gotta tell me what’s wrong. I can’t help you if I don’t know.”

Damn it, everything he’s saying is just making it worse. He hates seeing you cry like this. So tiny and frail, curling into his chest, incoherent words and noises spilling from your lips. You won’t answer him or let go of his body, no matter how many times he tries to convince you.

Does he just ride it out and let you finish? What if you pass out? Will you still remember any of this by the time you wake up tomorrow? Was it something he said earlier that made you this upset? He wracks his brain, trying to see if any of his earlier teasing struck a nerve within you. He doesn’t recall saying anything that could prompt this kind of reaction out of you…

Then again, what could? You’re his girl, his other half (as he’s quick to remind you and everyone else within earshot). Strong but soft, a capable sorcerer climbing the ranks with ease. You have an unshakeable character, sticking true to your values and morals no matter what. It’s one of the reasons why he fell in love with you in the first place. Not just anything could resort you to a crying, trembling mess in his arms.

He sucks in a deep breath and tries again. “Come on, tell me what’s wrong. I promise I’ll make it all better, I swear!”

And he’s just about to bribe you with some of the sweets he’s stashed away in the kitchen when you lift your head from his chest. Cheeks hot and tearstained, and yet you’re still so beautiful.

“S-sorry,” you barely manage to choke out. Your throat’s practically on fire, and you can already feel a monster of a headache coming on. “I…I had…”

He doesn’t say anything. He simply wipes your tears away with his thumb, waiting patiently for you to finish.

“…I had a bad dream…”

It sounds so fucking childish when you say it out loud. Should���ve just kept your mouth shut, gone back to bed once you saw he was okay. What do you expect he’ll do about it, huh? Not like he can erase your bad memories, no matter how strong he might be.

But that hole in your chest is still there, even after all that crying—

And you can’t help it anymore. You press your palms to your face, desperately trying to rid your fact of all those tears. Wanting to save at least some of your dignity before the night’s over.

A pair of warm hands close over your wrists, his touch surprisingly gentle as he pulls your hands away. Exposing your teary, blubbering face to those beautiful blue eyes. The mere thought makes you want to cry all over again.

“C’mon now, you’re too pretty to cry like that.” The corner of his mouth is quirked up in a smile, his messy hair hanging over his eyes as he tilts his head to meet your gaze. He catches another tear on his thumb, making sure to wipe it away before pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I don’t like seeing you all upset like that.”

“B-but”—oh fuck, here you go again—“you were…you were dead!”

You can still remember everything so clearly. The blood trickling from his mouth. The glazed look in those dull eyes. How fucking fast it all seemed to happen. One moment he was fine, breathing and smiling as usual, and the next he was staring up at the sky. You didn’t even hear his body drop to the ground.

So much blood, it’s not supposed to be out of your body like that, why couldn’t I save you, why couldn’t—

“I’m sorry!” you blurt out, even as he takes you in his arms and pulls you against his chest. “I wasn’t enough to save you! You were dead and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it!”

You don’t even know what you’re saying at this point, but for whatever reason, talking about this seems to help. Your chest feels a bit lighter than it did before, even if your heart’s as heavy as a stone.

“You’re not supposed to die! And I know that’s stupid of me to say, everyone dies at some point, but you always say you’re the strongest! No one can hurt you, even if they tried! So why—”

Your voice catches in your throat, tears still streaming down your face. He still holds you close, one arm around your waist, his other hand resting on the back of your head.

“…Why did you leave me? You said you’d never leave me, no matter what! But you did—and I let it happen—I’m so fucking sorry, Satoru, I just—”

You’re running out of steam, you can feel it in your bones. Too exhausted to cry anymore, probably too burnt out to even walk back to your room. But before you can even try he’s lifting your face in his hands, tracing your swollen lips with his thumb.

Smirking down at you like there’s nothing wrong in the world.

“Why are you sorry, sweets? If anything, I should be the one saying sorry. Sorry that dream version of me was such a cheap imitation.” He rolls his eyes with a scoff. “Like I’d let myself get killed like that.”

“S-Satoru, I’m serious!”

“And so am I.” And you can see it in his face—the way his eyes practically burn into yours, his mouth set in a tight line, his jaw clenched even when he forces out the words. “I said I’d never leave you, right?”

You sniffle out, “Y-yeah…”

“And I meant it. So no matter how many bad dreams you might have of me,” he curls his hands around your thighs and lifts you up effortlessly, securing your body against his chest, “just know that they’re dreams. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Slowly, he begins to carry you back to your room. Your arms find their way around his neck, fingers burying their way into his soft white hair. You’ll never get over how strong he is, how amazing he is—and how of all the people in the world, he chose to share the rest of his life with you.

Not strong enough to save himself from dying.

Your throat fills with bile at the thought, even as he settles you back down against the mattress. Back in the place where your nightmare occurred, where you saw his body and all that blood—

“Don’t leave me!”                                      

“Baby, I wasn’t even planning on it.” Damn, this nightmare really messed with your head, huh? “I’m staying right here with you, alright?”

You won’t disappear on me again? You won’t leave me alone like you did in that dream, right?

He seems to see right through you, given the soft expressing in those dazzling blue eyes. “I promise, I won’t leave your side. Not tonight, not ever.”

It takes a few moments for the two of you to get situated in bed; Satoru ends up having to do most of the work, since your arms and legs are still trembling uncontrollably. But the second the blankets are back around you, he wraps his arms around your shoulders and pulls you into his chest. Long legs tangling with yours, his breath warm against the crown of your head.

Lips soft as they press a thousand kisses to your forehead.

“I don’t know what kind of curse you dreamt of, but if I ever came across something like it one of these days…” He leans down, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “…I’d win, hands down.”

“You’d better.” Your head’s pounding something fierce, every bone in your body screaming for some proper rest. And it starts to feel normal, being wrapped up in Satoru’s arms. “…Otherwise, I’d have to kick your ass.”

He lets out a laugh before nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck. His long eyelashes tickle your skin, his lips sweet and warm when they finally find your own.

“I’m sure you would. Although, I’d never let that happen; I’ll make sure to win every single fight, I swear! Don’t wanna make my pretty girl worry about me.”

But you’re always going to worry about him. It’s in your blood, comes with the territory of keeping this relationship alive. And maybe it’s stupid, maybe he is strong enough to never have to worry about himself in a fight. But there’s always going to be that part of you that wonders if he’s going to make it home tonight.

You tilt your head, eager to taste his lips again. Like your life depends on it, and the thought makes him smirk.

“Aww, can’t get enough of me, sweets?”

“…Shut up.”

But he knows he’s right. And you know he’s right. Doesn’t mean you have to say it out loud, though.

“You know I meant it, right?” Suddenly he’s holding your face again, brushing his nose against your own. His voice strangely soft as he leans in close, warm breath ghosting over your face. “’M not leaving you. Never, ever, ever!”

That gets a smile out of you. Weak and pitiful, but a smile nonetheless. At least he’s earnest. At the end of the day, he means well when it comes to you.

“I know you won’t. …So thank you.” You return his hug, sneaking your hand between your bodies and pressing it against his chest. Your throat growing tight when you feel the familiar b-bmp of his heart against your trembling palm. “Thank you for staying with me.”

There’s that tiny voice in the back of your head, urging you not to listen to such pointless promises. Knowing that deep down, neither of you can stop death when it comes knocking at your door. No matter how much power he possesses, even Satoru Gojo can’t resist death’s clutches when they finally sink their claws into him.

But there’s time for you to deal with all of that in the future. Right here, right now, he’s safe and sound in your arms. Messy white hair tickling your neck as he nibbles on the skin of your earlobe. Making you giggle as he brushes the rest of your tears away.

And thanking whatever deity may be listening above that you get to spend just one more night with him, wrapped up in his arms with his lips against your own.

[babiestbubbles]

CASTLE SWIMMER

hi! sorry I died for a bit. anyways, i'm back and have severe Castle Swimmer brainrot. so, have some headcanons and look forward to some ficlets or maybe a drabble in the near future!

Kappa

Absolute regressor. Barely got a childhood with the constant responsibility of fufilling prophecies so he definitely regresses to cope with that and just the stress/responsibility of being the Beacon.

Barely any gear because he's constantly drifting in and out of places. tried really hard to hold onto things. Made the mistake of getting attached to a stuffed animal more than once, but always ends up losing them in transit one way or another. At this point he actively deprives himself of gear out of fear of it getting lost again, but sometimes he dreams about the times he used to have a pacifier or a sippy cup.

Usually regresses pretty young, like older baby to older toddler at best. (3-9 years old) Likes a lot of hands on activities and movement, since most of his fun when little is playing pretend. Sometimes the fish will tell him stories, especially if he's having trouble sleeping.

Arp/Worm acts like a caregiver if/when he gets too little, but there's only so much he can do.

The Evil Witches found out after he had a nightmare and woke up inconsolable. They offer to take care of him, Mucku especially since misses taking care of people. He loves watching little shows Mono puts on for him with her magic, and even Nethimir clearly has a soft spot for him. At one point while traveling looking for Ogo they surprise him with gear they've either made/stolen for him and he actually cries because its the first bit of gear he's had in months. They try to spoil him as much as they can from then on out.

When he was trapped in the Sharks' dungeon he woke up regressed and scared more than once, especially early on. Eventually, about a week and a half in, Siren found him one day. Kappa was clearly super out of it and at first Siren was super worried that Kappa was dying or that Siren had prolonged the prophecy too long and now it was taking matters into its own hands. But kappa tried his best to explain that he was fine and eventually Siren was at least convinced that Kappa wasn't dying.

He tried to be softer with Kappa, even if he didn't know what was going on, and brought him things. Scrolls, some shells and objects, anything to entertain the boy who was clearly restless being trapped in a cage alone for over a week. Eventually he brought out some old toys of his. Pathetic little things, an old rattle, a spinning top and some other bits and bobs he'd found abandoned at the back of his closet. He'd originally brought them as a bit of a sheepish joke, he didn't have a lot of drawings of him as a child so he figured this was the closest piece of his childhood Kappa could get.

What he didn't expect is the way Kappa's eyes lit up, mesmerized by the simple toys. Kappa was so happy he could barely contain his excitement, hands practically shaking. He and Siren played with the toys all day, and even when Siren had to return them to his closet, and report back to his mother, he left Kappa with one. The small rattle. As it was clearly the boy's favorite.

The next morning, when Kappa woke up, he told Siren everything. Explained regression to him, told him why he regressed and the ins and outs. When he got to the part about caregivers he trailed off, explaining that he never really had anyone in his life to look out for him like that.

Siren, of course, immediately, albeit shyly, offered himself up. Before remembering their current dilemma. Siren vowed that at least during the time Kappa was here, he'd be the best caretaker he could be for Kappa, and he absolutely followed through.

Siren was by his side almost constantly, and always knew when Kappa was little. He picked up on ever tell, the way he'd get quieter and more reserved, the way he'd be even gigglier. Siren was, for all intents and purposes, everything Kappa had dreamed of.

When they parted ways, Kappa was devastated. In face, until he met the 3 witches he didn't regress after he left Siren. Even when he woke up from nightmares, scared and little, he'd push it down. Ignoring every desire to regress no matter how much it hurt.

Now that he's back with Siren though, he regresses super regularly. Almost every night. Between Siren, Mucku, Nethimir, and Mono, Kappa has all the love, toys, and attention he could want. And he loves every second of it.

I realized this post is too long so have these for now and I'll try to drop some more when I get a chance!

[legalownerofufoemoji]

Submas asks you say? I can offer some fun questions!

What are some of your favorite Submas headcanons that you've seen from others?

Do you have a favorite twin? Why or why not?

How did you discover the funny train lads?

(And this is more just for me lmao) Any upbeat/fluffy fic recs, or maybe you wanna write a short one?

Okay HMM this one shouldn't be too long of a ramble but we will see! (It ended up a little longer than I intended, my bad. No ficlet here, just rambles! If you want a ficlet, send me another ask with a prompt and I'll write one out :D)

Some of my favorite headcannons? Well I can't remember exactly what I've gotten from other people and what I have made myself, but I think I've said before I do REALLY enjoy Ingo (if not both Ingo AND Emmet) being HoH or even partially Deaf! As a Deaf person myself, and the fact that I view both the twins as HEAVILY autistic, I'd say they probably both have Auditory Processing Disorder already since it is heavily co-morbid with autism, but I also think I saw somewhere that somebody thought Ingo may be properly Deaf with actual hearing loss because of how much he yells! I relate because I also yell and talk very loud because it's difficult to hear myself. I'd like to think Ingo likely has damage to his hearing, perhaps from a train incident or maybe something to do with feedback from the PA system. I mean we all know the twins are very careful and cautious but they likely grew to be that way from multiple incidents over the years LOL

That was a big ramble for just one headcannon but I genuinely cannot think of any others that I've seen that I knowingly picked up from someone else? Though I'd LOVE for you guys to send me in asks about headcannons you enjoy and I'll tell you my thoughts on them !!

