#the dark side is very addictive and for someone without training it's so much harder to resist

[mwolf0epsilon]

Sponge's situation is incredibly complicated post-dark side fueled rampage.

They're locked up in the brig, even after the Resolute returns to Coruscant, and the Jedi have essentially put down some kind of lockdown procedure. All natborn staff is forbidden from boarding, and the only people allowed to keep tabs on the fallen medic are clones or the Jedi themselves (even then, Obi-wan has made it clear that both Anakin and Ahsoka are not to approach because Anakin is a little frazzled right now by the whole experience and Ahsoka is only a Padawan and he's worried for both of them).

It's not like Sponge has been resistant towards being taken in to face justice. They came quietly. The only trouble they gave anyone was when they'd first snapped, where they'd basically trapped the others in their own camp to keep them out of the way. And when the general and the captain tried to stop them they had (with as much restraint as they could manage at the time) Force thrown them at a wall to incapacitate them.

That had been the only instance of bodily harm they'd caused anyone of the 501st, and even then it was more of a show of "get in my way again and see what happens" deal. Even with how much they dislike their general and greatly disagree with Rex's undying loyalty towards the system and the Jedi, Sponge doesn't want to actually hurt or kill them.

The lockdown is more for peace of mind. And perhaps to protect the medic as well. The cuffs can only block out so much, dull the senses so much...

Coruscant never sleeps, and they know the assault of noise and sensations is going to be too much for someone who's only just had Force sensitivity awaken in them. And since Sponge had only recently come down from the adrenaline brought upon by their rampage, and is struggling with the after-effects of giving in to the dark so eagerly and recklessly, there's no doubt in anyone's mind that the extra stimuli might send them careening again.

They can't afford to have them freak out again and attack Coruscant's people. And it's not like Sponge can promise they won't do it... Not when they are stuck wanting more of what they'd had a taste of back in the battlefield. It'd be too easy to slip up and they understand that they are a bit of a ticking time bomb.

Best to just stay in the brig, curled up tight in a big warm blanket that won't protect them from the persistent cold seeping into their bones. The only thing they wish was different was Beautiful's absence. She'd chase the chill away and keep them calm if she were here.

But of course they know Beautiful would never cuddle up to a monster. They just hope the others are taking good care of their most precious companion. She must be so scared right now...

[midnightmoonkiss]

Sanguineous.

Vampire! Izuku Midoriya X Fem! Reader

Summary: This would’ve happened eventually, after all, you did fall in love with a vampire. At least he’ll be there for you when you need him the most.

WARNINGS! Biting, oral (female receiving), fingering, blood, pain, crying, dom!Izuku

Category: Smut

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Yo I’m super nervous with this one.. let me know how it turned out!

Just To Clarify:

This is set in the Victorian Era

Izu and Reader have been together for a while

Izuku is a kind lover, nervous boy

Reader is a virgin

Perm. Tag List:

@coupsieddori​ @desia2​ @strwbrry-lia​

Wet lips molded together passionately, perfectly in sync as desire swirled on the tip of your tongue.

His soft, frigid fingers trailed up the warm sides of your naked body, leaving goosebumps in their wake as shivers trickled down your spine like water.

Tonight was a special yet nerve-wracking night.

One that was bound to happen eventually, since you fell in love with an immortal vampire.

How it happened was still fresh in your memory like soil deep in the heart of a forest, you’d never forget meeting or falling in love with the one you forever wanted to call your own.

You hadn’t a moment to reminisce, the feeling of his cold hands inching closer towards your bare breast derailed your train of thought.

If you weren’t blindfolded and tied to the bed, you would’ve been running your fingers through those soft green locks, losing yourself in his large, emerald eyes that held so much love in them you feared you’d drown.

But for now, you’d do without.

Your senses were heightened considerably, his light touches driving you mad.

“(Y/N)..” He whispered against your collarbone, ghosting kisses across your skin lit aflame as his palms rested on your ribs.

“You look so beautiful..” The candles burning around the room created a sensual atmosphere, their warm light dancing across your smooth skin. You almost looked like someone straight out of a renaissance painting, utterly breathtaking. 

But anxiety and fear bubbled loosely in his gut, his movements slow and shaky. He was excited yet afraid.

Giddy.

Your skin against his own calms his nerves. He hummed when he saw that small smile on your addicting lips, moving to reclaim them once more, grounding himself with your eager love.

You gasped into his mouth once his hands finally cupped your breasts, thumb swiping over one of your perky nipples. Slipping his tongue into your wet cavern, he traced along all those sensitive parts of your mouth with the tip of his tongue, rolling your buds between his large fingers. 

Your back arched off the bed at feeling such cold hands against such a sensitive place, your nipples growing impossibly harder, near painful, by the second as wetness pooled between your legs, dripping down your ass just to soak into the soft, white cotton sheets beneath you.

He pulled away all too soon, eliciting a soft whine of disapproval as he chuckled.

“Patience.” 

His voice was deep, and sweet like honey, music you could play on repeat and never get tired of.

Pressing his lips to the corner of your own, he moved over your jawline, butterfly kisses being left behind. He exhaled heavily at your neck, nose pressing into the crook before inhaling deeply.

Your scent always overwhelmed him, made him lose the slightest bit of control.

He could hear your heart beat increasing, your blood pumping faster through the warm artery just below the skin where his freckled cheek lay snug.

It made him thirsty, desperate to sink his growing fangs into your flesh and to feel the warm liquid flow down his throat. It would be heavenly..

But he relented, pulling away to continue kissing down your body, praise slipping past his teeth as he marveled at your addicting beauty.

His words made your cheeks heat up, hips squirming once he pressed a peck below your naval.

You so desperately wished you could move your arms, but a soft rope kept you comfortably bound as he did to you what he desired. The very thought of having no control thrilled you to the very core, if the sudden throbbing had anything to say about it.

Your legs were then spread, and embarrassment flowed down your body like lava spewing from a volcano.

You had never been spread in such a way before, you were practically open wide like a sandwich waiting for the meat, you could even feel his eyes on your dripping core. Even if you were shy, seeing as this was your first time, you knew you had nothing to be ashamed of. Not with him.

The bed squeaked as he shifted, his hot breath soon fanning over your fresh womanhood as he kept you open for him.

You couldn't control the way your hips twitched, involuntarily bucking up once his tongue dipped in between your folds.

“H-ah.. Izuku..!”

His hair tickled your thighs as he spread your folds open with his fingers, diving in and devouring your very essence with lustful hunger that had you shaking and moaning for more.

His tongue flicked over your throbbing clit, circling around it before possessively tracing his name onto the cute little bud, marking you as his.

You would always be his.

He pulled you closer to his mouth, eager to slurp you up and get you to relax even more.

He knew deep down that you were as nervous as him, possibly even moreso.

You would be giving your entire life to him, after all.

It filled him with such adrenaline every time he thought about it, how you’d risk everything to be his.

He loved you so much.

It was insane to think that someone like him could even feel love after centuries of being a cold-blooded killer that lived under the disguise of a nobleman.

His life was nothing until you stumbled into it, an orphan lost in the woods finding a manor, something straight out of a cliche fairy tale.

Not that he particularly minded, considering it was endearing how someone depended on him for the first time in his long life.

“HaaAAh!! I- Izu..! I’m..!”

The bottom of your tummy twisted into a heated knot, your clit puffy and overly sensitive as he continued to lather it in blissful attention.

He hummed, the vibrations shaking you, and the knot wound so tight it snapped.

Stars brighter than those in the captivating night sky exploded behind your eyelids, and you suddenly felt like you were walking on the softest cloud high above the earth as your back arched nearly uncomfortably from the sheer pleasure he brought forth to you. Pleasure you had never felt before

He was always so skilled with his tongue, both in business and apparently private matters.

He did have centuries to perfect it, after all.

Giving one final lick to your sopping flesh, collecting more of your juices on his tongue, he crawled back up your body, thrusting his tongue into your parted mouth.

You eagerly met his passion, the taste of yourself on him seemingly so scandalous, it was hard not to moan wantonly into his mouth.

He smiled against you, cupping your hot cheek with his cool hand, the difference in temperature making you inhale sharply and lean into his delicate touch.

Teasingly, you sucked on his tongue, thrill filling your body when he let out the tiniest of growls.

“Naughty little girl,” he rasped, “you’re already driving me mad, is it so wise to test my self control?”

As he said this, he momentarily ground his clothed crotch onto your bare thigh, dragging a whimper past your lips from how hard he was, and how big he felt.

How a vampire could be hard, you had no clue.

The undead and immortal wasn’t exactly your expertise.

All you truly knew was that some parts of him were warm and some cold, like an unevenly cooked chicken.

“P-perhaps..” You subconsciously bit your lip, his eyes no doubt watching as you did so, “it depends on if in doing so, you’ll give m-me what I want..”

A dark chuckle bounced around the room, you could almost feel the rumbling vibration from the chest hovering above your own.

“And what is it that you desire, (Y/N)?”

Your name rolled off his dirty tongue like molasses, thick and heavy, an accent unknown to you, lost by time, threading itself through every word, only adding to your obsession with his voice. 

“You know what I want..” He was always such a tease.

But he couldn't help himself. A smirk took over his features as he gazed down at your pouting face with piercing green eyes, you were always so cute when he did tease you. It was much too fun to simply give you what you wanted all the time.

Not to mention.. if he did.. things would escalate far too quickly. He was still nervous.

Even if he was both brains and bronze, he was still just an undeadman with human emotions. Curse being trapped in a young adult's body! He’ll forever feel the horniness of a teen and the crushing responsibility of an adult.

“Izuku.. It’s okay..” Your saccharine voice startled him from his thoughts, have you read his mind? “I want this.. it’s okay.” You smiled reassuringly, and he swore he felt his cold, dead heart beat.

Placing a kiss to your nose, he watched in amusement as you scrunched it up like a mouse.

First things first.. he had to get out of his attire.

Despite you being fully naked, he was fully clothed. It certainly made him feel powerful, but tonight, he wanted to be your equal.

So, pulling back and sitting on his haunches, he unbuttoned his brown vest and white dress shirt, tossing them haphazardly to the floor, careful to avoid the flames of the candles. 

It was a cooler night, autumn changing the leaves of the trees just outside his large window gleaming with moonlight, and so a fire burned in the fireplace opposite of the room.

He didnt want you to be too terribly cold.

Besides, the crackling of the fire calmed his nerves.

Soon he had his pants and other clothing off, and he was as bare as you.

Only, you couldnt see him.

But you could certainly feel his muscular thighs on either side of your own, he truly was a sculpture.

He captured your lips once again in a kiss, fingers smoothing down your belly just to gather your own slick and prod at your clenching entrance.

The prickling feeling of something so cold touching something so hot made you flinch, and so he held you still with his other hand, his chest resting against yours as you took in shaky breaths.

Pushing a digit inside, he groaned at how tight you were, pulsing around his finger and sucking it further into your molten warmth until he was knuckle deep.

“Fuck..” He huffed against your neck, tongue dipping out to taste your salty flesh for just a moment.

“You’re so tight, love..”

“Mm..” You forced your body to relax, taking deep breaths to calm yourself.

Pulling his finger out, he thrust it back in, a wet squelch accompanying his actions.

It didnt take long for you to adjust to the single digit, soon finding pleasure in the way his finger moved in and out of you. “H-hah.. mmMm..” 

Another finger prodding at your entrance made your hips buck up, the coldness addicting as it felt like you were being filled up with a smooth rock.

It felt so good.. you swore you were melting despite the vast difference in temperature.

“I-Izuku..! Mm! G-uh.. hAH! AaAAAH?!!”

His fingers curled inside of your brushing up against a spot inside yourself you never knew about.

He thrusted his fingers inside of you faster, hitting that same spot every time with a wet click. Eventually a third finger was added, and you swore you were close to seeing those stars again.

“UuaaaAhh!! S-so!! Good!! G-gonna.. h-AAaaH! Gonna c-cum!! Izu- Izu!!”

Just as that knot was about to snap inside you again, he fully pulled his fingers out.

“No!” You sobbed, fighting against the restraints as you helplessly bucked into this air, “Izuku-!! Mmph!”

Your cries were cut off as he shoved his fingers into your mouth, saliva and your wetness dripping down your chin.

“Lick them clean for me, honey.” He purred seductively, that wicked man.

Without hesitation, you eagerly licked his fingers, lathering them in your spit before sucking heartily, slurping up your mess, ignoring the throbbing of your clit and the way your core clenched helplessly around nothing.

“Such a good girl, always listening to me.. I love you so much, (Y/N)..” Sighing dreamily, he pulled his fingers from your mouth, staring in awe at the string that connected them to you before it snapped.

“Izuku.. p-please.. please t-take me..! I- I can’t..!” You were on the verge of tears, so desperate for him.

Swallowing the ball of nerves sitting at the back of his throat, he finally decided to oblige.

“As you wish,” he whispered into your ear, leaning back to get between your legs, spreading them wide and resting them on his hips.

To think, you were about to give everything you had away to him.

He was honored, and would forever devote himself to you.

He was excited to never have to watch a loved one die in his arms again.