Favorite Twin though? MAN that's tough. That poll was going around recently and I am pretty sure Ingo won the votes, but I can't remember. I don't believe I have a favorite just because I like them both for a few different reasons, but if I HAD to pick? Emmet probably. I just think the specific type of trauma he went through with his twin brother and closest friend up and disappearing for god knows how long is a very, interesting type of thing to explore, as well as I relate to Emmet a touch more in the way he's shown in fannon as more blunt and sometimes even aggressive, I like putting my own headcannons onto him of him either having IED (an anger issue disorder I have) or just having SEVERE emotional regulation issues to the point where he likely gets set off way faster than Ingo. And if you take that idea and run with it, it also would just add to the stress of him trying to navigate life without Ingo to keep him in check. I'd like to think he grows a lot emotionally from it, but also it deeply hurts him, though after Ingo (possibly) returns, they are both slightly less codependent and VERY codependent if you look at it from different angles.

Like yeah, Emmet would have learned coping mechanisms to use on his own without his brothers assistance, and so he can be on his own and deal with over-stimulation and frustration without going off on somebody now, which Ingo is very proud of as that was a life long struggle of Emmets, but the way he was forced to learn in such a short period of time makes him inclined to not want to be alone if he can help it. On top of I know he would be verrrry clingy to Ingo when he returns, and Ingo would likely be the same, if not for missing Emmet but just clinging onto the little bit of his past he finally found, up until he properly gets his memories back if that is a factor in the equation.

So yeah, Emmet if I had to choose is my favorite but I really enjoy them both. They are a set, do not separate!!!

How did I discover them? That's actually a REALLY funny story, to me at least. I had already been aware of them in pokemon B/W, but I wasn't insane about the fellas, I just enjoyed gear station and Emmet made me want to die with the 50/100 battles won in a row AUGH. But when Legends Arceus came out, I started seeing a lot of art of some silly fellas I didn't recognize across my dash. The art was amazing most of the time if it was full pieces, but also the shitpposting really got my attention for how silly the twins just, look. Muppet men. So I went down the rabbit hole one day at like, 3 am, and much to my fiance's dismay, he woke up to me SPAMMING him with photos and art of the twins and infodumping about the lore and how "THERES A NEW GAME OUT I NEED TO PLAY IT RAAGH" (he has the game now and I've played it a little but I keep forgetting I actually don't really enjoy playing the pokemon games much, I just enjoy the lore) and then it spilled over into my work life, where I kept ranting about AUs as they were coming out (that future Emmet AU where he possesses his past self in an attempt to save Ingo? AUGH that one hurts so good, I need to write a fic about it) and now all of my friends and ex coworkers know me as the rando obsessed with pokemon men. Good times

And for fic recs, actually as unwell as I am about the twins I have not looked on ao3 or anything for fics??? Maybe it's because I'm a little scared of coming across something gross, I also get majorly squicked out about shipping the twins with other people just because it doesn't feel right in my brain, though theres a handful of exceptions (I really enjoy one of the AUs that Emmet and Elesa got together after Ingo disappeared and had a kid, only for Ingo to return very confused, that ones funny, though I do also heavily characterize that Emmet much differently than I do 'classic' Emmet)

But if you'd like to give me a prompt or just, something silly and domestic, I could TOTALLY write out a ficlet for you! I just, am in desperate need of ideas because for some reason I'm able to come up with nothing on my own right now (autism burnout ftw)

[written-by-ariddletobesolved]

One Word Prompt 1 — Flu

Thank you for the prompt, @crazyaboutto. I finally get some free time to write, and I guess I got carried away with writing fluff, forgive me xD

Note: In case you didn't know, I'm starting a mini series (is that what it's called) where I write a bunch of ficlets based on a one-word prompt. So if anyone has any prompt they like to share, feel free to send me an ask here/on main or pong me on Helsa Discord. I cannot guarantee I will write em all, but I'll try to do it as a way to cope with my endless assignments lol. Cheers!

—

Of all the things she has planned for spring, getting sick is not on the list.

But there she is, sitting on her bed with a knitted blanket draped over her shoulders. Even though her fever has subsided, and her headache is long gone, her throat feels rather sore and she has to constantly blow on her handkerchief to ease her runny nose—all while she has to listen to one of Olaf’s bizarre adventures that pretty sure she has heard before. But there’s something about the talking snowman’s enthusiastic nature that makes it hard for Elsa to deny him the fun, so she remains silent while her mind is elsewhere, at the person sitting on the chair next to her bed, who is laughing at the snowman’s tale, to be precise.

Elsa enjoys the company, sometimes, especially her husband’s. She can sit in complete silence with him in the same room as the two of them are reading or thinking of where the pawn shall move next during a game of chess, she won’t mind as long as he is around. Sure he annoys her sometimes, but so does she—to him. Besides, she adores him so much, and who can resist him when he is looking like that—with those neatly groomed sideburns, soft lips, and pointed nose which she prefers to graze oh-so gently over her— Realising what she has been thinking, she quickly looks down and fiddles with the lacy handkerchief in her grasp, her cheeks all rosy and warm. It’s probably the medicine that makes her feel all blushy, or maybe the fever is coming back, she isn’t sure.

‘Achoo!’

She closes her eyes and sneezes into the piece of fabric. She stays like that for a while, and once she makes sure that she doesn’t create any new sentient beings, Elsa looks up. The bed dips next to her and instantly, a cup of warm tea is offered before her. Smiling, she takes it from her husband’s grasp, before taking a sip.

‘Your cheeks are flushing, are you okay?’ Hans gently says, and once he puts the cup back on the nightstand, he presses the back of his hand against her forehead.

‘No, no, no, I’m fine,’ Elsa says, then biting her lower lip. ‘It’s probably just the heat, that’s all.’

She can feel her cheeks getting warmer as she says that, and mentally she scolds herself for having such thoughts in the middle of the day. 

‘It’s such a sunny day, isn’t it, Elsa?’ Olaf cheerfully says, before getting up from his seat and walking towards the big window.

‘Yes, it’s,’ Elsa pauses, then briefly glances at Hans, who is too busy holding her hand to notice, ‘hot.’ Shaking her head, she then turns to the talking snowman, flashing him a smile. ‘You know what, Olaf, why don’t you go and enjoy the sun? I’m sure Sven would also like some company.’

‘That’s a good idea! You rest up, Elsa, while I,’ he emphasises, ‘will make the most of this sunny day as much as I can. See you later!’ With that, Olaf takes his leave.

Once left alone, Elsa lets out a sigh. Her cheeks turn rosy once again when she feels his warm breath so close to her neck, and she bits her lower lip in anticipation.

‘So keen, aren’t we?’

She hums, briefly closing her eyes. ‘Hmm, I don’t know what you’re talking about, husband.’

Turning to face him, Elsa then catches a glint of mischief in his green eyes. When Hans leans in, she quickly puts her hand on his chest, stopping him.

‘As much as I want to, I don’t want you to catch a cold.’

‘Too bad,’ he murmurs so close to her lips, before withdrawing. ‘Good thing it’s only seasonal, I suppose?’

‘Why, you can’t go a day without kissing?’ She teases, poking his chest. ‘My, my, and I thought Arendelle’s Admiral of the Fleet is a decent man.’

After taking off his boots and jacket, Hans begins to climb on the bed and pats the space next to him so she can scoot closer. He pulls her into his arms and nuzzles the crook of her neck, inhaling the lavender scent.

‘Oh, I am a decent man, but only whenever I’m not left alone with my wife.’

Elsa grins, shaking her head. ‘You make it harder to not kiss you after that comeback. I hate you.’

‘The feeling is mutual.’ He kisses her temple, before offering, ‘Cuddles?’

‘Yes, please.’

Elsa doesn’t show her vulnerable side so often, especially when she is unwell, but with him she doesn’t have to put on a facade all the time—well, basically around her family. She finds it adorable how attentive Hans can get, always looking out for her—while she clumsily smacked him in the face the day before for losing her balance thanks to the headache. Given how frequently she gets sick during the changing of the season, she is convinced that it’s a seasonal thing, and well, she wouldn’t say no to see this other side of her husband.

‘Is this why you sent Olaf away, hm?’ Hans is nuzzling the snow queen’s blonde hair.

‘Say another word and I will–Achoo!’

At her sudden sneeze, the former prince lets out a chuckle, before offering her his handkerchief. He shakes his head. ‘You will what?’

In return, Elsa glares at him, but she quickly falls back into his embrace and snuggles close, her back against his chest, when he begins to gently massage her head. If she isn’t sick, Elsa will probably freeze his arse for annoying her that day. However, at the moment, perhaps he can try to redeem himself by giving her what she wants: cuddles—and maybe a box of chocolate (for the latter, he probably needs to ask Anna for assistance).

[melodyofthevoid]

I am curious about the little prince perfect au.

*cackles* Oh, oh dear. Oh dear. You're in for a treat. This is the au that's gotten the most development out of all of them, save for the kid au. This was our second au au and got the treatment, let me tell you. Shands is responsible for this one actually, having wanted to create a cute little au.

They really shouldn't have gotten me involved. But I digress.

Our story begins before the mirroring, back when the twins are 16, right when Dib's off figuring out whether he loves Zim or not (spoiler alert, he does). Now, the largest change to events is Twim. In this au, he did not go back to the village, in fact, he managed to achieve his dream. Our resident himbo became a knight. A knight for the house of Membrane, specifically.

Now, Zib is struggling with their place on the proverbial totem pole. They're important enough that their father still offers lessons and the like, but Dib still gets the lion's share of attention. However, one day he spots a familiar face in the trainees, and oops, our resident prince has fallen head over heels. And bless them, they're falling hard. Dib and Gaz are delighted because it's funny to see their usually composed brother absolutely go heart eyes and mushy for said knight.

(This is old but again, thanks go to @shandzii for allowing me to put this in public fkjdsfldsk)

However.

Zib's lack of subtlety alerted another party to the problem: Membrane. The other major change in this au is that Membrane is... a bit of a prick. While he doesn't particularly give Zib much attention, having his son openly moon and court a knight means that he can't have him... available for arranged marriages. No one wants a distracted groom. So he (courtesy of me) decides to make his expectations... clear. To Twim. This au does follow the song, after all. I made sure of it.

When a king asks you to do something, you do it. And Twim tells Zib, that it didn't mean anything. That it was all... a joke. Pretend.

Sad boi go brr.

Since Zib makes absolutely great life choices when they're upset, they retreat to their fledgling study and vow. Vow to never let their heart be fooled by false love again, never let their emotions get in the way of his proper duty. And so he seals them away.

He's coping real well y'all.

Thankfully, his siblings notice that something is Not Right™ and vow to fix what's been broken. Splitting up to solve the issue and put everything back in order. Thankfully, and this is crucial, Zib is fucking terrible at wording their curses. "False love" this is not. With some threats from Gaz and some sappy words, the spell Zib put on themself is broken, and all are happy. Zib and Twim may or may not elope into the woods who knows. But yeah! If you all are interested, I have a few small ficlets for this au!

But yeah, this was the more extensive of the aus, I'm so glad you asked about it!

[earnestly-endlessly]

ah and I was looking for something like Charles Linda of lost control over his powers and Erik is the only one that can help him

Hi anon. I have got a good list of fics where Charles loses control over his powers and gets help from Erik. I hope you find some fics you enjoy.

Anchor Me – brilliantdreams

Summary: Charles is awake in the kitchen having telepathy troubles when Erik finds him. Cuddling ensues.

Cotton Walls – walrusface

Summary: In large crowds, Charles finds it difficult to control his telepathy. While they're on their recruitment road trip, Erik tries to help.

Aches and Pains – i_know_its_over

Summary: Constantly using his powers gives Charles a debilitating headache.

Idiot Control Now – cygnaut

Summary: Hank screws something up in the lab and everyone's powers increase tenfold. Not knowing how to control them like this, they all try to cope and not kill each other by mistake while Hank tries to find a way to reverse the effects. Charles has a particularly hard time of it.

With Your Kindness – helens78

Summary: Cerebro takes a lot out of Charles; a warm bath complete with washing his hair feels like the least Erik can do, but if it's all he can offer, he will.

Know That It’s True – luninosity

Summary: Using Cerebro gives Charles headaches. Erik is not happy to discover this fact.

Catch me when I fall – isabeau

Summary: Charles overdoes it on Cerebro, and doesn't learn his lesson, but Erik is there for him.

You want blood, and I promised – hllfire

Summary: When Erik kills Shaw with that coin, Charles doesn't come out of it unharmed.

Say Your Fault – seperis

Summary: Charles hasn't spoken in twenty-two days.

Honest Bone and Burning Thought – Black_Betty

Summary: And so sometimes, his mind buzzing away, bright and brilliant and humming with pure expansive energy, Charles speaks without thinking at all. Without censoring himself. Without realizing that his brain has reached out and snatched something that was never his to know, or take…

Don’t Let The Bedbugs Bite – Pillow_Bee

Summary: Charles goes around the mansion that first night he brought the mutants there to tuck them to sleep while trying his best to hold back a bitter childhood memory. Erik has his book confiscated for refusing to go to bed, and he is not happy about it.

Let your anger anchor you (your peace will bring me home) – anthora09

Summary: Charles takes an unnecessary risk and winds up in the infirmary.

Erik is not happy. (His exact words are "I told you so.")

Count to Three – Harleydoll 

Summary: Charles is psychologically damaged after experiencing Shaw's death in his own mind.

I can’t leave him – sasha_b

Summary: The plane ride back from Russia.

In the Sky Tonight – luninosity

Summary: Part five of the holiday fic involves Easter, which obviously meant obligatory sex-pollen-trope fic. Recruitment road-trips, mutants with interesting abilities, sex with complicated emotions, protective Erik, boys figuring out that they’re in love.

Veiled Truths – ikeracity

Summary: Erik has dreams of a dark room, of being pushed down into the floor and violated in a way that makes him scream until his throat is raw. But Shaw never, ever touched him like that, so Erik wonders if he somehow repressed memories of Shaw's torture. Either way, he hides the dreams from Charles, intent on suffering through it alone, as he always has.

And then one day, the nightmares come when he's still awake, and he realizes that these aren't his nightmares, they're Charles's. It's Charles projecting in his sleep, and then Erik realizes that they aren't nightmares at all, they're memories from Charles's hidden past.

The Keeper on the Other Side – RyuuzaKochou

Summary: Charles Xavier's long lost step brother is back in town and it...doesn't go well. Charles and Erik find out they are still bonded and still friends from the hospital bed aftermath.

Northern Lights – garrideb

Summary: Erik experiences a frightening new aspect of Charles's telepathy while rescuing him from captivity. But while it might frighten Erik, that doesn't mean he'll run away from Charles.

Five Days – cerebel

Summary: Charles is captured. And then he is rescued.

Come Home to Me – ami_ven

Summary: “Focus on my voice, Charles, on my mind.”

Room and Board – smilebackwards

Summary: "How long had you been banging your head against the wall before I arrived?" Erik asks curiously after the resident nurse has lain Charles down on a cot and given him two ibuprofen to swallow and an icepack to hold against his head. Boarding school AU.

Enervate – tokidokifish

Summary:  Charles had an abusive childhood (like in the comics, but worse) and when he finally got away, he repressed everything behind mental walls, to the point he doesn't really remember anything about it. After the events of the movie, his mental state deteriorates, and those walls come down.

In These Shadowed Halls – InkDippedFingertips

Summary: For Charles, the mansion was plagued with nightmares.

Waves Can Sink and Carry – Somnambulist

Summary: After a solo recruiting mission goes horribly wrong, a drugged and disoriented (and VERY cold) Charles shows up on the Xavier mansion doorstep. Erik patches him up as best as he can.

Third time’s the charm – Gerec

Summary: XMA ficlets and missing scenes

I’ll be your haven – inoue6

Summary: After Apocalypse used Charles to deliver his message to the world his powers grew beyond control. When Battle of Cairo was over, Erik helps Charles to cope with his telepathy let loose.

[stuckwith-harry]

A/N: Evening babes! I’ve had an extremely normal day and to cope with that I’ve decided to sift through some more of those Hinny ficlets I usually only write for my own entertainment and polish up another one, so. You get another little guy taking place in the summer of 1998, and I get some distraction. And ideally some ibuprofen. Featuring nosy brothers and precisely one bed (purposefully).

Translations

Of course, the instant they finally decide to move Harry’s camp bed from Ron’s room to Ginny’s, half the Weasley family finds themselves in their path down the various wonky staircases and narrow hallways inside the Burrow, gawking like there’s no tomorrow.

“Not a word”, Ginny tells them, while Harry’s eyes remain purposefully fixated on the task at hand, the camp bed floating in mid-air at the bidding of their combined Hovering Charms. “I’ll hex your toes off one by one.”

She’s answered with much snorting and giggling from several of her brothers, while Ron stands in his doorframe and watches them with an expression that unfailingly calls to mind Molly, watching the train depart Platform 9 3/4.

By the time they’ve made it to Ginny’s room, her brothers have pulled so many audacious jokes out of their arses she doesn’t think the colour of Harry’s face is ever going to return to normal again. Then it’s only her parents, whose half-hearted protest about a boy – a boy! – staying in her room falters when Ginny points out that this isn’t any boy, thank you very much, this is Harry (“You know Harry! You love Harry!”), who they personally talked into into staying at the Burrow for as long as he pleased only a few weeks ago.

When Molly finally lets her bedroom door fall into its lock at bedtime – a miracle in its own right – Ginny has threatened every single one of her brothers with the loss of some sort of limb, except Ron; and she did cost Ron his roommate, so maybe that makes them even.

Lying there in the dark of her bedroom, listening to her mother’s receding footsteps on the other side of the door, Ginny allows for five whole seconds of prudence before she folds back her quilt and grins brightly in Harry’s direction.

“She’ll kill us”, he mutters, but pushes himself up from his camp bed and climbs onto Ginny’s mattress all the same, like he reckons that’s a price he’s willing to pay.

Ginny snorts.

“This is new”, she says as they’re settling in, their limbs rearranging themselves under her quilt. “No one else has ever slept in my bed before.”

“You can always kick me out again.”

She makes a show of taking this into serious consideration.

“No, I don’t think I will”, she grins. “You’re a nice enough pillow.”

As though to demonstrate this, she scoots closer, her arm draped loosely over his stomach, her cheek pressed to his chest, Harry’s heartbeat steady through his t-shirt.

Her bed is kind of comically small for two grown people. And what luck that is, she thinks, feeling his arm around her shoulders.

“You fit nicely”, she says, wholly unprompted.

You fit nicely, which is to say, you fit almost like you used to. Thank fuck you still fit like you used to.

Then: “You’re warm.”

You’re warm, which is to say, you are alive. You are alive and I can feel the heartbeat that proves it, steady and dependable through your t-shirt.

“Sorry if I wake you up”, he mutters, his voice not quite revealing if all that quiet weight in Ginny’s words made it through to him, the way they’re tip-toeing through the dark. “Won’t be on purpose.”

Her brows knit themselves together. “No, you should.”

When he makes noises of protest, she only doubles down. “Really, if you can’t sleep, just give me a good shake. I won’t mind”, she adds after a pause.

I won’t mind, which is to say, you don’t have to do it all alone. Don’t do it alone.

Harry eventually relents, albeit huffing slightly.

“I apologise if I end up hogging the blanket”, Ginny offers, and he vibrates with quiet laughter. She feels it more than she hears it, the way it rumbles through him. “Or if I wake you, for that matter.”

“You’re a blanket hogger?”

“Only one way to find out.”

She feels his hand squeeze her shoulder and has just about enough time to start wondering if the weight of her head is hindering the blood circulation in his arm when he says: “Have all the blanket you want.”

While he speaks, she listens for an undercurrent, something small and sincere tucked away in more unassuming words, like maybe she’ll be able to translate it all back if she pays close enough attention. Maybe he’s trying to say as much as she is. Maybe not.

Either way, she understands.

[fuckyeahfightlock]

Advent Ficlets 2021, Day 19

Faith

Side by side in the dark, waiting for the bedclothes to warm, with just their pinkies touching. Sherlock’s voice was thick, now and then choking.

“I don’t have time for it. I need to work.”

“I can understand that.” John spoke barely above a whisper.

“I thought if I just waited it out--”

He didn’t finish.

“I know.”

“I thought I was done with it. The last time--it was years ago.”

“And what happened?”

“A week in a hospital, outpatient therapy, four meds before it was the right one.”

“You got better.”

Sherlock lifted his hand away from John’s and there was the faint scratch of his fingers sliding over his cheek before he resettled.

“That time.”

Sherlock was silent a while, John thought he could hear him thinking about what to say next. In a steadier voice he said, “I had a heroin relapse, went to rehab. I was pretty freshly sprung when we met last year. They told me I was depressed but I was only bored.”

John could not imagine ever being driven to intense drug use because of mere boredom, but clearly Sherlock’s brain was wired differently to his, and to any other person’s John had ever met--except perhaps Mycroft.

“Things are better now, with you,” Sherlock said then, his voice tight around a sob gathering in his throat. “Normal. Work, relationship, clean. . .I thought it was over.”

John turned, touched him, held him. “You know it doesn’t work like that,” he admonished, soft, compassionate. “Just because things are well-balanced on the outside doesn’t change the chemistry of your brain. These kinds of things are just the way people are made--depression, bipolar, whatever it may be. My family’s full of drunks; I’ve got trauma from the war. Sometimes it sneaks up on you, even when life’s otherwise going well.”

“I know,” Sherlock sighed.

“Takes a lot of energy to cope with it, I know,” John soothed. He dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder, and after a quiet moment offered, “I know a good psychiatrist; would you like me to put you in touch with her?”

Sherlock sighed again, deeper. John could hear him surrender, reluctantly. “I have my own, who knows my history. But--”

“Mm?”

"I don’t want to--I can’t. It feels like I’ve failed.”

“You haven’t.”

“I know, but it feels that way.”

“OK.”

John heard the change in Sherlock’s voice, and then he sniffled loudly.

“I can call, if you like,” he offered. “Make an appointment. I can go with you, if you like. Whatever you need. But you don’t have to feel like this. You deserve so much better.”

Sherlock made a skeptical noise.

“Trust me, all right? You don’t have to believe me, just have faith. It got better before. It can again.”

Sherlock settled into John’s embrace, nodded against his chest.

[tracybirds]

Prompt Generator ficlets 4-5

#4 - Gordon + The Mechanic + Dealer’s Choice + night - 938 words #5 - Lady Penelope + Dealer’s Choice + dive - 812 words

These responses are getting longer oops...

#5 is an AU that leans into being spies a bit more and contains some Pen/Ink towards the end

#4

Gordon + The Mechanic + Dealer’s Choice + night

It’s like there’s a ghost living in their house.

Gordon had figured the Mechanic would be the kind of man who can’t help but make noise when he moves but instead, he seems to step in and out of existence at his own leisure.

He still glared and demanded, still snarled at any outstretched offer of friendship.

This was a partnership, all but forced upon him, as he gleefully pointed out any time Scott got too high and mighty around him.

They needed him after all.

Pure necessity with no room for sentimentality.

Gordon can’t stop watching him.

If Virgil knew, he’d say something about how he no longer felt safe, watching the man who nearly tore him to shreds walk free in their home. He’d reforward discreet details of people who would help him cope.

But Gordon has never felt more at peace, at complete odds to the rest of his family.

Having Brains confirm the controller that forced the Mechanic into submission had left only sympathy for the man, forced into cruelty and then strangled by his own fear that his choices would be stolen, that his mind would never be safe.

Gordon knew better than the rest of them what it was to be trapped and out of options.

The night was clear and cool, the moonlight flooding the deck that led to the pool. The lights were off both inside and out and everyone had retired to bed.

Except for Gordon. And the Mechanic.

Gordon watched from the shadows, less worried about being seen and more about being run away from.

He slipped out from behind the curtain, towel in one hand and strode towards the pool.

The Mechanic didn’t move, transfixed as he stared upwards at the Milky Way that stretched across the sky.

Gordon threw the towel down, not bothering to muffle his actions.

Still nothing.

He studied the Mechanic for a moment, wondering how to draw his attention and not his biting fury. How to reach out and not be bitten.

He was starting to think that wasn’t possible.

And so Gordon fell back on his old method of how to act when he wasn’t sure what to do; he ran forward and leaped into the water, body folding instinctively into a perfect diving position.

By the time he reached the other side of the pool and dared look up, the Mechanic had turned and was staring at him without expression.

But he hadn’t disappeared.

He said nothing, but his eyes followed Gordon as he swum back and forth, taking his time to stretch out his muscles.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” he called.

The Mechanic glanced up at the stars.

“It is.” He considered Gordon carefully. “Why are you swimming in the dark?”

“It’s not exactly dark.”

“Then why now? Why so late?”

“Eh, what’s a few hours between one routine and the next?” He grinned up at the Mechanic. “By dawn I could be out on another rescue. You’ve got to take opportunities as they come, you know?”

The Mechanic nodded before turning his back on Gordon.

“I do know,” he said softly.

Gordon cocked his head.

“Yeah, you do, don’t you?”

He lifted his lower body out of the pool, shivering as the chill in the air took hold. He moved slowly, like he were approaching a scared animal, intent on giving the Mechanic every opportunity to move away.

He laid a hand on his shoulder and the Mechanic flinched away, the gentle touch a brand of something so fierce and new that it burned to be in contact.

“Why not take this opportunity for a fresh start?”

“It’s not a fresh start when I tried to murder half your family. It’s not a fresh start when I know no-one wants me here, when I have to fight your brothers at every turn.”

He looked upwards, stars catching in his eyes.

“It’s not a fresh start when I know if it weren’t for your precious machines, I’d still be trapped up there, locked away with no hope of a life ahead of me except for one dictated by the Hood or the GDF.”

Gordon swallowed.

“Do you know why we’re building it?”

“You can’t believe your brothers would have shared that information.”

“You’re right,” he admitted. “They would never. So I will.”

He stepped forward, jabbing a finger at the sky.

“Out there? Somewhere? That’s where our dad is.”

The Mechanic squinted, looking doubtful.

“He’s trapped out there too.”

The Mechanic snorted.

“He’s dead, you mean.”

“No,” said Gordon, face shining with conviction. “He’s alive. I know it.”

He looked over and grimaced.