Grabbing his member, he stroked himself a few times, guiding the tip to your awaiting entrance.

His head kissed at the clenching hole, smearing his precum onto your flesh.

He finally pushed in, slowly, ears perked for any noise of discomfort or pain as he chewed his lip at the intense pleasure.

This was your first time, after all. He knew how much it hurt for virgins if not careful enough. He wanted to be careful, he couldnt bare the thought of hurting you because of his own selfish desires.

“Nh!” The smallest of squeaks caught his attention, and he immediately stopped stuffing himself in. “(Y/N)?” He panted like a dog in heat, voice laced with concern, hands massaging your hips.

“I-I’m okay..! It’s just.. haahh.. You’re… so big, Izuku..”

Was it wrong to have pride swell in his chest at the praise when his lover was in pain? He didnt know.

“Shh, baby.. give it a moment..” And so, he remained still, letting you catch your breath before continuing to shove himself inside your welcoming walls.

He was aware he was.. on the larger size. It must be painful to be taken by something so big for your first time.. but he couldnt help the size of his dick.

He was positive you’d love it eventually, he’d make sure of that.

“Almost there.. you’re doing so good for me, sweetheart..” His fingers squeezed at your hips as he slowly sheathed himself inside, eventually bottoming out with a pleased groan.

While he felt pleasure, all you felt was discomfort and pain.

It was nothing at all like his fingers, you felt like you were being torn in two!

You held back on your sobs, still fighting to relax yourself.

No one told you your first time would be so painful.. Granted, you didn't have anyone to tell you, but a heads up would’ve been pleasant.

But you'd take this, take the pain, because it was Izuku.

The love of your life.

You were overjoyed at the thought of being connected with him, you could even feel his overwhelming warmth, the way he twitched and throbbed inside of you, it was wonderful.

Way better than anything you had shamefully dreamed of before.

Lips brushed against your skin again, and you could tell he was trying to calm you down with his pure love with each kiss delicately placed.

Once you were as ready as could be, you tested the waters by grinding yourself on him, to which he let out a guttural growl.

Slowly, he pulled himself back out so that only his flushed tip remained inside, before pushing himself back in. A heavy pant escaped his lips as you shimmied, biting your own.

He continued to take things slow, rocking in and out of you in a slow rhythm, clutching the bed sheets beneath you so tightly his knuckles turned white as he fought to control himself from acting like a complete wild animal and fucking you raw.

It truly was hard to hold back, considering you felt so fucking good around his aching cock.

Fuck!

He swore you were the best he’s ever had!

His face was pinched and sweaty, eyes concentrating on your own facial expressions as he sped up, wet slaps starting to become a lewd white noise.

The more he fucked in and out of you, the more you got into it, his huge member filling you up in the sweetest way possible, brushing against parts inside of you you hadn't any idea were there.

It just felt.. so nice..

“H-haah.. mMM..! Izuku-! Please.. please go f-faster-!”

“But-“

“I can take it, please..!”

Without missing a beat, he sped up his hips, lurching forward from how good it felt, “Huunnhh..! Aah..” 

You were so wet, your juices started to drip down his thighs as you moaned oh-so loudly for him.

“AaAah! Zu!! Mmnngnn..! F-Feels!! Ahh, FUCK! It f-feels so good..! HaAAaaH..!”

His warm chest brushed against your own as he leaned down, holding you flushed against him as his hips snapped up into yours, thrusts so powering it made your head spin and the bed frame bang against the wall.

Everything was moving, and your body felt like it was on fire with pleasure-filled needles pricking your skin.

“(Y/N).. my lady..! F-uck- you’re so- h-haah.. so fucking tight..!” The freckled man grunted out, passion and desire swirling in his belly as your scent overwhelmed the fuck out of him. He could feel his fangs stabbing into his bottom lip, drops of his blood splattering onto your clear skin below as he continued to shake the bed with how fast he was fucking you.

He couldnt help but shove his nose into the crook of your neck, licking along the column and subconsciously nibbling and sucking little marks.

“Mm-! HaaaaAh.! B-baby..! Izuku! Izuku! B-bite me! M-make me yours! Please I- it’s okay..!”

You were insane to say something holding a thousand meanings and depth deeper than a trench, but you hadn't a care in the world as the love of your life fucked you so good you couldnt think straight.

“Haaauh..!” You words sent hot spikes of pleasure down his spine, and the hunger inside him grew tenfold. His throat was still burning, parched, and his eyes were hyper focused on your neck.

There was no turning back.

He licked your neck with his tongue once again, feeling for that thrum of your intense heartbeat in your artery. Once he found it, he hesitated, pearly white fangs hovering over your beautiful skin as you continued to cry out in pleasure.

This was it.

He bit down, blood immediately filling his mouth, flowing down your neck and staining the bed.

Your short cry of pain should've knocked him off, but he felt as if he was on drugs, his eyes damn near rolling back into his head as your delicious fucking flavor spilled down his throat, all while your dripping pussy clenched around him like a fist.

It felt so good!

You tasted.. so god damn good!!

He slurped noisily, lost in your flavor, your own blood dripping down his chin and your shoulder.

You’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted… like pure sugar cane and honey, mellowed out with hints of dark chocolate and salt.

His cock twitched inside of you, pelvis rubbing against your puffy clit, and despite your love drinking your blood, you were in ecstasy, thighs shaking like a newborn as they squeezed his slim hips that continued to speed up.

You were being fucked so good that you hadnt a care in the world, your mind growing blank and fuzzy from the loss of blood.

“Izu.. haAaAAAAH! Izuku! Let me..! Let me see you!! Please I!! I want to see you!!” Tears leaked from your eyes, the pleasure too damn good for you to handle without turning into absolute jelly.

Snapping from his thoughts, he pulled away from you, licking the two dripping holes, his saliva sure to speed up the healing process.

“But I..! I look di- aaaah..! Different!” He was still ashamed of himself for being what he was, not to mention being so sloppy that your own blood was smeared on his mouth.

“Dont care! Please!”

The bed creaked as you pulled on your restraints, back arching off the bed as if to persuade him.

Shaking fingers pulled your silk blindfold off, and you were met with such beauty.

His eyes glowed a hungry crimson, cheeks flushed and hair slicked with sweat as his eyebrows pinched, bloody jaw hanging open with his fangs on full display, moans pouring out his mouth.

He was beautiful.

“GuaAh-! K-kiss me..!”

You didnt have to ask twice, as his lips soon crashed down onto yours, the metallic taste of your own blood fresh on his tongue driving you closer to the edge as he rearranged your insides, taking away the pain that began to sear your neck.

“MMmMmh!”

This was why he insisted upon tying you up whilst making love, because it fucking hurt, being turned into what he was, and he knew it.

He could remember the day he was turned like yesterday, in that dark alley all alone by the only person he trusted besides his mother. The fear he felt, the pain he felt, all by himself, unbearable.

He didn't want you to go through that, so he came up with the most numbing way possible for you to go through the process.

Tears fell like a waterfall down your eyes as the pain spread through your veins, breaking the kiss to sob out loud, and yet.. you felt so good at the same time.

You were feeling so many things it was hard to wrap your head around it.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N)..” he whispered before grabbing your hips, slamming into you even faster with inhuman speeds that made you scream in pleasure and the bed creak, promptly coming undone as the knot in your lower belly snapped once again.

Pain and pleasure filled cries filled the large room, your own eyes rolling back as red covered your vision, spotted with black, lightning and acid flowing down your veins as you were brought to the brink of insanity.

Izuku pulled out, thrusting into his hand for a split second before he came all over your belly, but he didn't have a second to bask in any afterglow, your pleasure filled cries soon morphing into intense pain as your body shut down, cells dying and being replaced by those much stronger.

You could feel yourself grow colder, you felt like you were being stabbed a million times over again, and there was nothing you could do about it.

The only comfort you had was him hugging you to him, whispering words you couldn’t comprehend as you screamed and fought against restraints.

Izuku lost count of how many minutes passed by slowly, his heart breaking with every cry you let out.

There was no other way, you knew this and you accepted this.

He would never leave you alone, not even as you thrashed about, accidentally kneeing him multiple times in the gut.

It took a painstakingly long ten minutes before you slowly calmed down, eyes fluttering shut as you fell lax in his protective hold.

The worst was done.

All he could do now was wait.

Again.

Morning came and went, and as expected, you had yet to wake.

Through the hours, Izuku stayed by your side, watching as your skin grew paler. It was a damn near painful sight, especially when blood dripped from your mouth from your fangs growing in.

It wasn't until the moon was high in the sky once more that your heart beat, of which continued to slow down as time went on, stopped.

Leaning over your body, now dressed in a nightgown, he stared at your features.

Your eyes moved beneath your lids, and his breath caught in his throat.

Red eyes soon stared back into his own, and he couldn't help but chuckle, despite the situation. He knew exactly what you felt.

“My, my, looks like someones hungry.”

[enkelimagnus]

A Castle in the Forest

Percy x Vex’ahlia, Chapter 6, 3943 words,

A Modern AU, in which Vex is a park ranger taking over the Alabaster Sierras post, and finds much more than she bargained for

Read on AO3

Back to Vex, on her path to hunt a fiend...

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

“It’s fine, thank you anyway.”

Vex slams the red button on her phone, as if clicking on it harder will make her frustration known to the world. She wishes she had an older phone so she could slam down the handset onto the base. It would be like slamming a door at the end of an argument; a physical show of her feelings.

She’s been on the phone all morning, trying desperately to get some answers on what she’s supposed to do with the fiend now that it has killed at least one person. Not anyone, at that, someone trained to take things down and keep parks protected. If Regae was anything like her, he had put up a fight before dying. But the creature had prevailed.

The one thing she was told about was the Grey Hunt. Not only did the Pale Guard officer tell her about it on the crime scene, but pretty much everyone she’s tried calling told her to ask them. Except they don’t exist anymore. They haven’t in years.

There are no records of previous members either. Vex wants to scream in frustration. For the first time since she’s arrived, she realizes how alone she is. She wasn’t so alone before. In Shademurk, she could ask Saundor and if he was in a good mood and if she played her cards right, he would use his amazing influence to help her. Here she has no one. She almost misses him.

What? No. She doesn’t miss him. She can’t miss him, she won’t. The fact that he was supposed to love her and that she had to bargain with him, the very sovereign of Shademurk Bog, to get him to do anything for her, from dishes to actually working with her to make Shademurk better.

She doesn’t miss him. At all. Her new home is completely clear of him, empty of memories of him. She’s not going to choke on his presence every time she looks somewhere. It’s better here. She’s better now than she ever was before.

If Saundor was here, he would take credit for her strength, for her work. He would say he made her, shaped her into the ranger he is today. He always used to say that. She used to believe him.

Vex stands from her chair and paces a little into the cabin. No Grey Hunt. No Pale Guard. As far as she knows, Pike Trickfoot and Grog Strongjaw are still willing to go hunt a fiend with her. That’s all she has. Her own limited abilities, a cleric and a goliath. And no Vax.

She told him to stay in Westrunn a little. She was hoping to have the fiend problem sorted before he arrived, to be honest, so she wouldn’t have to ask for his help. He’s helped her way too much already.

Besides, she’d rather know he’s with Gilmore, enjoying himself and his boyfriend. They don’t see each other enough. She can manage without him. She should be able to. She’s a strong, capable person.

In the bathroom, she splashes cold water onto her face, forcefully clearing her thoughts. When she looks up from the sink to look into the mirror, she swallows, hard. She looks tired. There are dark circles in the brown skin below her eyes. Her lips are cracked, from the cold. She’s forgotten to put on lip balm. Her hair is dirty, greasy.

It’s been three days. Three days since she’s received that call on the forgotten radio. Three days and she’s already forgotten to take care of herself. She’s really holding on by a thread, isn’t she?

Her nails dig painfully into her palm and only then does she stop staring at her own tired face.

She walks away and slams the door behind herself. The force makes the wall shudder and it feels right. Vex smiles a little. That was the first hint of satisfaction she’s felt since her arrow shot through Donovan Clarence’s hand.

The cub at her feet whines a little, turning over from where he’d been napping.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly and crouches to pet the dark brown fur. “Slamming the door woke you up, huh?” She asks softly.

The cub leans into her hand like he’s starving for touch. He’s always going to forgive her for these things, isn’t he? Her smile widens slightly, growing more relaxed and genuine.

Her phone buzzes and she reaches for it, before sitting on the floor next to the cub. It’s a text from Vax, with an image attached. She opens the image first.

It’s a photo of the inside of a shop, large and filled with glass-covered shelves. She can see the shine of gold and silver and precious gems behind the glass. Her eyebrow raises. The fact they’re still behind glass and not in Vax’s sneaky hand is surprising. She looks over at the caption of the image.

Exercise in restraint: Gilmore’s shop. Many trinkets, none for me.

About five different dirty remarks come to Vex’s mind but she pushes them back. Vax is a bit uncomfortable with discussions of his sex life, joking unfactual remarks or not. She’s not going to make him uncomfortable now.

She takes a picture of the cub snuggled in the space between her crossed legs.

I saw this one and couldn’t help myself… Trinket addiction running in the family?