“I have no idea what would have happened if Brains hadn’t said he needed you. I think he could see something we couldn’t in you. Our dad always taught us that we should always help someone in need, and we failed you. But Brains didn’t, and it might have begun selfishly, but I’d like to change that if it’s not too late.”

He stretched out his hand between them and waited.

There was not betrayal of emotion on the Mechanic’s face, no hint as to how this would end.

He had to take on faith that the Mechanic was considering the offer seriously, rather than simply deciding on which imaginative way he would be pummelling Gordon into the ground.

A slight twitch of his arm and the Mechanic’s hand wrapped around his, giving it a firm shake.

“I could use another ally here,” he said slowly. “Thank you.”

Gordon smiled.

“I think you’ll find,” he said lightly. “That what you could use here is another friend.”

#5

Lady Penelope + Dealer’s Choice + dive

She climbed steadily, hand over hand over hand, her movements quick and certain. It was meant to be easy. In and out, no unknowns, no surprises.

Her five-minute window had shattered into a mere forty seconds and Lady Penelope had been forced to cobble together an escape plan of her own, using the limited, useless, outdated information with which she had been provided.

She had to assume her position, her motives – that everything had been compromised.

The receiver had been unceremoniously crushed beneath her boot as she sheltered in the cave system that led into the mountains, watching and waiting for her moment to make a break for it. If she were discovered, the least she could do was ensure no careless communiques would draw attention back to her friends, waiting for her return halfway around the world.

She didn’t dare transmit any messages either, no hint that she might still be alive.

Lady Penelope breathed in deeply, the sea air clearing her head and steeling her nerves. She could see how it crashed against the shore, the way one wrong move would send her into the depths, dashed against the rocks.

She pressed a hand to her side, checking that the databank was indeed secure.

Who knew, they might recover her body, find what was needed to put an end to this threat.

Or they might already have fled, the self-imposed blackout a clear warning to scurry back to their burrows.

If they had followed protocol, there would be no-one coming for her.

She examined the edge, unwilling to waste time and unwilling to commit. Twenty metres, down into the sea cave she knew rested at the base of the cliff, the rendezvous she would have swum into from the beach in a kinder world.

A distant shout echoed in her ears. She had been spotted at last. There was no room for error.

She dove.

Whistling air crashed into the thick syrup of bubbles in water as she desperately tried to gather her bearings without the aid of light. With her pursuers right on top of her, she knew there would be no resurfacing.

She kicked down, muscles rippling with the effort as she fought against natural buoyancy, straining for the dark crevice at the bottom of the sea.

The threshold came with a new chill on her skin and she looked around her for any sign of life.

There was nothing. No droning engines, no sudden burst of illumination.

Nothing.

A warm arm slithered around her and she gasped, spinning blindly and striking out at her assailant as her last bubbles of air floated upwards.

She still couldn’t see anything, her chest starting to burn as they wrapped around her, paying no mind to the way she thrashed around to get away.

A regulator was pushed into her mouth and unwittingly she began to breathe. Oxygen flowing steadily, she could recognise the material of the wetsuit, could see the faint impression of his face reflecting the dim glow of his dive computer.

Gordon hadn’t left after all.

He had begun to unwrap himself from her body as she stopped fighting him, instead slipping his hand into hers with a faint grin.

His fingers tapped against her palm and she caught the ancient rhythm of Morse code in his movement.

..-/--- -.- [u ok]

-.-- [y]

--. --- - / .. – [got it]

-.--[y]

--. --- --- -.. [good]

A moment’s pause and he pulled her back to the entrance.

..- .--. [up]

The ocean was just as silent outside of the cave, but in the dull gleam of moonlight, she could see him lift a single finger to his lips.

- -… ….- / ….. ----- -- / --- ..- - [tb4 50m out]

He tugged her gently and she swam with him, her hand never leaving his, eyes searching for the bright splash of yellow that signalled they had made it.

There it was, hanging silent in the deep water. She felt hope bloom in her chest, relief cascading through her body.

They’d made it.

The gurgle of water draining away, the rush of air, the happy hum of power being restored but all she could hear was Gordon’s delighted whoop as he wrenched the regulator away from his mouth and barrelled into her with a hug.

“Let’s neverdo that again,” he said, the adrenaline of the moment catching up as he fell into the seat next to her.

“I thought you’d left.”

It’s not what she meant to say, to sound quiet and small in their moment of triumph.

He looked up, eyes locking on hers.

“How could I leave?” he asked, bewildered. “You still needed me.”

His hand grabbed for hers again and she squeezed it tight.

“You should have left,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his cheek. “Thank you.”

[eddiebodywantssome]

From the prompt list 🥰

"Tomorrow will be better."

send me a pairing + a prompt and i'll write you a ficlet <3

ao3 link

wc: 690 [also this got away from me and became hella angsty]

Chimney’s days have started to blur together.

The last solid day he remembers is Saturday - a week ago. The days leading up to it were a flurry of Yelp checks and phone calls and favours cashed in and very minor privacy breaches. But he did it - he found her.

He remembers pulling into the car park of the facility as his words to Hen played back in his head. I’m not coming back without her. He remembers scooping up his daughter and asking, “Are you ready to go see Mommy?”

He remembers the conversation. He remembers her confession. He remembers his meltdown as he begged for her to come back and that they’d figure it out together. He doesn’t blame her, he insisted, it’s not her fault. You’re a good mother.

She didn’t budge.

He remembers being escorted back to his car.

It starts to distort after that.

He gets back home and he runs on autopilot. He takes care of his baby, he mixes her formula, changes her diaper, plays peek-a-boo.

He ignores Buck’s calls.

He does laundry, barely. Eats mountains of takeout. His buffridays have been happening at least twice a week.

He cooks, he cleans, he blocks Buck’s number.

He sleeps.

He sleeps a lot. Every chance he gets, he nods off, hoping that when he opens his eyes she’ll be back home with her hand on his chest, snoring lightly beside him.

He wakes up crying. He wakes up to crying. He wakes up to knocks on the door.

Hen, Albert, Mrs Lee. They’ve been taking turns to check up on them, offering shoulders to lean on.

He doesn’t accept any of them.

It’s maybe a Tuesday when a key jingles in the lock and his front door swings open.

“Hey, Chim.”

“Eddie.”

“I hope you don’t mind, Buck gave me his key.” A beat. “I wasn’t sure if you’d open the door.”

“Figured as much.” Chimney lies sprawled across the couch, his sweatpants stained with days worth of spit-up and coffee.

Eddie perches on the armchair next to his head. The apartment falls silent for the next minute.

“So, are you here to campaign on Buck’s behalf? Because I’m really not in the mood to forgive him right now.”

“I’m here to talk to you. How are you doing?”

Chimney closes his eyes.

Eddie sighs. It’s barely audible, but Chimney feels it in his bones and he wants to scream.

Was that a sigh of exhaustion? Exasperation? He knnows he’s being exhausting and annoying but excuse him for not being able to cope-

“Tomorrow will be better.”

This snaps Chimney out of his spiral. He lifts his head up.

“When I first moved to LA,” Eddie continues slowly, “I stayed with my grandmother for a while. The house hunt was taking time, you know? It was hard, with forms and Chris to take care of… there were days when I got so frustrated I wanted to punch something. That’s when my grandmother sat me down and said ‘Tomorrow will be better.’

“It’s a very simple sentiment. Pretty clichéd too, if I’m being honest. But the belief that tomorrow would be at least slightly more better than today was… comforting.”

Eddie pauses to meet Chimney’s eyes. He’s sitting up now, his knee bouncing as he stares at Eddie.

“I know what it’s like for your partner to up and leave you. I know our situations aren’t comparable, but I just want you to know that in some way, I know how you feel. I want you to know you’re not alone and I am there for you. We all are. Even Buck, whether you like it or not.”

Chimney doesn’t know when his eyes got wet, much less when it started dripping down his face.

He opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by Jee’s bawling from inside the room. He stops, thinks for a second, and turns to Eddie.

“Her formula's in the fridge?” he asks before Chimney can even ask. He nods.

“Gotcha, I'll heat it up.”

Chimney makes a point to check his calendar on the way in.

Wednesday.

[yellowocaballero]

hi i know it's been the hottest of seconds but director's cut for the prophetic spring if you're still doing these? 👀

Sure! I’ve spoken a lot about the prophetic spring, but I’m fairly certain I could give some meta information about my intense life-long obsession with Tim Drake. Dude has been showing up in my fics since I was 14.

But actually, the ficlet I wrote ages ago might be more interesting? So here it is. Exploring a dynamic that was WAY underserved for how important it is: the Steph, Cass, Tim dynamic!

No CW that haven’t appeared in the prophetic spring, but specific mention for drug addiction and drug depiction, as well as references to molestation, abortion, torture, and suicide. Story under the cut. 

Tim stared down into the toilet bowl. It was a little yellowed. He needed to clean it. 

He stared at the small baggie of pills in his hand. 

He visualized dropping it into the bowl, flushing it. Possibly mutating an alligator, or giving the race of mole people that lived in the Gotham sewers a nice surprise. 

Tim sighed, and pocketed the drugs. Maybe tomorrow. 

**

A month after the incident with a runaway foster kid and a, in retrospect, kind of embarrassing fake fight with his older brother, Tim got a text from an unknown number. To make matters worse, it was at an insane hour of the day - noon. 

Texts from strangers were hardly uncommon. Tim had an extensive contact network, growing larger by the day, but he had set up a Google Voice on his computer so they were all routed through a program there. Being bothered at all hours of the day on his phone was hardly his idea of a good time. The only people who really had his real number were his bullshit ‘friends’ and his asshole ‘family’. He hadn’t even given his number to his ‘friends’ - he had given it to Kon under strict confidentiality, and then Kon had given it to all of Young Justice. Asshole. 

405-555-1998: dropping by in three hours so make sure ur presentable :)

As Tim had just woken up, most of his brain was occupied by a single whuh? 

Just as his mind swirled in sleepy confusion, his phone buzzed again.

405-555-1998: B1706XQE45

The code checked out. It was an ally, not an unknown or an enemy. 

Tim groaned, covering his eyes with an elbow. He needed coffee.

****

The coffee was a new thing - rather, it was something he had drunk plenty of growing up, because there had been nobody around to inform him that coffee was bad for developing brains. Growing up completely unsupervised was probably why Tim was a drug addict now. He could totally blame this on his parents never loving him. 

Not a drug addict, Tim thought to himself anxiously as the coffee sputtered into the extra large gallon pot. Just someone who...uses drugs...in an unhealthy way. Substance abu - substance user, who just used it maybe as a bad coping mechanism. Not that Tim had good coping mechanisms, but it was better than sawing off heads or becoming a drug lord. When you thought about it, it was either being a serial killer or doing drugs, so logically it means that he should do more drugs to decrease the amount of fun little murders he does -

Tim made toast.

The coffee was a new thing, because he was trying to use it to replace the drugs. He had cut back. The stupid little sorority that called themselves the Birds of Prey had been talking to him about it. He had agreed to try. It was best to set expectations low, so he couldn’t disappoint. Actually, Tim loved disappointing, maybe he should set them higher. Maybe he could make inspirational speeches about how he was a good guy now? Ha ha. 

The three hours had been a deft move. The texter knew noon was his average wake-up time at best, and the three hours gave him enough time to sober up if he had been high or drunk at the time. Tim didn’t like to start popping the minute he woke up, but - well, sometimes he did. Or sometimes he was awake at noon because he had been on an all-nighter drug binge. They hadn’t given their name, either, which meant that it was somebody who he wouldn’t want to see. 

He could bounce, escape to some corner of Gotham until they gave up. Except he had the sense that whoever had gone through the effort to get his number wasn’t the type to give up. Almost nobody Tim knew was the type to give up. His ‘friends’ and his ‘family’ never gave up. On anybody but him. 

A voice in his head, not quite yet suffocated, sounding altogether too much like the Replacement, echoed in endless attempts to get him to come back. Oh, whatever. Kid was a try-hard. He needed better taste in made up families. 

Over the next three hours, he debated his tactics. If he wasn’t escaping and the texter was playing the buddy card, then the situation probably wasn’t dangerous. He strapped in his armor under the baggy pyjamas that he never took off anyway, and spitefully made no effort to control his hair. He did put on make-up, an old hand from keeping CPS off Bruce’s trail - man, he should have pretended Bruce was molesting him, that would have been funny as fuck - to hide the bags under his eyes. No use looking pathetic. 

He hid a few more weapons around his apartment. He anxiously checked his phone, staring not at the new texts but at Harley’s offer sent a week ago. He still hadn’t replied. He didn’t know what to do with it. 

As if he could ever feel safe sleeping under the same roof as her?

As if he ever felt safe anywhere?

Maybe he had nothing to lose. That was the greatest part about this, the most wonderful aspect of what he had done to everybody in his life. When you have nothing, you have nothing to lose. That’s freedom, or so Janis had always told him. She knew what she was about. Overdosing on heroin at 27 - that was understanding what it meant, to have nothing. To be free.  He was almost jealous. 

At two on the dot, a polite knock echoed through the apartment. Tim looked up from where he was relaxing on the couch, with all of the possible entry points in his line of sight. That wasn’t a knock he had memorized, and he had memorized everyone’s knocks. 