She sends the picture but looks down at the cub with a thought. Trinket is a good name. She likes it. Loves it, actually.

“May I call you Trinket, darling?” She asks. Giving him a name means keeping him, but she’s far past that point now. She’s known it, deep down for a while.

The cub doesn’t seem to mind it. Vex presses a kiss to the furry head with a smile, the biggest in a long time.

They say rangers often find companions. Vex has just found hers.

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

They meet at the mouth of the trail, the way they’d originally planned. It’s a few days later than expected, yes, but Vex has been busy desperately trying to get some sort of official help. She was hoping not to have to ask Pike and Grog.

She sees the goliath before the gnome, the giant axe hanging heavy over the man’s shoulder. By his side, the cleric looks way less aggressive. Vex doesn’t know which one will be more useful. Divine healing or brute force. Either way, she’s incredibly glad to have someone by her side right now.

“So,” she smiles nervously. “Thank you for coming. I apologize for pushing back the date of meeting. I was hoping to get some sort of professional help, but it seems like Whitestone doesn’t have the infrastructure.”

The cleric, Pike, nods. “The city has seen a lot of things.”

Vex doesn’t know what that means, really. She doesn’t ask. Not right now. She’ll ask later, once they have a dead fiend and a victory under their belt. People were much more likely to spill secrets if adrenaline and serotonin were flowing through their veins.

Sometimes, she’s almost ashamed of the many tricks she’s learned throughout the years. And then she remembers it was people like the Syngornian Elves and Saundor who made her learn these things,and she stops feeling like she should have somehow stayed innocent through all the shit they put her through.

They start on their way, not to where she initially sensed the fiend, but to where the body was found. It’s more likely that they’ll find usable traces there.

The winter cold bites at her cheeks, but the goliath is shirtless. She raises an eyebrow, both respectful and thinking him mad to be out there like this. They start climbing up the trail in relative silence, with the crunching of their boots and the jingling of the cleric’s chainmail.

Vex doesn’t know what kind of small talk to do now. This is not a light-hearted situation, and she just wants the creature out of her woods.

“Have you killed fiends before?” The goliath asks after a moment.

Vex looks over at him over her shoulder. “Not a fiend, no. I’ve killed other things. Fey, mostly.”

Pike raises an eyebrow. “Fey? Were you around the doors to the Feywild before you came to the Alabaster Sierras?”

Vex hesitates for a moment. It’s a lot of information to give to complete strangers. She shrugged the paranoia off however. “I was. I was tasked with keeping an eye on a part of the Verdant Expanse, that, just like Syngorn, can switch between the Feywild and our plane. I lived in the Feywild for a part of my time there.”

“That’s so cool!” Pike grins and Vex can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of her lips.

It is pretty cool.

The Feywild is somewhere most people have barely heard of, let alone visited. And Vex, though in pretty horrible circumstances, has been able to call it home for a moment of her life. On the way up the trail, her two companions manage to coax her into recounting the Feywild.

She tells them of the permanent dusk, of the sun that’s always at its most beautiful, its most reddening and purpling state duskward of Shademurk. She tells them of the dark of the night on the other side, of looking at the sky and never knowing exactly the time. She tells them of age-old trees that hold secrets they only tell the worthy.

She tells them of dryads and naiads and the howling of lycans. She doesn’t tell them of Saundor but she tells them of Fenthras.

One day, she’ll reach under her bed, take it out and shoot. It’s still the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, the wood alive and the power tangible. She still dreams of wielding it, as she runs free through ever shifting woods, laughter on her lips.

When they make it to the campsite where the body was found, she feels lighter than she has in a long time. Both the cleric and the goliath are smiling lightly. They exchange a look, and then get to work.

Vex sits on a stone and starts expanding her consciousness as Pike runs identifying and tracking spells on whatever magic trace they can find. It’s hard to tune out her kind babbling or Grog’s regular deep-toned comments, but Vex finally manages and exhales.

With her breath goes her mind and soon she finds herself floating, drifting, one with the wind and with nature. She barely has to wait to find the fiendish presence. It pings on her mental radar loud and clear and close.

Way too close. They’re close to its lair.

Vex’s eyes open wide and she comes back crashing into herself. She barely gives herself time to come back into her body before she shoots to her feet and shares her findings. Grog takes his giant axe out. Pike unclasps a mace the size of her body from Grog’s back.

Vex takes her bow in hand and notches an arrow, ready to draw and shoot. They start walking in the direction where she can still feel the echoing presence of the creature. It rests heavy on her back of her neck, a pressure she can’t shake.

They walk into higher grass off of beaten paths. Vex slips into the underbrush with ease, but it’s far from the case for the two accompanying her. Pike in particular makes great noise and gets caught in almost every weed she can possibly get caught on. Vex huffs. Here goes the effect of surprise.

They find the lair empty, and her heart tightens in her chest. Fuck. It knows they are there.

A shape moves from the shadows overhead and Vex immediately reacts. Her body moves without her thinking anything through. Her arrow shoots through the air and hits right in the middle of the creature’s chest. It screams in pain. Vex smirks. She’s good at this.

The creature has stopped long enough for all of them to see what it is. It’s tall, Vex’s size. Its skin is spiky, barbed, horns sprouting from its skull. Its scream makes the air around it shiver with heat.

The scream is immediately answered by one from Grog. The goliath steps forward with bloodshot eyes and angry determination. He swings his axe forward and pounces on the creature. Maybe his rage has distracted him, because his axe swings wide, the creature too fast to be hit by the massive weapon.

The cleric immediately jumps into action, hands shining with divine light as she reaches up with her holy symbol. Vex can see the wings of Sarenrae carved onto the metal before they disappear behind the burning white light. It shoots out of the symbol and hits the creature.

It screams again as the radiant light engulfs it, lighting it up and burning it with divine power. If they were in darkness, it would be obvious to all of them now. There’s no way any of them are going to miss their next hit against it.

Grog has gotten too close to the creature however, and though it’s still burning with light, it takes no time to attack the giant target the goliath makes. It swipes at the grey-skinned man, one hand missing before the second catches the goliath in the chest, dragging into the skin. Vex winces, but the goliath seems more okay than expected.

The creature tries to hit him with his tail but Grog dodges it with a shiver-inducing grin. “Come on, devil devil!” He taunts. “Is that all you can do?”

Vex’s eyes cross with the creature’s and she takes the opportunity to Hunter’s Mark it. She reaches for another arrow, but her fingers rip against her quiver, shaking lightly now that she’s realized what they were facing. She curses. Pike sends her a slightly worried look.

Grog retaliates against the clawing he’s just received. The axe cleaves a giant gash into the shoulder of the fiend. The goliath immediately reiterates, hacking at the shoulder. The arm of the fiend is now hanging by tendons. It seems to be in incredible pain.

Reaching up with its good arm, the creature screams, warmth radiating from it. Flames erupt from the hand of the creature. Both tries miss the massive target of Grog. The creature seems confused. That’s what pain like the one being inflicted to it does.

Vex notches in another arrow. It grazes the creature but is deflected by its spikes. She groans in annoyance. None of this is working. Why is she so useless right now?

Grog’s axe finally cuts off the creature’s arm, but it doesn’t seem to slow it down that much. Another ray of blinding light hits the devil, however. Pike is breathing hard, but her spells are finding purchase and Vex is incredibly thankful for that, even if they do not do a lot of damage.

The goliath keeps taking a great amount of injury from the furious and in pain devil. Fire burns onto the grey skin, scorching it and a sickening smell permeates the air around them. Vex wants this to end, but she knows it won’t be that easy.

Vex’s next arrow finds purchase right as the great axe slashes through the devil’s chest. A handaxe flies by Vex and hits it square in the thigh. The wounded creature turns around, tail whipping at Grog, before pouncing in with one undamaged arm, missing the goliath entirely with the last two.

They keep hammering at the creature, arrows and great axe wounds and additional mace wounds from a determined Pike hacking at its defenses and crushing its bones. Vex is sweating, she’s a little unfocused, and the screams of the goliath’s rage resounds in her head.

When it finally falls down, it’s one of Vex’s arrows that lodges itself in its eyeball, deeply. It gurgles as it falls, twitching for a few seconds until it stops moving entirely. Vex exhales. She feels like the combat has lasted hours when it’s probably only been minutes.

Pike rushes to her friend and heals him immediately, the burn and other wounds healing and disappearing from the grey flesh as Vex watches. A little unsteady, she finds somewhere to sit and to search.

She waits for a while, searches for something she could have missed, but all fiendish presence is gone from the perimeter of her searching abilities. Relief floods through her system and she finally smiles. It was hard, but they did it. They killed the fiend. The Alabaster Sierras are safer now than they were before.

Vex’s entire body unravels suddenly, her shoulder slumping. They’re fine. She’s fine. They’re all alive and safe and the fiend is gone and she didn’t die killing it. She looks at Pike and Grog. They both look messy and fight-tousled. Vex imagines she looks like that too.

“Thank you,” she says. She means it.

Grog smiles at her, a warm smile. He’s nice. Big and scary, but nice. “It was really fun.” He probably means it too.

Pike nods. “It was!”

Vex is a little more surprised at that, but she can’t help the grin that stretches over her mouth. They start walking again. Vex invites them for tea or coffee. They both ask for alcohol and she chuckles.

They settle around Vex’s table. The cabin feels a little cramped with the two of them. Vex manages to find three containers for the strong old whiskey that Regae left behind. They cheer and drink.

“I’m from Westrunn. The Everlight brought me here,” Pike says when Vex asks if she’s from Whitestone.

“I’m from Westrunn too,” Grog smiles. “And I follow her.” There is unbridled affection in the way he looks over at Pike.

“My brother’s currently in Westrunn,” she points out. “Spending some time with his boyfriend.”

Pike nods. “That’s sweet! I hope he enjoys the city. It’s a little quiet, but it’s a nice place.”

Vex doesn’t say that she doesn’t expect Vax to do a lot of sight-seeing while with Gilmore. The three of them share some food, the rations they’d taken for a possible camping in the mountains, had the fiend evaded them for much longer.

The camaraderie wraps around her like a warm blanket and she finds herself laughing more than she has in years. When she herself starts to feel a light buzz from the alcohol she’s been very careful not to drink too much of, she shifts and prepares herself to start asking questions.

“Have you spent a lot of time here in Whitestone?” She asks after a moment.

“It’s our first time here, actually,” Pike smiles. “We usually stay in Westrunn, or travel south, not north. There is not much for us here.”

Vex raises an eyebrow. “What changed?”

Pike shrugs. “As I said, the Everlight. I’m a cleric, and when my deity calls, I always answer.”

Vex tries to figure out if that’s true, if Pike always answers to Sarenrae but the gnome is hard to read, her blue eyes staring right back into Vex’s as she speaks. There is a steadiness about her though. Something Vex usually senses in the druids and clerics and acolytes of this world, and also in some arcanists, who have faith in their studies the way others have faith in their gods.

Vex wonders how she feels to people. Is she steady with faith? Or is she chaotic and unstable? She wishes, in this moment, that she could see herself through someone else’s eyes. She wants to know what she is to others, so badly.

“What did the Everlight tell you to do here?” She continues.

Pike’s eyes grow a little sharper for a moment, before she smiles again. “There is something for me to heal here. A soul yearning desperately for redemption. My goddess is the patron of healing and redemption, of second chances. This is what I am here for.”

Vex swallows. “Would that be related to the De Rolo Massacre?”

“Maybe,” the gnome shrugs. “Or maybe not. If we had all the details of what exactly our deities want us to do, all these divine quests wouldn’t be quite the challenges they are supposed to be.”

That’s true, she guesses. Vex is definitely not faithful enough for this. She smiles anyway, leaning back against her chair.

The gnome keeps talking. “Maybe the fiend we killed was that soul. Maybe someone we’ve crossed paths with in the street. Maybe it’s you.”

Vex freezes.

“Many people would ask questions about someone like you deciding to live alone this way, in a cabin in the forest,” Pike shrugs. “It’s none of my business, of course. And I will never fault anyone for unconventional life choices.” She hums. “But you ask many questions.”

Kind, warm, but very perceptive. Vex holds up her hands. “You got me,” she huffs. “Just trying to get answers about what’s going on in this city. No one will answer my questions.” She’s tired of it now. So fucking tired. “It was incredibly difficult to find people to help me with this fiend business because no one will talk to me about anything.”

Pike reaches for her hand. “You are a stranger to these people, Vex’ahlia. Give them time to get to know you. For all they know, you have bad intentions. I come with the symbol of my goddess, and that opens some doors to me, and to Grog.” The goliath nods at the mention of his name. “You don’t have that. Unless you’re some deity’s chosen or champion… But you don’t seem like it.”

Vex almost gets offended by that. But the gnome is right. Vex came into town with suspicious eyes. That’s not something people can trust.

“I’m sorry,” Vex sighs. “For the questions I’ve asked. You didn’t have to answer them.”

Pike shrugs. “I didn’t really mind. I’m here because I need to be. And Grog’s with me because he always is, and always will be.” She smiles at that. “You’re here for a reason too.”