Nothing for it. He’d have to get rid of them as quickly as possible. Maybe he can pull the insane sociopath schtick again; that had always been effective in ditching his parents. Tim sighed, walked over to the door, swiped his thumb against the keypad, undid the three deadbolts, and opened door only to see - 

Stephanie Brown, hands propped on her hips and smiling widely. Cassandra Wayne, standing right behind her, serene as ever. 

Tim closed the door - or he tried. Steph had expected the move, and the minute he had opened the door her foot had jutted out and blocked him from closing the door. Effortlessly, she wrenched it back open and stepped into his apartment, forcing him to press against the wall and scowl as insane women infiltrated his space. 

“Wow,” Steph said loudly, “this place looks like a wreck!”

Tim groaned. 

***

The thing with Steph and Cass was this:

How to describe it?

The sister he had never expected, the best friend he had never thought he would have. Cass was his twin, Robin’s shadow, the other side of his mountain. Bruce had adopted Cass barely five months after he became Robin, and Tim had unabashedly resented her for stealing Bruce’s attention so quickly. He had always liked her more, but Bruce had liked everyone more than Tim, so maybe it was no surprise. She was sweet, kind, gentle, and no trouble. Tim wasn’t any trouble either, but he couldn’t be the rest of it if it bit him in his ass. 

Robin was the brain. Cass was the muscle. They were a team so closely linked, conjoined at the hip, that Tim couldn’t remember a patrol ever done without her. Bruce had let them start patrolling alone at fourteen (“You didn’t let me work alone until I was fifteen, and I was an assassin,” Damian had spat), and they had been an unbeatable team. Robin’s hand-to-hand was weak, but nobody ever got through Batgirl. Batgirl struggled with technical knowledge, reading and writing and investigating and chasing down leads, the only area where Tim had ever excelled. Together, they had almost been as good as Batman. Sometimes, Tim had let himself think that they might be better.

They had been so similar. Everyone had always said so. They’re both so quiet, the Justice League had said. Emotionless little freaks, the Rogues had said. Neither of them blink, their schoolmates had said. But there had been nothing to say, not between them: they could have a conversation without words, without even Sign. Cass had known every twitch of Tim’s body, had understood him down to his core. Nobody else ever had. Everybody had always called Tim inscrutable and impossible to understand - but to Cass, Tim had been an open book. She knew every inch of him. And she had loved him anyway. 

And Steph! When Steph had found them when they were fourteen veering on fifteen, and from then on it was as if she had always been there. She was so big, so smiling, so much, and she had never apologized for any of it. Nothing scared her. To Tim, that was the perfect vigilante - somebody who was scared of nothing, who never hesitated, who was good. 

Not even Bruce could intimidate her. When Tim was fourteen, he had thought that was the most amazing thing in the world. Bruce intimidated everyone, but Steph had just stuck out her tongue and kept badly backflipping off roofs anyway. Through twin convincing, Tim and Cass had convinced Bruce to give her a chance, and Spoiler had slot into their dynamic perfectly. She was their best friend, always. 

She wasn’t good at hand-to-hand at first, but Tim had improved by then, and they could cover her. She improved faster than he had, and judging from the reconnaissance footage Tim had frantically consumed after he came back to life, she was amazing now. She was wickedly smart, practical and down to Earth. If Tim was better at hacking into a computer, Steph was the one who found the post-it note with the password stuck under the desk. 

But more than any of that, she had brought the social skills. She had brought the calming presence, the sweet hand to victims and civilians, and her good humor was infectious. Steph was good with people. She was a born leader. Resilient. Brave. Everybody liked her. Everybody loved her. Tim had. She had loved him too. She could have done so much better than Tim and Cass, weird little societal rejects, but she had chosen them as her family. 

It had been the three of them. For as long as Tim’s life had meaning, for as long as he had been loved, they had loved him. Tim had grown up alone, in a world of one, and they had infiltrated it. They had expanded it, and they dragged his life into more than just Tim. Into Tim-and-Cass-and-Steph. Into Robin-Batgirl-Spoiler. Into meaning, and love. 

Tim hated them. And he wanted them to suffer. 

“That’s the Stephanie Brown I remember,” Tim sneered, closing the door behind him. Steph had quickly thrown herself onto Tim’s couch, clearly somewhat surprised at how comfortable it was, and Cass had  perched daintily on the arm. Cass had always refused to sit like a normal person - she would rather sit on the backs of sofas, or on the arm, or perched on chairs like a bird - “If I had known you were coming I would have jumped cities.”

“We would have chased you down and you know that,” Steph said cheerfully, like she said fucking everything. “Besides, if you had known we were coming you would have gone into witness protection. You’ve been avoiding the fuck outta us.”

“Wonder why,” Tim said, injecting as much mean-spirited sarcasm into his voice as possible. “I need more coffee, don’t go through my shit.”

The apartment was small, and the kitchen had a cut-away wall where he could see through into the living room. Stephanie hated nothing more than being ignored or looked down upon, and if he dismissed her and didn’t react then she’d grow infuriated with him and leave. He couldn’t fight with her, because if it came down to a battle of rhetoric or emotions she’d win single-handedly. She was so good with words. Cass...had no weaknesses. 

Which was inconvenient, because it was Cass he absolutely had to get rid of as soon as possible. She was very emotional, and more than a little sensitive. Especially to rejection. If he was cruel enough to her, she’d start crying and leave. There was only one problem with that. 

As he jammed more grounds into the machine he watched the girls out of the corner of his eye. They weren’t talking or whispering to each other, both fully aware of how well Tim could read lips. They weren’t even having one of those body language conversations they could only have with each other, aware that Tim could crack that too. Instead Stephanie was casually sprawled on his couch, looking for all the world like a middle aged dad watching the football game, looking around the room. Cass, as usual, was zoning out. Or, of course, looked like she was zoning out - Tim could tell that she was waiting for something to happen, and was preparing herself for it. 

Shit. Tim fought the urge to gnaw on his fingernail. Cass was going to be a problem. 

He risked another glance backwards. She could see him, so she knew. Fuck. He had never been on the other side of her mind reading. It was fucking inconvenient. Psychics should be shot on sight. 

The coffee sloshed into the biggest cup he could find in his kitchen, and Tim began draining it immediately as he leaned over the cutaway. He kept the cup held up to his face, obscuring it. Face covered, everything under the elbows covered - best he could do without preparation. 

“This little field trip sanctified by Sgt. Brother?” Tim asked, sipping the scalding hot coffee. Not hot enough. He needed - he needed - they’d see -

“We’re nineteen, we don’t need his permission for everything we do,” Steph said, amused. So she was going to speak for Cass - hardly unusual, as whenever they were all together Steph tended to be the only one who spoke - but seeing as Tim was Tim then it was definitely a strategy. 

“He lets his precious baby sisters knock on the door of drug lords for fun?” Tim sneered. 

“If they’re incompetent and retired, sure!”

Tim gritted his teeth. Don’t rise to her bait. Don’t. She was the best person in the family at getting a rise out of their enemies. He didn’t stand a chance. 

“What do you want?”

“We thought we’d take you roller skating at the rink,” Steph chirped. 

Tim stared at her. 

“Or the pool,” Steph said, faux-thoughtfully. “Or just the mall?”

Fuck this. Tim headed for the door, ready to walk out of the building barefoot in his pyjamas. He tugged at the doorknob, only to find that it wouldn’t open. 

Tim breathed in through his nose, then out through his mouth. There were other exits. He was not trapped. Had his apartment always been so small? He could have sworn that it was bigger. 

He turned around slowly. Stephanie was grinning at him, twirling what looked like a small plastic cylinder. Tim recognized it instantly - fancy League tech. Overrides all electronic locks and controls them. They all used it to trap perps and heighten their fear tactics. Tim jammed his thumb on the keypad. Nothing happened. 

Cass glanced at Steph, and made a small motion. Tim couldn’t interpret it. Why couldn’t he interpret it? Did they have a new code? It was Cass. When nobody else had understood her, Tim always had. Now they had their own language, one that Tim couldn’t interpret anymore. Tim was lost in translation, always drifting. 

“We aren’t bringing you in,” Steph said, just as light as ever. No trace of pity or caution or gentleness in her voice: just relentless cheer. “Literally all we want to do is talk. Play a board game, maybe?”

 Tim’s eyes flickered to the hidden panel in the wall next to him where he had stashed a gun and a sword. 

“Bro,” Steph said, “you really don’t want to escalate this.”

“Do you think you can take me?” Tim asked curiously, letting his hand drift to his arm. He shook his long pyjama sleeve down to cover his wrist. “That’s pretty cute. Last time I checked, you’re the shittiest at hand-to-hand in your team.”

But Steph just rolled her eyes. Shit, wasn’t he supposed to be ignoring her? He couldn’t, not so long as she kept pushing and pushing. Not so long as she was in his house. “Leave off. Just because Jay and I are the last people in the fam who weren’t trained in Mystical Ninja Arts doesn’t mean I’m incompetent. Hands in the air, by the way.”

Stephanie was overly sentimental. New tactic. He raised his hands slightly in the air, caught reaching for the weapon hidden in his armor. “Incompetent enough to let me die.”

There. Finally. Thank god, Tim thought he was losing his touch. The muscles clenched in Stephanie’s jaw, and just a twitch of her eye - banishing a bad memory. “Everybody’s been saying you’ve turned rude. I guess you’ve just been avoiding us because you don’t want to hurt our feelings, right?”

“I didn’t remember a lot when I was first resurrected,” Tim said casually, despite the fact that he had never told anybody about the first awful six months. Something about Steph and Cass just pried it out of him, like invasive surgery. Or an autopsy. “I remember everything about those six months, though. Homeless. Practically retarded. Brain damage does that to you, you know. I lived on the streets, did you know that? It was a miracle I lived through it.” He gasped, as if he was remembering something. “I slept on 34th street! You lived near there, didn’t you? Maybe you even walked by me.”

Steph went white. Cass’ expression froze. He was pushing hard, but these two wouldn’t react to anything less. Steph could trade barbs better than he could, even now. 

“It’s a good thing Talia found me,” Tim continued. “She was the only one who cared.”

That did it. Steph tensed, leaning forward, and even Cass stiffened. “Is that what she told you? How can you believe her?”

Tim just shrugged, walking back to the kitchen and hiding his body language again. He took an extra loud slurp of the coffee, just to be annoying. “Talia never lied to me. She said that nobody cared enough to save me. And guess what!”

Steph’s jaw clenched again. She was a hot head. A fierce temper, an impulsive girl who jumped in feet first and sanity second. Woman, now. When had that happened? “Cut that shit out. We all know what you’re doing. You’ve been doing it to everyone. Did you think Connor didn’t warn us?”

Snitch. Tim slurped his coffee again. “Connor’s been telling everyone to give me space.”

“Yeah, everyone but us.” She stood up now, ignoring the flicker of a frown on Cass’ face, and folded her arms. A challenge against the world. Against Tim. It didn’t matter. “You don’t believe half the shit you’re spewing. You’ve never believed your own bullshit, Tim. You’re just saying it to drive everybody away. It’s not going to work on us.”

“Why?” Tim asked innocently. “You’re too thick?”

“Because we love you!” Steph cried. Tim rolled his eyes. As if he hadn’t heard that one before. “Saving Richie proved it, you aren’t as insane as you keep pretending you are. You know what you’re doing is wrong, you just don’t care.”

“Wow, you caught me.” Tim took another long swig of his coffee. It was making his hands jittery. Good. “Local genius aware of his actions. Call the press. Call Uncle Clark, he needs a scoop.” He arched an eyebrow at Steph. She hated that expression of his - she had always found it so aristocratic and pretentious. Joke’s on her, he was pretentious. “Do you mind if I go do a line? I’m not high enough for this conversation.”

If she had told him who she was, he would have done a line anyway just to spite her, and she knew it. “You don’t want to try,” Steph said stubbornly, “but you’re trying. You don’t want to care, but you care. You don’t want to feel it, but it hurts so much you can’t bear it. You can’t get anything past us, Tim. It’s always just been us. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Doesn’t that mean -

“What that means,” Tim said, and he found the words scraping his throat. He found himself talking a little louder than he meant to. The coffee, you know. Made you jittery. “is that you should have saved me. If you loved me so fucking much, you would have been anything other than useless. You’ve always been the most useless girl in the world, Steph. You couldn’t save your crook of a dad or your junkie of a mom. You couldn’t save your baby and you couldn’t save me. You’re ghetto trash putting on airs, and everyone can smell it on you.”

As soon as he said it, he tensed. He shifted his stance, ready to throw the coffee and spill the scalding liquid on her. Obscure her vision. It would take a second for her to vault the cover, so he could duck down. From there he could get the gun, shoot the window, jump out the window. She couldn’t win. Tim had the most powerful weapon in the world in his disposal and that was his infinite, burning hate. His hate for Steph and Cass burned him to the ground, and his world with it, and he was going to burn them to cinders because he couldn’t do anything else. 

But Steph didn’t move. Cass got off the sofa. She walked up to Steph, and gently pressed a hand on her shoulder. She squeezed. Steph exhaled, long and shaking, and nodded at Cass. She walked into Tim’s bedroom - hey! - and shut the door. 

Then Cass stared at Tim, and there was no more need for words. Not between them. 

Tim vaulted the cut away wall, aiming for her feet first. Cass didn’t dodge - that would imply that she moved like an object moved. She moved like water moved - swift and supple, with such infinite grace and precision that it was like she wasn’t human at all. 

But he had gotten better. He didn’t spend two and half years trained by the League of Assassins in crochet. Tim lashed out with a foot, she dodged again. He threw a punch, she moved. He feinted, clearly leaving her an opening, and she didn’t take it. 

Bitch. 

Cass shoved away his coffee table, sending it skidding across the floor and opening the floor space. The rug became their arena, tight and intimate, no room for maneuverability. Tim acted and she reacted, Tim lashed out a sweep kick and she jumped over it, Tim tried to grapple and she broke his hold. She never threw him to the ground, never pinned him. She just moved. 

She was good, but not good enough to toy with him and win completely. The way to win against Cass was to leverage your height - Tim was taller than he once was, although that wasn’t saying much - weight, and strength against her. A couple good hits and she was down. 

The issue, of course, was hitting her. 

He got a hit in. It was much easier when she wasn’t even fighting back. She rolled with it effortlessly, taking the impact to gain a little space between them. She breathed deeply, sweat rolling down her neck. Tim used to take a cold compress and press it to that neck. She used to smile at him. Thank you. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Cass said. 

“Too bad,” Tim said. 

Fights weren’t like in television, long and choreographed extended scenes to entertain and thrill. When Ro - Tim was in a fight, a real fight, it was typically finished in less than a minute. The only way that a match can get long is if the other person was deliberately tiring you out - a risky strategy - or if you were of completely equal strengths with similar fighting styles. Or if it was a spar. 

As Tim tried to hit her again and again, he realized that it was a spar. 

No, not even that. It was a conversation. 

Tim grabbed her wrist, and said: I want you to hurt. Cass broke the hold, telling him that he can’t. Tim leveraged the motion and kneed her in the back, telling her that the only goal of this fight was pain. Cass let the impact take her down to the mat, an incredibly disadvantageous position, but rolled out of the way just as Tim tried to exploit the opportunity. I’m not scared of you. Tim hit again, and again, and again, failing every time. I want you gone, Tim said, and this is the only way I know how to do it. 

This is what Tim said: as much as I once loved you, I now hate you. The infinite depths of my love, my twin sister, how we moved in perfect sync. I hate it all. As much as I cared, I now hate. Feel this hate. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Cass said. 

They moved in perfect sync, even now. Cass couldn’t predict his movements before he made them, like she used to - his training was different now, developed and refined. But Cass knew the League of Assassins too, had been trained by them just as he had, and they were written into her bones when they were only carved into Tim’s. After his third patented Talia move, she adjusted to fit his style, and their fight metamorphosed into more of a dance. Like they used to. 

“Why not!” Tim screamed, the stupidest possible thing to do in a fight, but Cass didn’t take advantage of his exhale. He lashed out a fist to cover the opening, but it was lazy and over-extended, and she dodged easily. “I’m going to kill you!”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Tim desperately tried to call the green to his vision. It was so easy. All he had to do was tap into that rage. Talia had called it blood lust. Said it was normal, even good. But it wouldn’t come. Where was it? It was his only friend. 

Desperately, Tim went in for another punch to the face - Cass’ jaw was the weakest part of her body, an old injury - but he over-extended again, and this time Cass took the opportunity. She grabbed his arm and pulled him forward, dropping him to the mat. She didn’t try to twist him around, instead landing him on his back. Bad move for her. 

She kneed him in the chest, putting her full hundred and thirty pounds on him. She twisted his hands behind his back, pinning him, and Tim could do barely more than wheeze. 

He looked at her in the eyes for the first time. They were infuriatingly calm. Her hair was tangled and clumped with sweat, but she wasn’t breathing hard. Her expression was placid and serene, as if she was watching one of her stupid fucking nature documentaries instead of pinning her brother to a hard and scratchy rug in a shithole apartment, three years after he was tortured to insanity and shot himself in the head. 

So much time had passed. So much had happened, nasty and festering and putrid, and Tim had let it happen. He had made it happen. There was a rot in Tim, and it had eaten him up until there was nothing inside. If you cut him open, would it spill out? Would it infect her, infect Steph? Could he make them suffer?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Cass repeated. “So don’t be scared.”

“Scared?! I’m not fucking -” Tim wheezed, cut off by the lack of air as Cass pressed down. 

“I’m sorry you’re scared. I didn’t mean to leave you alone. But I did. I’m sorry.”

“I’m going to kill -”

Cass pressed down on his chest again, cutting him off. She had finally done the one thing nobody in Tim’s life had ever figured out: how to make him shut up. “You can be as mean to me as you want. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll stay.”

Tim wheezed. In that, maybe, Cass heard something, because she continued as if he had spoken. Or maybe she just wanted the chance to talk. It had been stolen from her for thirteen years, and it was valuable to her. 

“You do not have to be kind. You do not have to hug me, even if I want you to. You do not have to be my brother. I know it hurts too much. But you are me. I am you. You do not even have to try for that. I do not have to give it to you. You have it.”

Tim couldn’t help it. He cried a little, and then he couldn’t stop. 

Cass got off him, but she kept her promise. She didn’t hug him. She just propped him up against the sofa, holding his hand, and didn’t speak. At some point the door creaked, and he felt Stephanie next to him. 

This is why, Tim thought hysterically, he had been avoiding them.

He knew this would happen. There was no hiding from Cass. There was no posturing, no pretending. She didn’t want anything from him. She never had. There was nothing he could say that would drive her away, because Cass did not listen to the words people spoke. She spoke only for clarity, when she could not afford for her words to be misconstrued, and for the comfort of others. 

Cass knew that he had been lying out of his ass. Cass knew that he wasn’t as insane as he pretended, as cruel as he wanted to be. 

He couldn’t make Cass hate him. Shit. 

None of them said anything. Nothing needed to be said, not between the three of them. Cass might be having a silent conversation in Sign with Steph, but he didn’t care enough to open his eyes and look. When they had first met, it used to make Steph so mad that Tim and Cass were having ‘secret conversations’. She had poured over her dictionaries, learning as quickly as physically possible so she could keep up. Everything Steph had, she had worked hard for. 

Steph was in college now. Premed. She wanted to be an ER doctor. Steph wasn’t a genius, she had to study hard. She wouldn’t be able to superhero in med school, so she was ready to hang up her cape for a few years until she achieved her dream. Steph said that she could do just as much good as a doctor as a superhero. She hadn’t always wanted it. When they were kids and Bruce used to ask her what she wanted to do when she grew up, in his awkward faux-dad way, she had always shrugged and said that she might be a nurse. 

“Why not med school?” Bruce had suggested, between sleepy spoonfuls of oatmeal. She used to spend more nights at their place than at her own. Her mom hadn’t noticed. 

Steph had just shrugged awkwardly, nibbling her whole-wheat organic toast that she would stare at suspiciously. Rich people, she would say, sighing. “I would never be able to afford it. And no way I’m smart enough.”

“You’re good enough,” Bruce said, which was the closest he ever came to praising somebody. “I’ll pay for it.”

Steph had gaped. Cass had eaten her Lucky Charms smugly. Tim had rolled his eyes. “An in-the-know doctor for the vigilante community would be invaluable,” he had informed her, pretentious and callous. “We could use you.”

“You deserve it,” Cass had signed. 

“You have a bright future, Stephanie,” Bruce said, buckling under the panic of being a responsible adult. “I would hate to see you waste it.”

He would hate to see any of them waste their future. He had hated to see what Tim had become. He knew that. The last time he had ever seen Bruce, it was just to disappoint him. Bruce was the only parent he had ever had, and his standards were so sky high it was impossible to do anything other than disappoint. 

The fact of the matter was this: he loved Cass and Steph more than he loved Bruce. He could hate Bruce. He could hate himself. But Cass and Steph…

Bruce had ear-marked a lot of money for Steph, both for whatever continuing education she chose and for her future. It had raised a lot of questions among the lawyer team, but ultimately she had been written off as another of his strays. Tim had left her a lot of money too. There probably wasn’t any point: when she married Cass she’d have equal access to the fortune. Rich people, Stephanie used to whisper in awe, looking at organic toast. 

Cass was majoring in dance. She wanted to be a ballerina. 

Tim’s future...Tim’s future…

“Or we can watch a nature documentary,” Steph said out loud. “If we all promise not to say a fucking word.”

Incredibly, unmistakably, irrevocably, Tim groaned. “Not the fucking bee one again.”

“I like the bees,” Cass said serenely. 

“If you aren’t going to get out of my house can I at least smoke up?” Tim asked miserably. 

“I brought gummy bears,” Steph said, chipper as ever, “which are way better.”

“I’m going to the fucking bathroom,” Tim grumbled, which everybody knew was as good as a yes. 

“If you take anything I’ll know,” Cass said serenely, and also threatened. 

“Fuck you, bitch.”

Steph and Cass high-fived, and Tim sulked angrily to the bathroom. He took a second to look at himself in the mirror - looking for Tim Drake, failing, as always - before opening it and grabbing his baggie of pills. 

He looked at it. He looked at the toilet. He looked at the baggie. 

He didn’t flush them. He put them back in the medicine cabinet. Tomorrow. He’ll do them tomorrow. Not today. He can hold out for 24 hours. It’ll be fine. 

For a wild, stupid, insane second, Tim wondered if he could say that tomorrow too. If tomorrow he would look at them and say: maybe tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that…

If there was a future, for a fuck-up like him. 

The faint strains of Cass’ stupid fucking bee documentary began playing through the thin walls of his shitty little apartment, and Tim turned out the lights of his bathroom and closed the door, locking it securely behind him. 

[hepalienstuckyrecs]

Stucky Post-CA:TWS Fic Rec

Knitting as therapy by darter_blue @darter-blue [NR, <1k]

Fluff, Bucky Recovering, Oblivious Steve

Bucky is using knitting as therapy. Knitting a scarf for Steve. Because Steve is Bucky's everything.

I guess nobody told Steve that though... (It would've been nice to give that big gorgeous Labrador a heads up - you know?)

Part 1 of Stucky ficlets - prompt challenge

Heart by @concavepatterns, everandthe [T, 1k]

Fluff, Love Confession

"You're not my friend, Steve."

black eyes, bandages and bloody knuckles by @concavepatterns [M, 2.7k]

5+1 Things, Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks

Five times Bucky says “Jesus, Rogers” out of pure exasperation, and one time he means it in a completely different context.

more under the cut

Gorecki by @ataraxetta [M, 3k]

Hurt/Comfort, Soft

Steve has a crummy mission. Bucky has a crummy dream. They cuddle it out.

Steve Rogers Is (Not) A Good Influence by attackofthezee @stevergrsno [T, 4.2k]

Humor

Steve’s left staring at the kid- Peter, his brain helpfully reminds him. The kid is staring back.

“So, you’re, like, Captain America, huh?” Peter asks, and he looks a little starstruck but less so than he did when he’d stared at Tony Stark’s jet taking off.

“Uh, yeah.” Steve says, staring hard at a spot just past the kid’s shoulder as he shoves his hands as deep as they can go into the pockets of his jeans. “Call me Steve.”

“Cool.” Parker breathes, and Steve tries not to think about just how badly this is going to go.

Aka Steve Rogers' American Tour Of Waiting For His Brainwashed Boyfriend To Come Back And Blowing Up Hydra is interrupted when Tony Stark dumps Peter Parker into his lap.

I’ve Been Funny, I’ve Been Cool With The Lines by nerdwegian [T, 6.1k]

Jealous Steve, Team Fic

Steve's not jealous.

do you need anybody by @biblionerd07 [T, 7.2k]

Bucky Recovering, 5+1 Things

5 people who told Bucky to go back to Steve, +1 who never did.

Weather Stripping by Moondog @moonlizards [E, 7.3k]

Exhibitionism, Angst

The problem, as Bucky sees it, isn't so much that Steve doesn't like his 21st century uniforms as much as his uniform from 1943 - they don't fit the same, Steve always says; the fabric feels wrong, he never has time to get used to them before SHIELD comes up with the next one - whatever. The problem isn't even that Steve is always in such a hurry to take the uniform off as soon as they get back from missions.

The problem, as Bucky sees it, is that Steve never seems to want to put on other clothes afterwards.

Stem by IamShadow21 [T, 7.5k]

Bucky Recovering, POV Bucky, Touch-Starved, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Humor, Getting Together, Team Fic, Amnesia

Bucky Barnes discovers sugar, demands coffee, makes a variety of involuntary noises, cuddles up to Steve Rogers, regrows a limb, and fakes it 'til he makes it at being a person.

New Words For Old Desires by CryptoHomoRocker @feelingsaboutgaysuperheroes [T, 7.5k]

Pining, Bucky Recovering

"After the dust settles, after Bucky is found and taken in and his brain is as fixed as it’s going to get, according to everyone who is paid to know about that kind of thing, there’s really no question of where he’s going to live."

Or: Bucky uses unusual coping mechanisms, Steve pines in what he thinks is a very subtle way, and literally everyone else in the world is like GOD just KISS ALREADY.