Vex huffs. “Right,” she shakes her head. “Did Sarenrae tell you that?” She asks sarcastically.

“You’re not a believer,” Pike chuckles. “It kinda comes off of you like waves. That you don’t believe in anything.”

Vex lost her reason to believe when a dragon burnt her home village to the ground, taking her mother with it. Every snide remark from Syngornian elves, every time she had to fight for Saundor to do anything for her, those were all nails in the coffin of her faith, in gods or in people.

“I think… I think you should start the way back to Whitestone. The road is long, and I don’t want you to get caught by the night. There are creatures.”

Grog huffs. “We can take them on. You fought by our side, you have seen our power.”

Vex doesn’t reply. Pike gets the memo. She gently pushes Grog into getting up. Vex walks them to the door and to the trail and bids them goodbye.

She sits back down at the table. The cabin is small but it feels huge now that she’s alone. Sounds seem to reverberate now that it’s only her breathing, only her body. She wants to run off and tells those two kind people to come back, to stay, to not leave her alone like this. She doesn’t though. She exhales and she starts preparing for more work, and for a good night of sleep.

Did she get any answer? No she didn’t. But at least she’s killed a fiend. The Alabaster Sierras are a bit safer than they were when she arrived.

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection Day 25: Slow Burn

The difference between living and existing (WIP) | @lucy-is-alive

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 6052 Main Tags/Warnings: John Winchester's A+ parenting, College AU, Sexuality crisis, PTSD, Childhood trauma, Recreational drug use, Angst and hurt/comfort Summary: As soon as he got the chance, Dean left his father behind and went to college. However, he never anticipated that the absence of the person who had disrupted his entire life would make it worse. With the help of his friends, he tries to navigate through the emotional hurricane that comes with complex PTSD.

Celestial | @deservetobesaved

Rating: Mature Word Count: 10585 Main Tags/Warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, fluff, emotional affair, bottom!dean Summary: Dean is in a less than stellar marriage, but he assumes things will work themselves out. At the same time, Mr. Castiel Novak becomes his new co-worker at school and Dean has to rethink everything he thought he had figured out.

Welcome to the Badlands (WIP) | @cr-noble-writes

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 15386 Main Tags/Warnings: graphic violence, dystopian au, fusion, into the badlands au, slow burn Summary: The wars were so long ago, nobody even remembers. Darkness and fear ruled until the time of the Barons, seven men and women who forged order out of the chaos. People flocked to them for protection. That protection became servitude. They banished guns and trained armies of lethal fighters they called Clippers. This world is built on blood. Nobody is innocent here. Welcome to the Badlands.

Profound Kisses | @verobatto-angelxhunter

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 20700 Main Tags/Warnings: Destiel, post 8x07 canon divergent, mutual pining, explicit sexual content, angst with a happy ending, clueless! Castiel, pining!Dean, Top!Dean, Bottom!Cas, slow burn, love confessions, first kiss, french kiss, Sammy knows. Summary: Dean knows he's screwed. He discovers he is in love with Castiel in Purgatory, and now he can't even have the angel in front of him, because he knows it's a one sided love. It’s Valentine's day and Dean tries very hard to hook up as always, but he can't get Cas out of his mind. So he drives back to the motel, drunk, and he finds Castiel trying to help him. Then, when Dean asks Castiel for some experimental kisses and the angel accepts, Dean starts a very dangerous game… finding in Castiel's kisses the most delicious experiences, but also, his own perdition. Will Castiel fall in love with him? Or will he stay emotionless as always?

Hate me, but love me too | @notfunnydean

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 23310 Main Tags/Warnings: Virgin!Dean,f hate spell, hate curse, younger!dean, older!sam, Grace Sharing, First Kiss, First Time, Hate Sex, Dubious Consent, Mildly Dubious Consent, Cas is cursed, (not really MCD but Cas isn't alive in the beginning), Castiel has sex with somebody else in the beginning(and Dean sees it), Heartbreakbut I will fix it! Summary: Dean’s whole life changes when his mother tells him that John isn’t his biological father and he needs to save the world from his sibling Adam, who is the King of Hell. But he can’t do that alone, he needs the best Hunter earth had, Castiel Novak.

Starstruck (WIP) | @peanutbutterjelly-pie

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 40860 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Slow Burn, Actor Dean, Single Parent Castiel, Pining Summary: From the outside Castiel Novak looks like a regular guy: a good job, two teenage kids, a nice house and a crappy car he’s way too attached to. But there’s one thing no one knows about him: that, over twenty years ago, he used to live next to no other than Dean Winchester – back then a brash and loud-mouthed boy and nowadays a huge movie star and Hollywood’s sweetheart. Castiel never bothered to tell anyone about his childhood friend because frankly, who would believe him? Probably even Dean himself already forgot about his former awkward and weird neighbor, so Castiel seriously doesn’t see any point in mentioning the whole thing ever. But then an interview on national TV happens where Dean reveals way more about his past than ever before … and Castiel - as well as the rest of the world - suddenly realizes that he left a much bigger impact on Dean’s life than he originally thought.

Letter to Dean Winchester (WIP) | @castielsangel-blade

Rating: Mature Word Count: 44182 Main Tags/Warnings: Past Lisa/Dean, Past Aaron/Dean, Past Castiel/Dean, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Mentions of Past Cheating, Mentions of Past Toxic Relationship, Gray Romantic Castiel, Asexual Castiel, Epistolary, Bisexual Dean Summary: Castiel writes and sends a letter to Dean Winchester. He wants closure for the toxic relationship they had in high school.

Falling Apart | @cr-noble-writes

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 49204 Main Tags/Warnings: minor character death, sam deceased when fic starts, alcoholism, drug misuse, addiction, rehab au, soulmate au, flashbacks, ptsd Summary: Sword & Cross Resident Rehabilitation is a last-ditch effort for Dean Winchester to move past the drug and drinking problems he developed to bury his guilt over the fire that killed his brother. Not to mention the wild visions and smoky, sentient shadows that have plagued him his entire life. It's supposed to be the best Savannah has to offer, but one look at the crumbling tile floors and dangling crown mouldings, and Dean has his doubts. Enter Castiel Novak. He’s rude, aloof, and a total dick from the moment they lay eyes on each other but Dean can’t help but feel a mysterious connection to the man. Maybe he really has lost his mind. But when Castiel starts making appearances in Dean’s vivid visions of the past, he knows there is more to their link than meets the eye. Even if Cas keeps telling him otherwise. It seems everyone at Sword & Cross knows what’s going on except for Dean. Trying to conquer his mountain of guilt and doubt and figure out the connection he is certain he shares with Castiel is only made harder by the “accidents” that seem to follow him. Not to mention his attraction to Gadreel. Whatever secret Castiel is trying so hard to keep, Dean knows he has to uncover it.

Will you be my ten inch hero? | @notfunnydean

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 57468 Main Tags/Warnings: Bullying, Homophobic Language, Abusive John Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Smut, giving a baby to adoption (not between Destiel), Rape/Non-con Elements, John kicked Dean out, Virgin!Dean, surprise guest appereance, Minor Crowley (Supernatural)/Bobby Singer, Minor Charlie Bradbury/Jo Harvelle, Minor Rowena MacLeod/Gabriel, two surprise pairings, not Ketch or Mick Davies friendly Summary: When John Winchester kicks Dean out, after he saw him kissing another boy, and Dean sees that Sam has a perfect life at Stanford without him, Dean starts a new life in Santa Cruz. He works at a tiny shop as a cook, has found some friends there, and is overall happy enough. That changes when Castiel comes into his shop and his Co-worker Azara, who has a different man every night, starts flirting with him right in front of Dean. Not that he would be jealous or anything, but there is something about Castiel that makes him weak in the knees. Only that Castiel would never want him back, right?

Roll With It | @saltnhalo

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 72818 Main Tags/Warnings: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Boss/Employee Relationship, Secretary Dean, Alternate Universe - Not Hunters, The Proposal AU, Alternate Universe, Romantic Comedy, Romance, Editor Castiel, Fluff and Angst, Sam Winchester at Stanford, POV Alternating, Geek Dean, Russian Castiel, Sharing a Bed, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Top Castiel, Bottom Dean, Misunderstandings, Tattooed Castiel, Love Confessions, Slow Burn Summary: For two years, Dean’s been slaving away beneath his boss – many label him a secretary, but he fucking hates that and feels like it only applies to someone wearing a pencil skirt, so he insists on his title of Executive Assistant. And for what? In the vain hope that one day he’ll manage to become an editor for Sandover Publishing, and that he’ll see the manuscript that he’s slaved over since college finally realized in print. That’s the dream, anyway. Right now, he’s fucking late. Dean wants to be an editor. Castiel just wants to stay in the country. ‘The Proposal’ – as you’ve never seen it before.

When the Magnolias bloom (WIP) | @flurryflair

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 92951 Main Tags/Warnings: slow burn, angst with a happy ending, mutual pining, human!Castiel, divorce, infidelity, middle aged destiel, explicit sexual content, top Castiel/bottom Dean Winchester, top Dean Winchester/bottom Castiel, POV alternating, unresolved sexual tension, denial of feelings, porn with feelings, anxiety attacks, manipulative relationship, unhealthy coping mechanisms, canon-typical violence, case fic, bisexual!Dean, demisexual!Castiel, semi-canon, minor Castiel/OMC, minor Dean Winchester/Lisa Braeden Summary: It's been ten years since the Apocalypse. Ten years without talking, without knowing one another. Castiel has a company to handle and a wedding to plan, Dean has a broken marriage and a decision to make. They have separate lives, lovers and families of their own, they aren't supposed to meet again, to mess it all up. And yet they do, when they least expect it, and maybe when they most need it. A story about second chances, about hope and resilience, and a love that feels both doomed and inevitable.

Unsung Melody (WIP) | @toomanyships-sendhelp

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 177617 Main Tags/Warnings: Canon Character Death, AU Slaves, Slow Burn Summary: Dean runs a busy bar and grill in Lebanon, Kansas. Semi-retired from hunting, he'll still catch a case when one blows his way or the urge to hunt strikes him again. It isnt until a case that opened decades ago claims another victim and Dean has to get back in the game a little more than he expected.

[jasonrae117]

Night at the Wayne Casino

Part 1

Word count: 1,732

Pairings: Damirae

Rating: Mature/eventual NSFW

Casino AU

The first night he saw her casually playing at one of the craps tables. She had been placing sloppy bets and then somehow hitting is big within a few more tries. He strolled by, inspecting the table, the dice, her, but he came up empty handed. It didn't make sense. Or maybe it did and it was luck for the beautiful woman. He hadn't seen her at this casino before nor any of the other ones he worked at but there was something off. He received the tip from the surveillance guy, Tim Drake. While he wasn't particularly fond of his coworker, he had never been wrong on one of his calls. Drake felt something was off too. 

"Jon, I'm going to run a sweep of the Titan room. Keep eyes on Lucky and report any suspicious activity immediately." Damian made his way to the other side of the casino for his regular walk of the floor. He couldn't be distracted by the suspect and leave the rest of the casino unguarded. 

Damian took his job very seriously. He was head of floor security and he had been protecting his father's casino since he'd been eighteen, five years later and he was the best of the best. He trained hard in many forms of combat to be ready for anything and he regularly kept up on psychological studies to better inform him on the subtle tells of body language and master mental manipulation to make him the best man for the job. His father was skeptical of putting his son on this task instead of on the business side of things. Damian excelled at analyzing profit margins and cutting expenditures where needed that would make the casino run more efficiently, but he didn't get the same satisfaction as he did when he caught a con. 

His floor partner, Jon Kent, was both his best friend (not that he had any other friends) but also his right hand man. Where he lacked in focus sometimes, he made up in enthusiasm and physical strength. Jon was sometimes too nice for the job and would often question Damian about the tactics he used to get information out of people or even if the suspects themselves were suspicious at all. The man was still good at his job albeit still somewhat inexperienced. 

Damian stopped by the surveillance room to have a word with Tim before continuing his sweep. Tim looked focused on the many monitors in front of him, sometimes muttering into his walkie to guide one of the other security teams. There were already three empty cups of coffee and another in his hand. Damian scrunched his nose at his coworker's unhealthy caffeine addiction. 

"Drake." 

"Woah, Damian scared me there."

"You can't be very good at your job if you didn't hear the keycard chime or the door opening." Damian narrowed his eyes, he was not one to play games.

Tim rolled his eyes. "Easy Damian, I was kidding. What do you need?"

"The suspect 'Lucky'. When did you deem her to be a potential threat?" He walked further into the office and started looking over the monitors.

Tim spun in his chair to another desk and picked up a notebook. He flipped through the pages until he found the notes he had on the woman. "Let's see. Attractive woman, fair complexion purple dyed hair, sexy powder blue dress, not wearing underwear….didn't need to say that out loud." He mumbled the last bits to himself. 

Damian snapped around, his temper starting to flare. Did Drake think this was a joke? "I didn't ask about her appearance or your sexual attraction to her. I asked when she was deemed a threat Drake." 

Tim nervously chuckled and turned the page. It seemed that he had taken quite a few notes about her appearance. "Here it is, 7:40pm. She had been previously seen roaming the rooms, never staying at a table for too long before moving on. She won or broke even 12 of the 15 times she played. Her behavior was what threw me. When she won she had almost no change in emotion, like she expected the outcome every time. She also made eye contact with every single camera over the course of 3 hours."

"Did she have a particular game she played most? Did she have anyone with her?" Damian snatched the notebook out of his hands and continued reading the notes.

"She spent a lot of time at the black jack tables. And fortunately nobody came in with her." Tim unabashedly grinned.

"Why is that fortunate?" Damian didn't even look up.

"Uh..because that means she's fair game, she's single, flying solo."

Damian looked up and glared. "She is suspected of conning our casino. Your only thoughts of her should be when and where she'll strike harder."

"Oh I know where I want her to strike harder."

"This conversation is over. Report any new information." Damian turned on his heels.

"Was that what this was? A conversation? I always felt like I'd be more excited when this day came." Tim stroked his chin looking amused.

"Shut up, Drake." Damian called over his shoulder before walking out and slamming the door behind him. Was he the only one that took his job seriously? 

Damian crossed the casino floor to the Titan room, which was known for lower stakes bets. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw his current number one suspect leaned casually against the side of a slot machine occupied in conversation with the oncoming bartender, Jason Todd. That imbecile was a constant flirt and would cost the casino thousands by giving 'hot' women free drinks and sneaking himself and his budding freebies too. It looked like Damian's suspect was Todd's target and Damian was pissed.

He stayed back watching their interaction for a few moments to see what the woman was playing at. She seemed to be too intelligent to fall for any of Todd's bullshit, so she must be the one playing him. Todd had one arm propped up on the machine just above her head and the other was toying with the spaces her dress left. Damian swallowed and an unwelcome heat rising to his cheeks and somewhere lower. 

The woman was attractive, there was no denying it. Her skin was ivory and it contrasted well with her shoulder length raven hair. Some strands were dyed a dark purple hue but blended well within the black and was only noticeable when the light reflected off it in just the right way...classy. Damian was accustomed to scantily clad women, short dresses were almost the dress code in Las Vegas and more importantly in the Wayne Casino. Women from all over knew how handsome the owner is and would try anything to be noticed. 

This woman's dress, although it was borderline slutty, something he despised, Damian couldn't help basic emotion of lust flow through him as he took her all in. Damn it, Drake was correct once more. She wasn't wearing underwear. Her powder blue halter dress had a deep v-neckline that showed her full breasts through thin strands that were corseted over the opening. He knew how Drake had come to the conclusion that she had no underwear on, the sides had the same corset look but with a wider gap between the sides of the dress and wider ribbon, this showed much of the skin of her hips and ribs with no obstruction of panties or a bra. The bows at the bottom reached mid thigh,  allowing her smooth shapely legs to remain on display. Her silver strappy heels elongated them even more so and added to her height, she couldn't have been taller than 5'5" without them. The material of her dress looked soft and expensive, not like the cheap clothes most other women here wore. The dress hugged her alluring curves perfectly and made her look like a fucking goddess. 

Damian mentally berated himself for eyeing his prime suspect like that. What annoyed him more was that he didn't want Todd to touch her like he was. Jason's fingers traced the pale skin in between the gaps of ribbon on her hips, leaning in and whispering something in her ear and making her blush and smirk. She reached up and smoothed the collar of his button up shirt, saying something softly back earning a returned smirk from Jason. Jason slid his fingers beneath the ribbon and under the fabric covering her ass. He could see the bartender's attraction to the woman too easily from the way the fabric of his pants stretched. Pathetic. Damian's blood began to boil. Not only was this against policy but that woman was his. His suspect...someone that shouldn't be getting special treatment. 

Damian heard the click of his earpiece as Drake's voice rang through. "That damn bartender. How does he always get so fucking lucky?" 

"Drake, focus. She's under surveillance not available to win her heart. Get back to work and only use this line of communication for work purposes only." Damian growled at him. The other line went silent and Damian refocused himself too. He was about to stop the inappropriate behavior but it seemed that he didn't have to.

He had thought the woman was about to lean up to kiss Todd placing her hand on his chest and he looked ready for it. However, she instead firmly pushed Jason away, cocking her hip and folding her arms. She said something that made Jason's eyebrows fly up and a flush of embarrassment cross his face. The woman cast a glance downwards before casting another remark at him as she patted his shoulder and turned on her heel. 

Damian was shocked to say the least. He had never seen any woman turn Jason Todd down and leave him looking like a wounded puppy. He heard Jason call out to the woman but she made no move to acknowledge him. Suddenly the woman was walking right past Damian slowing briefly to look him in the eye, a playful smile on her pretty lips. She reached up and touched his bicep delicately.

"Would you mind showing me where the ladies room is? I get so lost in here sometimes." Her voice was smooth and low, sultry even. What game was she playing?

Thanks for reading! This is my second ongoing story! The other is a Timrae fic❤

[ghostmartyr]

how a life can move from the darkness [10/?]

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 |

Summary: Two drug addicts (Eren and Historia) meet in group and decide to be roommates to make their  living situation slightly less weird. From there we do the slow burn  found family dance mixed in with the struggles and agonies of recovery. Heavy on friendship feels, especially EMA. Eventual yumikuri.

“How do you keep people from turning into new addictions?”

Eren never liked group.

Being soaked to the bone and listening to every single drip of water adding to the puddle under his chair while he tried to towel himself off without making a scene didn’t do anything to make the feeling go away. His sneakers were soggy masses of sponge glued to his socks. His jacket was in a useless, sodden heap under the cookie table.

Historia wasn’t doing much better. Worse, maybe, since she’d taken one of Petra’s towels with distracted obedience before bringing her real focus to powering her way through as much therapy as she could in as little time as possible. Her towel was slung over her shoulders like a limp ferret.

Petra had a collection by the door for rainy days. Just in case. No one else had taken one.

Eren should have grabbed more, but he was in his squeaky plastic chair, and habit said he wasn’t allowed to leave the squeaky plastic chair until he’d sat still in it long enough to wonder if the car crash had killed him and this was what he was stuck with for the rest of ever.

He didn’t like group.

He liked Petra, and her calm, steady tone when her pen clacked against her clipboard and she asked if anyone wanted to start them out. He liked the few seconds he wasn’t thinking about the water dripping down his neck and under his shirt. Then the work started, and he had to figure out words for wanting to break his body into pieces until he came back right.

All the jagged edges chafed and reminded. Petra wasn’t the one who would take that away.

But she made it easier to push the pieces back into place. And to figure out where that place even was.

So when Historia asked her question, watching Petra with the feverish concentration that said it was the first and only thing she ever should have asked when she found out she wanted better, and Petra’s eyes shot to Eren, he sat up straight and listened. His shoes squelched on the floor. His eyes were probably just as hungry.

“It is very easy to displace addictive tendencies,” Petra started. “I won’t count the number of you who take smoke breaks after this, but I think we can all agree that when something has consumed so much of our life, walking away and leaving that hole is almost impossible. Maybe we’ve kept from filling it up with the same poisons, but it’s there, and we’ve come to depend on it. We’ve rewired ourselves to want the pattern to keep going, even when it ruins everything.”

Hundreds of unanswered texts buzzed in Eren’s pocket. Dozens of dents pounded into his fists.

The fucking orange bottles.

He breathed through his nose. He answered his texts now. It was fine. If it wasn’t yet, he’d make it.

“A lot of the time, we don’t even notice. We’re so used to going through our life that way, and working so hard to keep away from our vices, that we completely miss that we’ve found a new one. Depressive episodes turn into somewhere that’s safe to stay as long as we aren’t on drugs.” Petra eyed Eren again. “Anger is a natural emotion, so there’s nothing strange about always feeling it. Finding a new place to put it becomes as much of a habit as anything else.”

Eren’s hands clamped compulsively on his towel. The threads caught in his fingernails the way dust on the baseball diamond got stuck under them after a long practice.

“Adding people into it makes a complicated thing even harder. Especially the people we’ve kept, who want us to be doing well. Someone like that turns into a beacon, not a person, so our relationships become strained.”

Historia interrupted and Eren was almost glad for it. She leaned forward in her chair while scattered raindrops fell from her head. “How do you stop that?” she asked.

Petra didn’t miss a beat. “Boundaries.”

Historia waited. The chair’s weight fell on its front legs. “What if it’s someone you don’t want boundaries with?”

Or someone who had a weird concept of what they were. Like a girl who showed up to make breakfast in someone else’s home, or a guy who had dinner regularly with his step-mother but not his brother.

The two people who understood the rules had never stepped out of the box Eren made for them, and it had made him crazy to need it.

“Then they’re even more important,” Petra said. She repositioned her clipboard on her lap, letting her pen roll to the edge and zoning in on Historia. “We all have people we want to be close to. Sometimes we want to share everything with them. We want them to be part of us so strongly that we lose track of who we are without them. Who we are stops mattering without them.”

She didn’t look at Eren again. All of her attention went to Historia, who had lost any color she had left in her skin. Eren didn’t think she’d blinked the whole conversation. He wasn’t sure he had, either.

“No one can make it through the world alone, but we’re still individuals. Who you are,” Petra said, turning to the whole circle, “matters beyond who you are connected to. Healthy relationships have everyone involved remembering that. For people who are just now rediscovering who they are, the obvious danger is losing yourself in the high of something new and wonderful.

“So you find your boundaries. Yours and theirs. Focus on where you begin and where you end, and learn where to find them. Then, you work together to discover how you fit.” Petra settled back, smiling her easy, gentle smile that promised help. “Addiction drives us to lose ourselves in whatever will take us. Moving forward is always about reclaiming, or gaining more of yourself. You want to build relationships that make that easier, not harder. If the relationship itself is hindering that, you know there’s a problem, and, well.”

Comfort. It shone straight out of her. That was what made Petra worth listening to even when she said the stupid thing that stupid people had been telling Eren even before he downed his first pill. She believed it. She believed deep down that all the broken people she talked to would be okay. “There is a saying about that being the first step to recovery.”

----

By the time Petra recruited Eren to dump the soaked towels back in the car, it was no longer raining, and he could hold his jacket near him without feeling like he was holding Benjamin.

They hadn’t gotten off the relationship kick. Daz had managed to adopt the cat that lived in his drug dealer’s alley. Samuel, who didn’t have a leg to be broken, was wondering about when the right time was to bring up why he wasn’t barhopping with his new coworkers.

Eren had only mentioned Zeke once. When that was too many, he forced through how he only had Mikasa and Armin at all because they’d been better than anyone had the right to expect. He’d earned the circle a reminder of how they didn’t get to choose how the world around perceived them. Historia’s whole body had flinched, but by that point the embarrassment and past guilt was more choking than any present guilt.

More to work on.

“Do either of you drive?” Petra asked, opening her trunk. “You didn’t have to walk here in the rain.”

“We don’t have a car,” Eren said.

She shoved several beds of blankets and a sandbag to the side to make room for the pile Eren and Historia had created after helping out with drying the floor they’d soaked. “Uber works, too.”

“It isn’t a long walk.”

Petra never made sudden stops. She flowed into her movements, even stillness. Annie and Mikasa moved the same way. Years of training in something. Petra smoothed out her shirt and considered him. “Can you drive?” she asked.

Wet tires rolled across the parking lot, smearing puddles and keeping the damp silence from sticking to anything.

“Yeah,” Eren said. “I can drive. I’m the one driving half of Zeke’s team to parties after games.”

“Even though you don’t own a car?”

“It’s Zeke’s car,” Eren said.

Petra took the towels from his stiff arms and tossed them easily into her car. She watched him throughout the movement, and Eren wanted to hate, the way he hated himself and Zeke and anyone who tried to give a damn about him, but the hook about patterns and anger was too fresh to pick at and he could hear his heart in his ears with the steady thump that didn’t belong to thrown tennis balls against a wall they belonged to a body hitting a mat or a windshield.

The cold didn’t feel so cold. The outside of his skin matched.

“He lets you drive,” Petra said, with Frieda’s gentleness.

Eren nodded.

Petra knew the thin details.

“He’s your brother on your father’s side, isn’t he?”

“Right.”

Petra knew more about everything else in Eren’s life, because she was too good and too responsible to zone out during group and forget who the people she was helping even were. She was the one who had Eren thinking to count how many times he brought up his brother. She didn’t barrel in without consideration. She asked, “Have you ever talked to him about what happened?”

Eren froze up. Working his jaw felt like bending steel. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Petra carefully patted the disorganized clump of towels into a corner and smiled back at him. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” She stood up straight and squeezed his shoulder. Eren, in a way he hadn’t felt for weeks, had trouble meeting her eyes.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” she said. “You just seem to be looking for something more from him, and…” She paused, and Eren was back in his chair for the first time. “No one likes being vulnerable, but having someone to share it with can be very rewarding. That’s all. You still get to pick if you want that or not.”

“I don’t,” Eren said. Like they were the only words available. He sounded like the small kid Zeke would actually try with for a painful second.