I’ll hold my breath by Little_Lottie [M, 8.8k]

Mutual Pining, Fluff, Touch-Starved, Light Angst, First Time

Sometimes Bucky’s hands flex in Steve's direction. Neither of them knows exactly why, but at least one of them has a hunch.

Bucky touches everything but Steve, even though Steve is all he really wants to touch.

at last (life is like a song) by obsessivereader @yetanotherobsessivereader [E, 8.8k]

Friends with Benefits, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, Bucky POV, Oblivious Bucky, Getting Together

What do you do when you’re a hundred years old and suddenly realise you want to bone your best friend? If you’re Bucky Barnes, you swear a lot and spend way too much time in denial. Good thing for Bucky his best friend’s never one to avoid a problem when he can run headlong at it.

no heart to recall by KiaraSayre [M, 15.4k]

Hurt/Comfort, Angst

He's been in Steve Rogers's company for less than twenty-four hours and he's already losing sight of his mission.

Not Another Supersoldier Fantasy by triedunture [E, 16.5k]

Rom Com, Friends to Lovers, Some Angst with a Happy Ending, Not Actually Unrequited Love

Bucky finds a popular sex toy modeled on Captain America's own anatomy. Well, isn't this just perfect? Because even after all this time, he still hasn’t seen Steve’s supersoldier cock. But apparently in this day and age anyone with $29.95 can get a decent replica. The unfairness of this is of galactic proportions.

i was found and now i don’t roan these streets by hipsterchrist [M, 15.6k]

Team Fic, Bucky Feels

They’ve decided to start producing Bucky Bears again, now that he’s all shiny and redeemed and fighting for good on this big Avengers misfits team. "He has a little shiny gray arm," Bucky says, wiggling the stuffed arm in question, one of the tweaks made in the new model. It takes Steve a second to realize that Bucky’s got a small smile on his face, actually looks a little bit proud around the eyes.

Or, Bucky relearns himself and how to be on a team, the rest of the Avengers try to get answers, and everyone watches too much Criminal Minds.

The accidental series by obsessivereader @yetanotherobsessivereader [E, 20.4k]

These are all standalone fics inspired by the accidental tag in AO3 because accidental shenanigans are best shenanigans

If Steve still did that sort of thing, he’d be praying to God and all the saints in heaven that Bucky doesn’t shift any further back on his lap, because if he does, he’s going to get poked in back of the head by Steve’s erect cock.

This is not what he was expecting when he offered to work with Bucky and his therapist on the whole touching thing.

between everything, yourself, and home by napricot [E, 24.4k]

Bucky Recovering, Pining, Reunions, First Time

“This is your home?” asks Bucky at one point.

“It’s where I’m living now, yeah.”

Bucky comes home. Steve's a little slower on the uptake.

[prose-for-hire]

Hellraiser

Pairing: Spike x anxious!fem!reader

Request: hello hello i have a prompt for you if you're interested-- for a spike x anxious fem!reader ficlet, with said reader being a horror movie fan and teasingly comparing spike to movie monsters/vampires to his ire

Requested by: anon

A/N: I’m more than happy to write more shy and anxious readers if anyone wants to request any more !! 💖

You were a horror fanatic. Any part of the genre, gore, supernatural, anything and you were already setting up the popcorn and turning off the landline so a serial killer couldn’t interrupt your viewing.

Most people expected you to hate horror, because you were an anxious person. But in fact, they were often the way that you coped. When you were enthralled in a piece of media you were distracted as much as you could be from the current worry plaguing your mind. The chill of the scene before you encapsulating your attention rather than unwanted thoughts that threatened to creep from the back of your mind.

You had walked in that evening, looking a little washed out. Spike could tell it was one of your worse days as your hands had been trembling slightly and you appeared to be stuck in your own mind. You had been his girlfriend for several years now so he knew what you needed when you were feeling like this. He moved to grab a stack of horror flicks that he had on hand just in case of this very scenario and offered you to pick some. He was willing to stay in all night and make sure you were okay, hoping you might fall asleep and give yourself some respite from your anxiety.

Sometimes you spoke about it and sometimes you didn’t straight away, but either way he was there for you. He took a soft blanket to wrap you in, bundling you up and sliding an arm on the headrest behind you. The film started and he spoke softly, commenting on the film and trying to help draw out the worry from your mind.

“Hello, what am I the invisible-bloody-man? Are you listening?” he asked eventually noting your eyes now weren’t moving from the tv, his soft chiding trying to keep it light for you.

“This is a good bit” You whisper, “But good reference” you praised him, kissing him on the nose and making him roll his eyes. You kissed him on the forehead distractedly before turning back to your video.

You yawn, becoming extremely tired now you were able to relax.

“Rest, pet… you look like you need it” He said softly, his voice dropped into such a soothing tone when he spoke to you like this. You could listen to him reading the phonebook and never get tired of it, it could be so relaxing. He knew you well, you became exhausted from some of your anxieties and as you rested against him, your eyes closing as the screams from the tv peaked his attention. He pulled you so that your back was resting against his chest. He dropped his voice again, telling you he’d still be there while you were dreaming. Telling you not to fight the sleep you so needed.

“What are you - Freddy Kreuger? You better not haunt my dreams” You giggle, eyes still closed as you melted into his chest, the contact making you both hum contentedly. But this didn’t last, Spike couldn’t resist.

“Watch your mouth, pet… the fangs aren’t just for show” you opened your eyes and faced him, he flashed his game face at you making you shove his shoulder away from you jokingly as you shifted onto the seat beside him on the couch.

“Okay, Dracula I get it I get it – you vant to suck my blood” you say in a horrific mock Dracula accent, your fingers curling into claws as he raised an eyebrow.

“Oi what did I bloody tell you about that ponce?”

“I know, I know. If I see him I have to ask for his wallet before I stake him” you say, getting up and looking through the stack of videos to select the next flick.

“Too bloody right - that’s my girl” he nodded, the ghost of a frown still on his face.

“If you don’t like being compared to Dracula, can you settle for Count Orlok?” You smiled, aware of his distaste.

“Oh, bloody brilliant – the budget Dracula” he muttered, clearly getting a little more annoyed, “Doesn’t bloody speak and has a right bloody face on the bugger” You smiled at exaggerated sigh, wrapping your arms around his middle and looking up at him as you lay your head on his chest. You smile softly, enjoying the comfort you feel from him. Even when he was sulking, he always wrapped an arm around you. Making sure you were cared for, happy, even despite the way you could tease him about his immortality.

“Your face is always bloody too.. except that’s not what you meant” You backtracked as he rasied an eyebrow, not able to stop smiling at his face, “Well, I could have always called you Frankenstein’s monster”

“That would make you the bride, love” he muttered, your eyes widening.

“W-what-? A-are you asking?” You said straight-faced, but a little grin appeared on your face at his panicked look. A soft giggle at his panic signalling that you had been messing with him.

“Bloody Hellraiser, ain’t you love?” He said, kissing your forehead.

“As long as I’m yours” You giggled, settling beside him as the next video played and you tried to get yourself to relax in his arms. You loved him so much, the smile still on your face as you both returned to the horror film you both enjoyed so much.

[feynavaley]

Hetalia Writers Monthly – October 2020

I didn’t have much spare time so I just wrote a short ficlet (I hope it’s all right! It’s still longer than 500 words, though, so the last part is under the cut) but I still wanted to participate as I think @hetalia-writers-monthly​ is a wonderful idea! I hope I managed to fit the prompt and that somebody will like it. 😊

Theme: Celebration of Writers Prompt: “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.”  —Toni Morrison Characters: Canada and England (Gen)

———

Sweet Memento

Terror and desolation were constant companions in Canada's first days as a British colony. The sudden illness that gripped him left him too weak to move or even talk, helpless against the fever blazing in his body. Sometimes, when his chest was so heavy that drawing each breath felt like a fight against a rock compressing his lungs, Canada thought he was going to fade and die.

England's earnest reassurances that everything was going to be all right didn't help much.

England was kind. He sat next to Canada's bed and ran hesitant fingers through the child's hair, tried to curb the fever with a soft wet cloth on his forehead. He even forced himself to speak French, although the awful accent and frequent, brief pauses as he fumbled to find the right words made it clear it took quite an effort out of him.

But Canada didn't know if he could trust England.

France had been kind but he had lied; there was no reason England couldn't be the same. For all Canada knew, England was trying to make him comfortable before he drew his last breath. While deeply appreciated, England's gentleness didn't loosen the knot of fear in Canada's stomach.

His stories were a different matter.

When he was telling stories, something changed in England's demeanour. His shoulders and back became straighter, his eyes bright and focused as his smooth, confident voice retraced the adventures of old kings and knights. He was mesmerizing; Canada could do nothing but let himself be swallowed and trapped inside the tale.

And as he did, the pain and fear seemed to fade as well.

Much to his surprise, Canada slowly got his strength back and his illness ended in recovery instead of death.

The difficulties didn't end there, however. Everything was new and daunting – a different language he didn't speak nor understand as well as he had thought, people looking down at him in disapproval because he was 'a foreigner'… sometimes, Canada got to the end of the day so weighed down by sadness that he was even too exhausted to cry.

England's stories, however, always broke through the clouds looming over him and made the air lighter. In those words and adventures, he found comfort and even the strength to face the following day.

As time went by, Canada grew accustomed to his new living situation, but England's bedtime stories were still treasured among his favourite parts of the day. By listening to them with unrivalled attention, he committed them to heart. Oftentimes, during his darkest moments, Canada would find his mind going back to those stories, mentally retraced his favourite passages as he tried to ground himself. Every time despair was about to strangle any hope, the memory of England's words and those moments they had shared brought a trickle of relief.

As it turned out, Canada remembering England's stories was a stroke of luck. For England eventually stopped telling them.

Rationally, Canada knew that he shouldn't be disappointed: at that point, he was old enough not to need a bedtime story and England was far too busy to worry about that. The knowledge didn't stop disappointment from clenching his chest. Despite telling himself that he should have coped, Canada often mourned that loss.

And maybe, Canada hadn't been the only one benefitting from those moments. Canada couldn't forget how lively and relaxed England had always been when telling his stories – so different from the frazzled young man Canada often had in front of eyes; one who seemed about to break into pieces in spite of how hard he was trying to keep himself together.

It took Canada weeks to gather enough courage to ask the question. Every time he was about to, he would take notice of England's tight features and tired eyes and feel silly for burdening him with such trivial concerns.

The solution came easier than he had feared. A single mention of intentions to America, and his brother was already yelling across the room.

"Oi, Artie! Did you ever write down the stories you used to tell us when we were kids? You know, all those fairy tales and stuff… They were cool!"

England stiffened at that, his face flushing bright red. As usual, he didn't offer a direct answer to America's question, but Canada didn't need that. All he needed was in the mumbling about how those tales had been mostly made up on the spot – and even more, in the haunted longing that for a moment England wasn't able to hide from his eyes.

For once, Canada knew what to do.

The first time he placed his hands over the keyboard, his fingers trembled; looking at the white page in front of him closed off his throat. In spite of everything, his memory was still good. After a bit of fumbling, the words started flowing easily on the page. It wasn't long before Canada realized with surprise that he was actually enjoying himself: those words he was writing were filled with the pleasant memories and feelings that came with them; a reminder of some of the best moments he had lived and of the bonds he shared not only with England, but also with America and even Australia and New Zealand. They weren't only stories but a memento of their family.

Self-doubt once again assaulted Canada when he extended his trembling hands to present the book to England.

England stilled, his eyes widening in surprise.

Canada's stomach made a painful summersault, a voice in his mind berating him for overstepping boundaries – but the gentleness England stroked the cover with almost spoke or reverence. The incredulous smile that slowly morphed his lips made him look younger and more relaxed.

"Those stories… they meant a lot to me," Canada explained without being able to conceal the slight trembling of his voice.

England's answer was in the way he hugged the book to his chest.

(word count: 988)

———

Just a brief note: the reason Canada only mentions Australia and New Zealand in addition to America is that I don’t think he was ever around any other British Colonies while they were still young enough to need bedtime stories. He had contacts with other colonies as well, of course, but in my opinion, only when they were all a bit older as Canada was kind of isolated (mostly due to geographical distances) until travelling became faster and easier.

[jaskiersvalley]

YOU! I've been looking for you! You're the one who wrote the Reset Jaskier ficlet! Where he dies and restarts his life at the same age and Geralt goes and finds him at the coast and-! Do you know how that story haunts me?! I am over the MOON to have finally found you again!

Nonnie! You make my little heart soar with such sweet words! And I love you you call the story Reset Jaskier. It is so much better than my “Jaskier just won’t die” followed by some garbled sounds of frustration. Speaking of haunting things, I have some thoughts to offer you as thanks for your sweetness.

It’s a known fact that Geralt got teased for loving his baths. Even Vesemir made a jibe about it once or twice. If there was a bath or a stream, Geralt would happily sit in it until he was a witcher sized, pale prune. Maybe at the start Jaskier had found it entertaining but the more he watched, the more he understood. Or rather, he didn’t understand but he could see what Geralt was doing. Soaking in water, scrubbing his skin of unseen stains. It wasn’t even a matter of human eyes not seeing the dirt because Jaskier had asked Eskel once who just shook his head with a sad look.