“That’s fine,” Petra said. In another place, if he were a different person, her step forward probably would have made for an okay hug. She kept smiling at him, and he couldn’t make the corners of his mouth do anything. “But being able to go somewhere without the weather getting in your way would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Droplets of water were still spilling out of his bangs, and all of his shrugs dampened his chin. Out of everything she’d said, that was the easiest thing of the day to nod to.

----

Somewhere, Eren had stopped slamming doors. Not when Mikasa came to stay with them. Not when his dad asked him, speaking in the tolerant tone that said Eren was misbehaving and it was expected, to be kinder to his home. Maybe when the therapist told him he should find less destructive outlets and some words had slipped in through the drugs and screaming at her. Maybe when he shared a room with Reiner, who jumped at every unexpected noise.

Somewhere. Close to when he moved back with his mom and put one last step of trying in before giving up and whaling on the walls.

Somewhere, he’d put a lid on himself, and steaming mad, he could walk through a door and close it like what Armin called a civilized member of society.

He could leave a family dinner without exploding. He could tromp the cleats he’d never asked for back through his front door without giving anyone a reason to think there was something wrong.

Everyone in his apartment, being Ymir and Historia, was too asleep to look up and see the reasons written all over his face. They probably appreciated his self-control. Eren would have appreciated Historia being awake. Not at the cost of Ymir being awake. But the heat in his chest wanted to be screamed if it couldn’t be thrown out into pieces of the building, and he was starting to need someone to listen when the rage hit.

Other good habits. Always needing someone else. He couldn’t just fix himself and keep everyone out of it. Not that he ever could.

The bitterness was hard to keep, with Historia and Ymir on the couch, trying to fuse themselves permanently together in their sleep. An empty pizza box was strewn on the floor by their feet.

Eren slouched over to Benjamin’s tank and sunk to the floor. Unreasonably jealous and stupid. Dinner with them would have been a better kind of weird. A kind of weird that belonged.

Better than walking out into the deep night air and having his mom squish him into a hug that took away all the cold rage that had spent an hour and years building. “Eren,” she’d said, voice alive with good humor, “you do have to tell him at some point that you want things to change. Or of course they won’t.”

She’d let go, and taken all of the comfort with her. Leaving him with him.

“Eren?”

Eren’s head whipped to the couch. Drowsy blue eyes peered at him from over Ymir’s shirt.

“Yeah. Hey.”

Historia shifted, carefully tucking her head under Ymir’s chin without disrupting her snuffled snores. “How was dinner?” she asked blearily.

She should have stayed asleep. The frustration and Zeke had expanded into his throat and waited through every mouthful to pop, held off by his mom and the enforced calm of trying not to do this to everyone who put up with him ever week, still buzzing under his skin and making sitting still hurt, even with Benjamin’s soothing tank noises so close, and—

Zeke had nodded his customary goodbye, and Eren had nodded back, not saying anything.

The balloon of anger deflated. “The way it always is,” Eren said.

Historia watched him, far away from his problems in the safety of Ymir’s arms bruising her ribs.

“She can’t always be right!” Eren remembered shouting. Four, and five, and eight, and ten, and the injustice of his mom knowing more about the world than he did being flung into the ears of anyone who would listen.

Armin and Mikasa. Mostly.

His dad used to listen. He would listen, and his glasses would glint in the lamplight—the way Zeke’s still did—and he would say, too calmly to possibly understand, “You accuse Armin of that sin often enough.”

Their dad hadn’t known what to do with Zeke either. It was always his mom making things work. Never Zeke. Never his dad. Never Eren.

Watching Historia, whose forehead was starting to fold together with a concern Ymir usually kept her too calm to feel, the question slipped out without a thought.

“What’s having a sister like?”

Concern popped into confusion. “Probably like having a brother?”

The perplexed blankness on Historia’s face didn’t do much for the leftover bristles in Eren’s shoulders. He shrugged without following up with anything helpful. Wondering if he should have even bothered asking. Historia and Frieda were their own complicated. Normal siblings didn’t bring over ice cream to hide that they were watching their baby sister sleep because they were afraid of her dying.

“If you texted her more often, she’d probably back off on that. Or if you talked to her at all.”

He was used to Historia getting it. He was used to Historia being like him. Even if it wasn’t the same at all. He was used to watching his brother keep his hands off everything Eren did unless he had an explicit invitation, and Historia was used to letting her sister believe that her most extreme fussing was a secret. Loving Frieda enough to stay alive for her hadn’t made them closer. It was just one more thing Historia didn’t talk to her about.

Frieda showed up to fill the silence anyway.

“…Do you mean,” Historia asked, “what it’s supposed to be like?”

Eren nodded stiffly.

Historia was quiet so long Eren wondered if that was the end of it. Or if Ymir would wake up and throw her dysfunction into the mix.

She snored away, relaxed enough to make Eren feel like he was intruding in his own living room, and Historia spoke. Slowly. Not looking at him, and not seeing the floor her gaze had stopped at.

“It’s like they’re safe,” she said. His ears strained to catch the words. “They don’t know all of you, and you don’t know all of them, but they decide you belong, because they have a piece of you inside of them. No matter what happens, you’re part of them, so whoever you are is allowed.”

Historia refocused on him. Uncertain, but present. Awake and nudging herself back into the crook of Ymir’s neck, prompting a sleepy, muffled squeak that Ymir would hate Eren hearing. Historia kept going, and he kept listening.

“When she found out what I did…” Historia stopped. Her eyes shut. “Ymir said that it only made sense to cut out family who called themselves that without really being it.” Her eyes opened, and inexplicably, she smiled. “It was the worst thing anyone had ever said to me about him.”

“She was right,” Eren said flatly.

“Yeah.” Historia, nestled comfortably in Ymir’s death grip, added, like she was reading something off their grocery list, “I think that’s when I started falling in love with her.”

Historia was the only person he knew who made things like that sound real. Like Armin when he was tripping through tanbark with a new library book, talking about things neither of them had ever seen. Without the sparkle. Just a weird truth that was never going to be anything else.

Eren swallowed down the limp, rubbery balloon of bristling rage, and let the ground come back to him.

“My mom says I have to tell him I want things to be different for them to be,” he said. He didn’t point out that no one ever had to tell Zeke anything about scheduling games, or filling team rosters, or booking rooms in pizza parlors for parties he didn’t even like.

He’d done that in group, with water dripping down from his ears loudly enough to disguise the grate of the whining.

“You could invite him to lunch,” Historia said, void of inflection.

“Dinner’s weird enough.”

They fed the silence together for a bit. The same waiting cluelessness they’d shared before he cared she was a person. A little less quietly than everything else, Historia said, “I still can’t talk to Frieda.”

“She’d like hearing what you said before,” Eren said. “You could just say that once in a while.”

Historia pressed her head into Ymir’s chest. “I think every time we talk I remind her of everything that went wrong.” The frown lines in her forehead shaded in. “She wants me to forget even though she can’t. I can’t think of anything to say that would stop that.”

Eren fiddled with his shoelaces, scuffed with baseball dust. Frieda’s face—too much like Historia’s, too much like his mom’s, too much like Ymir’s—carried all those memories with her every time she walked through the door. The haze of hot chocolate brought it out even when she wouldn’t.

“Mom said,” Eren said, prodding the knot his cleats wouldn’t let go of, “the reason things were never okay with Dad and Zeke was because Dad couldn’t think of a way to fix things.” He ripped the knot free. “So he just went forward without trying. Zeke never got over it. There wasn’t ever a real reason for him to.”

A million and one scenes could play out from their childhoods, over and over, of Eren and Zeke, big brother and little brother, mother and step-mom ruffling their heads, and Dad wouldn’t ever fit right.

He was only the missing piece to the smaller version.

“They look alike,” he said suddenly. “I don’t look anything like him, but Zeke looks like my—our dad. A lot. More when he still had a beard. He started shaving after rehab.” Eren kicked off his cleats, rolling them towards the front door. “I don’t know why he never did that before. He hated it whenever someone said something about them looking alike. Any time someone brought Dad up around him, that was all they ever talked about. He hated it. He hated him.”

“…Did you?” Historia asked.

“No.” Not once. “I had a good dad.”

One Zeke had never wanted and wouldn’t ever know.

Eren could feel it. The thing, way beyond the broken leg and hate. The thing that said there weren’t enough pills in the bottle his mom picked up for him. The bottomless loss that people kept thinking Zeke could understand when he never would. Pain.

He dug his palms into his eyes and willed the tears away before they could force him into the kind of sobs that Ymir wouldn’t be able to sleep through. His hands felt like sandpaper over his cheeks.

The couch creaked, and through the spots and blur, Eren could see Historia switching her perch from Ymir to the edge. She kept one of Ymir’s hands, holding it to her neck like she was expecting a noose around her throat.

“Frieda had a good father too,” she said softly. “He’s not what made us family. She is. He’s just why we met.”

Eren’s fingers threaded through his hair. Like his mom had earlier, when she pulled at his ear and told him growing out his hair wouldn’t grow him out of making his life harder than it had to be. Or like Zeke did the first time he helped him put on a helmet. “When did Frieda decide on you?”

Historia toyed with Ymir’s hand, and hesitated just enough for Eren to catch the crack in her voice. “When she found out about me.”

Fresh tears sprouted, and Eren coughed in choked surprise. “Yeah,” he said, “that sounds like her.”

“Yeah.”

Maybe Eren should have headed to the kitchen and started the hot chocolate before sitting down under Benjamin. The impulse to get up and do that now instead of letting the suffocating emotion in any deeper ran as thick as the embarrassing thought that Frieda herself would have been even more of a comfort.

Ymir snorted, making both of them jump. Somehow that pulled Historia even deeper into her arms. Eren didn’t think either of them minded, even if Historia did squeak at the proximity change. Or maybe Ymir whispering her name after was what did it.

They were a million times worse than Hannah and Franz ever were. It should have been disgusting. Ymir being so happy was still weird. Then Historia being happy at all was a relief, and something in all of it evened out.

“So when are you gonna tell Ymir you’ve decided on her?” he asked her.

“When I establish my personal boundaries,” Historia mumbled into Ymir.

They hadn’t bothered leaving many lights on for their nap on the couch together, but that Ymir glow never needed much help. Eren could feel a smile on his face twitching to match the shine in hers.

“She’d probably say yes if you asked her out.”

“Mm.”

“Holding off this long starts to make you look scared.”

Ruffled, the parts of Historia not completely buried in Ymir leveled an unimpressed scowl at Eren that mostly said he was right. “I’m working on it,” she said frostily. “Like you’re working on talking to your brother.”

Eren clapped his mouth shut and returned the scowl through the superior glint in Historia’s eyes.

Somehow, it felt like one of his lighter ones.

----

“See? Right there?”

Movies used to be a weekly thing for them. New ones. In theaters. They’d sneak in their own candy, find the thing no one else was watching, and jump into the front row. They’d done it so many times the staff at five different theaters knew them by name.

“I… no?”

There were things about it Eren had forgotten.

“You—what?” Armin blinked several times, looking between his phone and Eren. He enlarged the blur. “What about now?”

He was vibrating, flush with indignation and exclamation points in his eyes.

He was an Armin Eren hadn’t seen in over a year, and Eren would have gotten thrown out of a hundred more movies to find him again.

That didn’t do anything to clear up what it was Armin thought was worth getting thrown out of this first one. Eren leaned in closer to the phone to humor him. The black on black blur, helped by Armin’s fingers one more time, leaned in back, turning into a clump of pixels.

“It’s… a backpack?”

“Yes!”

Eren sat back in their bench, basking in the warmth of Armin’s enthusiasm, and strangling the lingering guilt trying to creep up when it felt too much like home. “Is the backpack important?”

“No, it’s what’s in the backpack—look, there!”

The blur stayed a blur.

Armin stayed vibrating, bright as a star.

“I don’t see it,” Eren said.

Armin’s finger poked the center of the blur. “It’s a power cord,” he said.

Eren tilted his head to the side. A small sliver of shadow, just barely caught in the picture, was directly under Armin’s fingernail. Enough to maybe be something, and Armin, who’d noticed enough to pull out his phone and snap off a dozen pictures, said it was something. There wasn’t much room for argument.

“They were running around the house for an hour,” Armin said. “The room they barricaded themselves in had five outlets. The jump into the lake messed up most of their phones, but he didn’t swim. His just ran out of battery, but they didn’t edit out his power cord from his backpack! You can see it.”

Armin furiously unzoomed from the image, bringing back the full, grainy shot of the giant screen they’d been sitting six feet away from. “They didn’t even try to hide it. And it wasn’t on purpose! This is right after they dumped all their bags out on the table to see what they had, and the power cord wasn’t there. Look—” Armin flicked away from the photo and on to a video of the main character swinging his backpack on.

Eren, obediently, looked.

The black backpack swung by the light, the camera angle switched, switched back, and—

A power cord.

“That’s pretty bad,” Eren said, looking at the tiny set of pixels no one but Armin was going to notice before a home release.

“It’s ridiculous,” Armin said. He settled back in the bench, frowning furiously at the small video that had yanked them out of their seats.

Eren didn’t know how he’d forgotten this part. He remembered him, and Armin, and usually Mikasa, and the candy, and the sticky floors, and the way Armin’s eyes would light up when the previews started. He remembered excited plans to see whatever was on the posters in the hallways, and him and Mikasa standing back and letting Armin teach them everything there was to know about the thing they were about to watch.

He remembered it all being so normal he never even thought about remembering it.

Then Armin’s phone was going off in the front row, and he was buzzing more than it could, and a million hushed arguments with ushers played back in Eren’s head.

“Oh.”

Eren shook himself back, where Armin had stopped buzzing, and was looking at him. The voice inside that called that dangerous took a second for him to stamp out. Armin was great practice. Sometimes too great. “Oh?”

Armin, with the same uncertainty Eren could hear when he asked about seeing a movie, smiled, and pocketed his phone. “I don’t want you to feel strange about it,” he started, “but… you’re smiling again.”

In a move that made Eren glad Mikasa couldn’t make it, his hand went up to his mouth and checked. Instead of the deep etches the mirror usually caught, there were smooth, relaxed lines that perked up at the corners.

“Oh,” Eren repeated.

The bench dug into his jeans. Armin’s gentle, smiling hope was impossible to look at, and Eren’s ears were bleeding from the strain of that beam shining right on him.

“Sorry we didn’t get to see the end of the movie.”

“It’s fine.” Eren took a breath and told the truth. “I’d rather hang out with you anyway.”

Awkward. Unless Eren burned everything to the ground one more time, they’d have things fixed and perfect before he ever got used to it. Armin wasn’t awkward. Armin was what made all the fog in Eren’s head clear out.

Right now, they were both fog, and Armin’s arms wrapped around each other like snakes under his red face. “We—uh. Maybe it’s a bad time,” Armin said, “but since we’re talking about movies, I still have your DVD player.”

Oh.

Armin rushed through the next words. “You—I was borrowing it when—so it’s in my room. I know you and Historia don’t have a TV, so it’s probably not easy to watch things. I could bring it over, if you want? Or maybe, if you wanted, since there’s time now—”

“No.”

He could hear his heart beating louder than the word. Armin still shut up like he’d screamed it.

He wasn’t smiling anymore. It felt like a personal failure. Everything from his mouth down was made of boiling sludge that was more useless for explaining why, for saying sorry, for all the yelling he wouldn’t do, and Armin was sitting there doing nothing wrong.

Eren took a breath. Somehow.

“Some other time,” he said. Like a person.

“Sure,” Armin said. Like the bullet he dodged was inside him anyway.

Awkward had been better.

Eren didn’t want to be ‘like’ anything. He wanted to make it all the way back.

“What do you want to see next?”

Armin’s head jerked up from boring a hole in his knees. “Huh?”

“We didn’t get to finish the movie, and I don’t think they’ll let us back in,” Eren said, keeping his voice light and steady. “If this one’s a bust, what do you want to go see instead? We’ve still got an afternoon to kill.”

He didn’t have anyone to blame but himself for the cautious way Armin looked at him. Rabid animals bit. No one in their right mind wanted to stick their hand through the bars, and Armin was Armin. He had every kind of sense and several more besides.

Just not the one that kept him away from Eren. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Armin popped off the bench. “If we hurry, downtown is screening Rear Window this week?”

It took a second. Eren’s footing felt as slow as his brain, fragments of speech catching up to him like scooped shells out of a tide pool. He could taste the salt before any kind of response skittered out of his mouth. “Again?” he asked, the tease hollow but close enough to count. So he counted it. “How many times have you seen that?”

The sun came out on Armin’s face, too open to hide the relief backing his smile. “It’s a classic, Eren.”

“It’s why Mom took our telescope away.” Easier. Less hollow.

More like how things were meant to be. In that moment, watching Armin’s eyes glitter and his pace pick up until he was practically skipping, it was like they’d never been anything else at all.

The goal wasn’t supposed to be to run back to exactly how things were. Eren wasn’t an idiot. He knew that wouldn’t happen. Even when Historia figured her stuff out and didn’t want him interrupting couch time anymore, things weren’t going to bounce back to him and Armin lying upside down on their cramped balcony while they argued over which movies got to stay on their list.

But running down the sidewalk at Armin’s heels, chasing down the rest of their afternoon, Eren felt like some limb he’d been missing had snapped back into place.

[next]

[blog-sliverofjade]

Hearth Fires 15: Conflicted

Pairing: Remi Denier x OFC

Summary:  Lorel Maddox just wants to live as a human, run her bakery in peace, and forget. Unfortunately, the alpha of the local leopard pack has very different ideas.

Remi Denier doesn’t know what to make of the female changeling who wants nothing to do with him or the RainFire pack. He does know that he has a driving need to protect her. Even if it’s from herself.

While they’re embroiled in a battle of wills, there’s a war brewing on the horizon. The outside threat could not only destroy everything they hold dear, but tear apart the fragile new bonds of the Trinity Accord, plunging the world into bloodshed to rival the Territorial Wars of centuries past.

Word count: 3685

Hearth Fires Masterlist

Beta read by the precious @pandabearer​

          The small, green valley was thrown into early twilight by the forested mountains that protected the Arrow settlement.  The children were playing their hearts out, as if trying to eke out that much more life before the day’s end.  Judd Lauren, inarguably a lethal blade of a man, made a mix of cubs, pups, and psy give chase before allowing them to swarm him.  Remi shook his head; he was still amazed that the assassin was capable of laughter, let alone could play with children with such care.

       “I’ve asked around and a couple of other packs around the country are experiencing the same issues, mostly in places where there was already anti-psy sentiment.  Word is they’re running militia training camps,” he said to the man who led some of the most dangerous people in the world.  “Have the psy been having similar problems?” 

      Before Aden could answer, a baby leopard bounded up to bat playfully at Remi’s boots, tail swishing back and forth.  He scooped up the cub for a tap on the nose and a quick cuddle before sending her off to rejoin the game.

       “No,” Aden answered when they were alone again, watching his wife clean up the aftermath of a sugar-fuelled feeding frenzy.  Even though Halloween was still a few weeks off, Zaira had brought candy; the cubs and pups enthusiastically introduced their psy playmates to the concept of Halloween and trick-or-treating.  Remi suspected she didn’t grasp the concept of the holiday and was just using it as an excuse to spoil the children.  Heaven knew the baby Arrows could certainly do with the occasional spoiling, and she knew that better than anyone.

      Envy sank its claws into him.  The Arrow pair weren’t mated in the changeling sense, yet they had an unbreakable bond that was obvious even to the non-telepathic races.  He yearned to know what it was like to be so intimately connected with someone who suited him on every level.  A predatory changeling alpha needed a mate by his side, someone who knew when to bend and when to show their claws, someone who would help their pack grow and thrive.  He wanted someone he could trust enough to let his guard down and just be.  No duties, not dominant, not alpha, just Remi.

      Compared to most alphas, he’d taken some time to wake up to his alpha instincts.  Once that need overrode his reservations, he’d gone about it with the laser-like focus of an apex predator. However, there were some aspects he hadn’t anticipated.  At first, some of the women tried to climb the hierarchy by climbing into his bed.  He’d shut that down right away, making it crystal clear that intimate skin privileges between packmates would in no way impact one’s position either positively or negatively.

      Ever since then, he’d been sure to never pay too much attention to any one partner when his need for intimate skin privileges grew too much.  He’d inherited too many of his father’s traits that had turned dark after his mother passed.  He would be driven to take and possess a lover entirely, demanding complete sexual submission.  Dominant changeling women weren’t exactly known for their surrendering natures, and any paramour he took would have to be dominant.  Any other personality would be crushed by him simply being who he was.  The fragile equilibrium of the new pack couldn’t handle such an imbalanced relationship.

      A submissive couldn’t fight against a dominant, especially against sexual aggression from someone in a position of power; it was against their very nature.  And he would slit his own throat before he shed the blood of any of his people, before he turned into the monster that stalked his darkest nightmares.  He’d simply come to accept that being alone was the price he had to pay in exchange for the family he’d built.

      “On top of that, we’ve had a perimeter breach in the eastern and northern sectors.”  The second occurrence had been reported when Remi’d been arguing with Lorelei; he’d had to see her safely home before going to investigate.  He’d bullied her into shifting to her other form by threatening to throw her over his shoulder and carrying her if she didn’t.  The obstinate ocelot went into the change still wearing his shirt.  His scent, already coating her in a superficial layer from wearing his tee, spread more evenly on her body when the fabric inevitably disintegrated.  That had satisfied something primal, deep below the conscious level.

      Coming of age in a brutal pack had irreparably changed him.  He managed the violence that lived in him by directing it at those who would harm his people, but those same drives darkened to a sexual hunger when it came to her.  He was rapidly becoming addicted to her.  Unfortunately, his drug of choice was touch averse, specifically his touch.  He hated the loss of control, feeling like a juvenile fresh from his first kill again.  The pack needed him to keep his head on his shoulders, not lose it sniffing after a female.

      “You’re getting harder,” Tien had said as he’d driven her home.  It wasn’t a criticism: it was concern from one packmate to another.  His touch hunger was already causing friction and there weren’t enough mated pairs at the higher end of the hierarchy to counteract the instability.  And the only person he wanted to sate that need with was dividing his attention.

      “She’s a liability.”  If they thought he wasn’t doing right by the pack, especially if he was focused on an outsider to their detriment, he’d soon be facing challenges, and that would tear them apart when they were already facing outside dangers.  

      “Not everyone’s built for combat, that doesn’t mean they have nothing to contribute.”  She misinterpreted his flat statement and defended the submissive, an arch statement reminding him that neither end of the power hierarchy was worth more or less than the other.   That was what maternals did, protective in their own way.

      He knew that better than most.  Lorelei’s strength shone whenever she was in the same room with him; annoying as it was, he respected the hell out of her for standing up to him.  What his father had forgotten, or perhaps never known, was that strength wasn’t always physical; a person’s value couldn’t be calculated in terms of how much blood they could shed.  He would never understand how his father could have treated their most physically vulnerable as unworthy of respect.  It ultimately led to his downfall.

      “That’s not what I meant, Tien,” he’d growled, hands tightening on the manual controls until the wheel groaned in protest.  “She poses a security risk.  I never should have let her so deep into our territory.”  They had changed the site of the autumn barbecue at the last minute to one more distant from where they made their homes at the heart of their land.  But with several non-predatory changelings disappearing in the area recently, his instincts were driving him to keep his people protected deep within their territory and ban anyone who wasn’t fully allied with RainFire. 

      Changelings of any stripe needed freedom; too many restrictions, even if they were for protection, stifled them.  The proper balance of safety and freedom gave cubs a firm foundation and the safety to develop their strength and personalities.  It was an alpha’s honour to ensure cubs have what they need to flourish, not crush them by keeping them tightly confined without room to grow.

      “She’s a baker, hardly a master spy.  What’s she going to do?  Steal Avery’s cheesecake recipes?” she’d scoffed.  “What she is, is scared.  I don’t think she knows how to stop protecting herself; it’s why she’s short-tempered.”

      Remi had a different interpretation on that.  He’d kept his reservations about her stability to himself, not even warning his sentinels.  That was the true risk she posed: he was already keeping secrets from the soldiers who shed their blood in defense of RainFire because he wanted to protect an outsider when all his energies should be focused on safeguarding his people, not divided between them and a woman he couldn’t have.

      When she went feral, and there was no doubt in his mind that she would if she didn’t learn to balance her two aspects, he would be the one to take her down.  It would be his responsibility because he would have failed both her and his pack, which meant he could not permit that outcome to come to pass.

      “Physical reconnaissance?”  The question wrenched Remi from his musings.

      “Seems like,” he said grimly.  They still hadn’t been able to pinpoint who was behind the incursions and it was maddening.  A stray breeze blew his hair back into his face and he shoved it back with one hand; he needed a haircut otherwise he’d soon need hair ties.

      “I could have the squad monitor for any related activity, although the possibility of finding any evidence is minute.”  A smile lit up Aden’s face as he watched his mate attempting to settle a squabble between a cub and a baby Arrow with cool logic.

      “Don’t waste manpower, but I’d appreciate any intel passed our way.”  The elite military unit protected the heart and conscience of the psy race: the empaths.  Aden would never sacrifice their greater mission for RainFire’s sake; it was an unspoken understanding between the two men.  Despite their differences, they both had an adamantine core of integrity, and both had been forged in crucibles of the cruellest kind.  “I’ll send the info on the missing changelings.”  

      A wolf couple roaming in the area had disappeared sometime over the past week; he’d only known because they’d failed to check in during the window of time they said they would be leaving as arranged when they’d asked for permission to be in his territory.  Two of the most powerful Tk’s he knew, one of them a true teleporter, had already tried to teleport to the two missing, using their faces as a lock and both had failed, which meant that they had either been disfigured or were dead.

      Normally spending time with the cubs soothed even his worst moods, yet today it sat uneasily on him that he was on a playdate instead of searching for the wolves; his overdeveloped drive to protect was punishing him.  Logically, he knew that the children needed to play with their friends before the semi-monthly gatherings would be disrupted by the holiday season.  The pups and cubs were more flexible and would be fine until the new year; it was the psy who needed the foundation of routine, and even though they weren’t his in the strictest sense, it wasn’t in him to hurt a child, no matter how obliquely.  