So it fell to Jaskier to try and figure it out, just why Geralt liked to bathe so much. In a way, it tied in with his absolute lack of worry about being dunked in murky pools, emerging from within a selkimore covered in guts, slathered in slobber from a werewolf. Guts and remains of beasts were easy to wash away but blood was not. Even though it had been decades, Geralt could still feel the blood on his hands, nothing he did could ever wash it away. The lives he took haunted him in a way Jaskier could never hope to understand. Not to say Jaskier was innocent of spilling blood but he didn’t have the same conscience as Geralt. If Jaskier killed, it was with intent and knowledge that he was ridding the world of evil. But when Geralt had killed, his hand had been forced, he had’t wanted to spill blood yet had to. Therein lay the difference.

Watching Geralt try and scrub his skin clean of his mistakes and the lives he took got Jaskier thinking. Each of the wolves had a different ways of dealing with their past. While Geralt tried to find absolution in trying to wash himself clean, Lambert was the opposite. His acerbic nature, sharp tongue and affinity for igni made Jaskier think he was trying to, sometimes literally, burn the past. Brush over it, deflect with burning words and fight anything that tried to poke and prod at the underlying hurt.

Even Vesemir had his own ways of running. Always on the move and busy. He was always one step ahead of his past or too busy corralling his pups to have time to remember. Not that he could forget. But at least by keeping busy, he had the illusion of outrunning his ghosts.

The only one Jaskier couldn’t figure out was Eskel. It was one quiet evening that he finally broke and approached the witcher with his question. Jaskier was fixed with a steady look and a remorseful twitch of lips.

“They don’t deserve to be forgotten. I won’t bury my mistakes. The least I can do is honour those I failed in memory if nothing else.”

It made Jaskier sit back and look over Eskel, suddenly understanding his quiet, measured manner. While the others were trying to find ways to cope with their memories, Eskel afforded himself no such reprieve. He shouldered his mistakes like everything else thrown his way in the world. It made Jaskier nod, appreciation recolouring his opinion of the witcher. Some people didn’t want to be forgiven, they needed their flaws to live in order to keep them on a better path.

[iwrestlenow]

Many More To Die - Chapter 2

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 2)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Names are powerful things--and after ten years, Logan's has acquired quite a bit. The restoration of his power is something he has to fight viciously to keep secret...But he's not the only necromancer who's in hiding. Above his head, Roman is being introduced to the people of the Kingdom's as his father's successor--but someone in the shadows is coming for the royal house of Sanders, of which Roman is part.And Logan will not stand for someone laying figurative hands on anyone that belongs to him.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), future Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: lots of death because necromancy, slash, and more to come as I figure it out ‘cause it’s late and I’m tired. In this particular chapter, CW for angst--I’ll post what kind at the end if you want to avoid spoilers, but I’m warning because for me? It’s a triggery subject. Be safe, you’re all so sweet and ILU.

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1025, A.A.

“Berry?”

Logan was yanked from a sound sleep by the utterance of his name—not the sound, but the feeling of it. Crawling around inside his skull like ants, static electricity shocking his neural pathways and the core of his essence. It was red strings and his first meal after that one stretch in the dungeon's blackout cells after he punched the guard that dislocated his shoulder.

Logan Berry. Logan Berry. The gift from his guardian angel was two years old at this point...and Logan was starting to wonder if it was more than just a small reminder of his personhood, to keep the harsh world around him from breaking his spirit.

Sitting up, Logan rubbed his eyes and reached for his glasses where they sat on the floor beside his pallet. When they had finally given them back to him two weeks after his arrival, the right lens had been all but shattered. The guard who had returned them—the same one who injured him—smiled far too wide for Logan's liking, inciting the attack that had gotten him punished.

“I am awake.” he announced softly, sliding his glasses on and rising from his pallet to approach the bars of his cell. Squinting in the low torchlight, he searched...

A point of bright yellow sunlight, slit down the middle by a reptilian pupil gleamed in the shadows before the body it was attached to came into view. Swiftly, it was joined by another eye, very much human and dark as chocolate. A sweep of hair as black as Logan's own fell across his forehead, and the torchlight gleamed across the burnished surface of the scales that covered half of the young drake's face and neck.

“Of course.” the drake shot back dryly, not quite managing to hide the sibilant accent inherent to his species. “That's why you were snoring.”

“What do you want, Janus?”

The eighteen year old Janus narrowed his mismatched eyes at Logan—but quickly gave up on trying to look intimidating. He hardly needed it, being not only older, but the son of the captain of the guard.

“A favor.” he admitted, sparking enough of Logan's interest to banish the last of the cobwebs lingering in his head. Janus didn't like being indebted to anyone—and, to that end, usually came to Logan for favors, as Logan was always perfectly willing to trade his assistance for some commodity, be it books, food, or the repair of his glasses.

“What is the favor?” Logan asked.

Janus said nothing for a long moment, staring into Logan's face...no, not his face. Squinting, he realized Janus was quite deliberately avoiding direct eye contact by focusing on a point just above Logan's eyes, somewhere around his forehead.

“Janus?...”

Shutting his eyes, Janus ducked his head.

“I...need a name.”

“A...what?”

“A name, all right? Like the one you picked for yourself.”

Logan was startled by that request—he told no one about the boy who came to him, claimed he made up his own surname to replace the Name that was stripped away. Some of the guards disliked it, stirring fresh retellings of the legends of the Lazari: necromancers with the power not merely to raise the dead, but craft true, living souls from sheer force of will.

He even heard some new ones about the Animata: a theoretical balance to the Necromata, magic practitioners that could manipulate life the way necromancers manipulated death. From the stories Logan overheard while pretending to sleep with guards outside his cell, the Animata had been wiped out by the rise of the Animator, the First of the Necromata, leading to his rise and attempted enslavement of the Kingdoms. With the Animata gone and unable to keep the balance in check, the king had been forced to slay the Animator and had outlawed necromancy soon after.

All stories, of course...but over the last two years, as his name wormed through his brain the way the power of the prison mages had, it sometimes made him wonder. After all, mythology and legend served two functions in human history: explaining natural phenomenon that were not yet understood, or hyperbolic retellings of one or many actual events.

So the prison guards talked, wondered if Logan had designs on restoring his own Name through the adoption of a new one—but Janus, for all his trust issues and ilicit dealings, was an intelligent boy with a good head on his shoulders. He wasn't one for fanciful stories—only those that he could tell in the name of manipulating others.

Perhaps that was why he felt some measure of shame or embarrassment for asking Logan this favor? There was clearly some...unidentified emotion behind the request, and Logan wasn't particularly good at coping with emotional issues. He highly suspected that, when he still had a Name, he had been essentially the same.

“...I want to be allowed to keep books in my cell.” He hadn't meant to say anything indicating agreement—but the words fell out of his mouth without any conscious permission.

Janus's head snapped up sharply. This time, he met Logan's gaze with an intensity that was decidedly threatening.

“That's all?” he asked, squinting after a long moment. “No...commentary?”

Logan shrugged. “You know I do not care for sentiment. Your obvious flirtation with it, in this situation, does not interest me so much as what I can gain from the moment of weakness on your part.”

“Are you sure you're only fourteen? You sound way too much like my grandpa sometimes.”

Logan rolled his eyes, declining to rise to the bait. Instead, he gave the matter what he felt was a comically superficial amount of consideration.

“Hart.” he finally decided.

Janus raised an eyebrow at him, mismatched eyes losing focus for a moment before he nodded to himself.

“That...works surprisingly well.” he mumbled, seemingly more to himself than anything. Refocusing on Logan, Janus straightened and once again resumed his attempts at exuding as commanding a presence as he could manage.

“You'll get your books.” Janus assured him. “I always pay my debts.”

“Past performance indicates this is an accurate assessment. Hence my request.”

“Oh...go back to bed.”

“Gladly.”

********** 1033, A.A.

“Ladies, lords, non-binary royalty, and all of my valued subjects!”

By the gods, I'm going to throw up.

Roman stood behind the curtain on the balcony, his heart in his throat. Every part of him was screaming to run, to hide, to sink into the floor and vanish through sheer force of his desire to not be there—to push Remus out to take his place when the king made his proclamation. Already, he could feel the weight of his impending responsibilities threatening to crush him, the world narrowing and the walls closing in...

He couldn't do this. He wasn't ready. He wasn't smart like Remus or as patient as his father, he wasn't commanding enough—he couldn't be king.

But he would be. One day.

Peering through the curtain, he saw his father turn...and though the pride in his face only made the terror worse, at the same time...

He could do this. He had to.

Smiling, King Thomas Sanders IV extended a hand towards him in silent encouragement. It was the same hand he offered to those subjects that knelt before him at court to have their grievances heard, the same hand he offered to both Roman and Remus as children when they felt shy or had fallen down while playing...

...or leading him back into the house when he was out to hunt a Lazari...

“I give you your future king—Prince Roman Sanders!”

A hand fell to his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

“Give 'em hell, Ro Bro!” Remus hissed gleefully in his ear.

It was strange, but some of the weight lifted itself off of Roman's shoulders, with his brother's hand there instead as he stepped out onto the balcony and into the sunlight.

For a moment, it was...magical. The ghost of Remus's fingers pressed into his shoulder, his father's hand curling warm around his nape—the people of the Kingdoms below, smiling and cheering in a symphony that filled his lungs as readily as it filled his ears, turning his heart into pure starlight.

For a moment, basking in his father's pride, his brother's confidence, and his people's love—he didn't just feel like he could do this, he knew that he could.

For a moment—that was all he got before his heart stopped beating.

It happened suddenly, but somehow it felt as natural as breathing. The tension of that missing engine powering the body and soul, the inability to draw breath. It was the peace of sleep, the flow of one step into the next while walking down an evenly paved road—he knew something was wrong, and yet he could not escape the manner in which it felt so normal.

Standing there, dying in front of the very kingdom he was meant to serve with no rhyme or reason for it.

Let it go...it felt so right, it felt proper.

As his vision began to dim, and the hand he'd raised to wave to the crowd started to fall by his side, he felt the urge to fight sliding out of him, eyes already slipping shut...

Easy as existing. Getting dark, time to sleep.

Until he heard a sigh next to him that was chilling.

The king.

Death no longer felt so inevitable, nor did it feel right. It was wrong, but...it was inside him, twisting and warping to form words that echoed inside his head. Something was slipping into the void left behind by the absence of a heartbeat, speaking to him in the Reaper's voice...

The necromancer.

**********

Logan was only aware of it in passing—however, Logan wasn't supposed to be capable of even that, and had to take such painstaking care to make sure that no trace of his magic could be felt anywhere. He had to keep the fact that he had power hidden, had to beat back every trace of it.

So he was aware of his magic, far more than he was aware of the distant stars that were the lives of every creature within the palace and beyond.

And the feel of his power waking, straining towards death? That hit him hard, made him focus on that awareness of what was happening.

“Lo? You okay?”

Logan spun in his seat and stood, stalking up to the bars of his cell. It was little more than a voice in another house, reaching him barely through thin walls and great distances...but it was growing closer, crossing that distance, too close too close too close...

“Logan? You're scaring me.”

Patton was at his side, watching him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Someone is killing the king.” Logan breathed.

“What? How can you possibly know that?” Patton hissed.

Logan opened his mouth...and nothing came.

Until that voice, hollow and honeyed, was suddenly in his house and in his veins and in his...in his.

For the first time, Logan understood why the Necromata were so feared—why he was locked below ground, why he had no Name of his own and why it was so desperately important to make sure no necromancer could ever practice their art.

The moment he sensed that foreign power encroaching on something that belonged to Logan alone, everything was chilling instinct and cold, calculating fury. The power swept up and took over, took action to reclaim what was being stolen.

The king was dying, but so was the Green Man.

Logan's last rational thought before an eerie blue light swallowed up his eyes and the power wiped his mind clean was that, if the Green Man was close enough to the king, he might actually be able to save them both.

********** The necromancer in the dungeons. Roman could feel it, he was certain of it...it felt cold and airy, thick morning fog swirling through his marrow yet rendering his mind strangely clear. It was familiar, not all that different from the way it felt when they touched in Roman's dreams.

The necromancer was there. He was...helping Roman.

You have to get to the king.

He didn't know, even after all these years didn't realize who Roman was, and that was the way it ought to be, and yet...he was warning Roman, he was--

The wrongness of it filled his chest in the space of a blink, filled his lungs, forced breath into his body. The fight squeezed every muscle, including his heart, in a steady rhythm that started his blood moving again. Roman tried to clutch at his chest, but he couldn't.

He felt cold all over, but his body was working, warring with some outside force, struggling to stay alive.

His body was no longer his to control, he realized with a rush of fear. The necromancer...chill fog, thick and light and clear, in his head and his veins and his heart...

Roman's body was turning, his head swiveling around, obeying an order he did not give.

The necromancer was animating him now, manipulating his every move—and all Roman could do was stand there and let it happen--

Go.

...Father!

This time, when he tried to move, his body obeyed him, his will and that of the necromancer uniting as one.

He rushed forward, reaching out...

In just enough time to catch the king as he fell, a corpse gone cold by the time the both of them reached the ground. ((CW: parental death--but this IS a necromancer AU. Just keep that in mind. XD))