      Aden Kai, a scary motherfucker who could create an impregnable shield that could deflect bullets back along their trajectories, smiled, hard eyes softening as Zaira climbed the rise towards them.  A faint line between her brows was the only indication of her apparent puzzlement, and held up two identical cups.

      “Tavish and Jasper are in disagreement over who gets the blue cup.  These are both blue.  I’m not familiar with Logan’s medical history, but no visual impairments were noted at Owen’s last physical.”

      Remi’s shoulders shook with laughter as the two lethal Arrows looked to him for advice, perplexed.  If only all of his problems were simply bickering cubs.

 FROM: Zayaan Derici <email redacted>

TO: Lorel Maddox <email redacted>

October 15, 2083  2:30PM

Subject: RE: Fion and Mila Caine, RedRock

       I cannot express my gratitude for your parents saving my life from our rogue member nor can I convey the depth of sorrow I’ve carried with me all these years, yet I know that it’s merely a drop compared to your loss.

       Your parents were fine, courageous people.  If you would like to know the details of what happened, I will gladly provide them, but I didn’t want to burden you with the knowledge before you were ready.

       I’m ashamed that I didn’t look for you; I’d forgotten they had a little girl.  Please forgive me, you would have been “a baby” in my 10-year-old mind.  When I was older, I tried to find their relatives, but RedRock’s records were destroyed in a fire that night.  I was astonished when your alpha reached out to me and elated when I received your email.

       You may wish to move on and not re-visit this tragedy.  I would not fault you for that, but I hope to hear from you again.  I’ve attached a picture of my two cubs, Fiona and Mila; they are named after your parents.

       Gratefully yours,

       Devon Gutierrez

        Two days passed without incident: no ultimatums, earth-shattering maxims, moments of bloodthirsty madness, and definitely no arguments with a certain autocratic leopard.  One would think that would be restful, and yet, no matter how many times she gave herself a firm talking to, Lorel found herself restive.

      The longing she felt for him was stronger than mere lust, which was something she’d more or less dealt with on her own since puberty.  It was like her very skin ached for touch and without it, she felt untethered from the earth, like she didn’t exist without tactile contact to anchor her.  His touch had fanned her ever-present hunger to a voracious need that kept her awake at nights no matter how many times she used her battery-operated boyfriend.

      Lorel was grateful that Irena, who was across the workspace from her, didn’t appear to have the same sense of smell that cat changelings had, otherwise she’d never be able to look her in the eye again.

      “Irena, could you please pass me the passionfruit?”

      “Depends, will you get me that gorgeous cat’s number?” she asked, handing over the bowl with a mischievous grin.

      “I don’t think he’s looking,” she shook her head with a rueful smile and began to cut the purple fruit.

      “Damn.  Wouldn’t mind getting eaten by a cat, if you know what I mean.”  Looking up briefly from the sugar cookies she was cutting out, she waggled perfectly manicured eyebrows.  This week’s designs were ghosts, pumpkins, and witches’ hats.

      “Irena!”  Her knife slipped and juice squirted down her apron.

      The crow laughed gaily at Lorel’s shock, the sound filling the kitchen.  It was still early and they were preparing for the day; they didn’t have to worry about scandalizing customers yet.

      “Can I ask you a personal question?” she asked once she’d recovered from the embarrassment.  “And if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, I will make sure you get all the early morning shifts during the holiday season.”  She jabbed a warning finger at Irena; SweetCheeks would have to start baking at 3 am, two hours earlier than usual, to meet projected seasonal demand.

      She shuddered and nodded acquiescence, waiting for Lorel to continue. 

      “Do alphas, or wing leaders,” she added, remembering the avian-specific term Irena used, “have certain… expectations of packmates?”

      “Uh, depends on the person and the needs of the flight, or pack.”  Her dark brows drew together when she looked up briefly from the dough.

      “No, I mean single pack members.”

      “What, you mean like one of them cults where the guy in charge sleeps with all the women?  No, that is not normal.  I won’t say it’s never happened, but people can be evil.”  Hazel eyes aghast, she shook her head furiously.  “I haven’t heard anything like that about RainFire, and we’re on good terms with them.”

      Lorel had not only heard of instances of alphas becoming corrupt and taking advantage of those they were meant to care for, she’d also been forced to watch documentaries on them.  Ostensibly, it was to protect her from becoming a victim of the depraved culture of changeling packs.  While she didn’t think that authoritarianism was the default culture of packs, neither had she known exactly how abhorrent such occurrences were considered among changelings.  She could smell Irena’s scent sour at the thought despite the competing aromas coming from the ovens.

      Face warming, Lorel sketched in with broad strokes what had taken place in the woods the week before, never looking up from her work.

      “Kissing between packmates is usually more like kissing a sibling.  That sounds more like he’s looking for intimate skin privileges,” frowned Irena.

      The kiss between them had been the farthest thing from that.  It had been wild and sensual and like nothing she had ever experienced before.  When she woke from fitful dreams in the bits of sleep she did manage to get, she swore that she could still taste him on her lips.

      “And if there was a misunderstanding, like someone thought he was abusing his position as alpha?”  The words he’d used were imprinted in her brain, they’d been so full of restrained fury.  Once the hormones and adrenaline had faded, she’d nearly thrown up she’d been so disgusted with herself.  Conflict of any kind usually left her feeling deeply discomfited, or at least it did whenever her ocelot wasn’t complicating matters with its temper.  And it was always worst when she was in the wrong.

      “You did not,” winced Irena.  “In that case, I’d say it’s a damn good thing you’re not in the pack yet because his pride will not take that well.”  Eyes wide, she shook her head and blew out a breath, golden-brown cheeks puffing up.

      “He said I was ‘touch hungry.’  How was I supposed to know it wasn’t just a line?  Like when doctors used to say, ‘I diagnose you woman, the cure is medically induced orgasms’!” she threw her hands in the air in frustration, sending green bits of pulp flying, even as she pinked at her own words.  In fact, she was pretty sure that was the first time she’d ever uttered the word “orgasms” aloud; Chloe and Irena were definitely bad influences on her.

      Giggling, Irena pressed the back of her forearm to her forehead.  Since her hands were covered in flour and bits of dough, it was the equivalent of clapping a hand over her face.

      “Flights- packs, whatever- are good for that, and no, I am not talking about group sex,” she said once she had breath again, sniffing back tears of mirth.  “Mind you, some of those cats…” she trailed off with a slyly speculative expression.  “Anyhoo, there’s different skin privileges between packmates, family, and lovers.  Any might help alleviate touch hunger, but all the hugs in the world won’t cut it if you’re in dire need of a good dicking.”

      “Do you enjoy making me blush?” Lorel mock glared.

      “Yep,” she chirped unrepentantly.  “One of these days I expect to see blood spurt out of your nose like in anime.”  She waggled a hand near her face to mimic a spray of blood.  Lorel flicked a passionfruit pit at the crow who giggled and batted the airborne seed towards the sink where it landed with a plink.  “If he’s offering as a packmate, there’s no strings attached.  It’s just fulfilling each other’s need.  You set your own boundaries when it comes to skin privileges, all you have to do is say no and they’ll back off entirely.  If he wants a relationship, that’s a whole nother kettle of wax, and I don’t know what big cats are like.  Now if it was a corvid, I could give you a crash course.”

      “How can I tell?”

      “Ask him,” she said, hands spread wide, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

      Lorel stared at her like she was speaking another language. 

      “Communication?  You know, the basis of all healthy relationships?” 

      Unsure how to respond to that, Lorel busied herself with straining the passionfruit pulp.  She’d had few healthy relationships and even fewer romantic relationships, none of which had qualified as healthy.

      “Lorel, are you a virgin?”  Irena tilted her head in a way that was distinctly not human.

      “No!”  Her voice was so high it could have shattered glass.  Then, in a calmer register, but not looking up, “Not technically.  Besides, I don’t think he even wants to look at me; I’m half-surprised he hasn’t given up and banished me entirely.”  Inexplicably, the thought made her chest ache till it felt like she couldn’t breathe.  “I haven’t known him very long, but I feel like he’s mine.”  This last she whispered to herself, confounded by the sudden realization.  She hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t even known she was thinking it until the words tumbled out.

      Irena crossed the workspace to enfold Lorel with a hug, face set with lines of sympathy.  Instincts told her to maintain her guard, to hold some part of herself back, but she was so tired that after a moment she released the tension she carried.  Slowly wrapping her arms around the crow, she laid her head on the taller woman’s shoulder and breathed in the scent of friend, allowing herself to relax.

      Lorel made acquaintances easily, but she’d never clicked as deeply as she had with the friends she’d made in the short time she’d been there.  She’d always kept herself apart to protect the people around her from the violent madness she’d seen as an inevitability.

      To hold that at bay, she lived by rigid rules to keep her other half, the one ruled by needs and emotions, under control.  Being good and demure and all the things she was taught to be had gained her nothing, certainly not the approval of her grandparents; if anything, it put her more at risk of going rogue, if Remi was to be believed.

      Now she knew differently because he was trying to show her a different way.  He’d never demand that she silence herself or hide her wildness, on the contrary, he challenged her to embrace it.  Such an attitude was a stark contrast to the people she’d called family for so long.  He didn’t know that she would have to give up everything she’d ever known, including the people who raised her.

[gregcollins]

’ ･ﾟ :  ❄ : ･.  INTRODUCTION  .･: ❄ :･ﾟ ’

⌠ hero fiennes-tiffin, twenty-two, cismale, he/him ⌡ welcome back to gallagher academy, gregory ‘ grey ‘ collins! according to their records, they’re a second year, specializing in awareness training, breath control, hand to hand combat + knife fighting skills, sword training, precision shooting, firearms & swat training; and they did go to a spy prep high school. when i see them walking around in the halls, i usually see a flash of ( old rings to cover up bruised knuckles, face shadowed due to his hood always being up, scoffs being heard in the distance  ). when it’s the scorpio’s birthday on 11/20/1997, they always request their apple from the school’s chefs. looks like they’re well on their way to graduation.

PAST

❄ Grey was born as Gregory Robert Collins in Edinburgh, UK ❄ His family was pretty much middle class, there was seriously nothing special about them that would make them stand out ❄ One would even say they were boring to an extend. Neighbors would just ignore them for the most part ❄ Especially when Grey grew older, he was a pretty quiet kid – never causing any trouble, partaking in group activities of Kindergarten and being an all around good kid ❄ However, around the time the male was a few months old his sister, Nina was born and then everything changed ❄ From the second she was reached around to everyone’s arms, everyone completely adored her – excluding her own brother ❄ As with any family, there of course was always some sort of jealousy when there was a new born. However, with the male it was more than that. He felt completely neglected already from a young age and he couldn’t even comprehend why just yet ❄ And it wasn’t just his parents, also his neighbors and with the years going by it were also his friends even if there was a small age gap ❄ So that envy continued, always being in the shadow of his sister whether it was more popular friends, getting better, more expensive gifts, being better at school as well as just generally being better at the majority of things and therefore getting more praise than he ever received ❄ So at one point, he started to act out, just deciding to not even try anymore in most regards, not studying anymore and hearing less and less about what his parents had to say ❄ Which ultimately resulted in his parents favoring Nina further, considering she was being the princess and he was just the irresponsible kid in the family ❄ So of course things had to spike up someday, Grey started smoking and drinking at the age of 16 – of course having that group of friends that wasn’t good at all for his behavior and health ❄ To his luck, however his parents didn’t find out for the longest time because they simply didn’t care much about what he was doing at that age, genuinely just focusing on their perfect child ❄ What his parents didn’t know though, his sister took note of and she found herself curious of how the life of her older brother would feel like ❄ Of course, Grey wasn’t too interested in having her join – wanting to have at least one thing to himself ❄ Though, after a long time of begging he figured it wouldn’t hurt if he brought her along to one of his friends parties and it was soon for this to become a routine thing ❄ This time instead, it wasn’t his sister taking away from the fun or making him feel left out – no they were genuinely bonding while partying and after a while, Grey even was beginning to enjoy having his sister around ❄ That didn’t mean that he had control of everything though. Luckily, they were smart in a way that their parents didn’t notice and Nina’s grades didn’t slack just yet but it had become a thing of her wanting to go without him on days when he didn’t feel like it and he quickly realized that she was enjoying it a little too much.

❄ TW; DRUG MENTION AND OVERDOSE: Grey has had his experience with party drugs but he never went to enjoy them too much, usually just staying to weed and alcohol instead because they didn’t fuck with his head too much. However, while there was a promise with his sister to never try them and he attempted to take care and protect her from that for long – there was one night where he was distracted by a girl and that’s when his sister was lured into trying the harder stuff. It didn’t last long for one of his friends to call him, telling him that his sister was unconscious on the bathroom floor and not much longer until her pulse stopped. ❄ Of course, Grey was completely devastated but it got even worse when their completely oblivious parents heard of the news. Though, like always, it wasn’t only his parents who blamed him for introducing her to this lifestyle and not taking care of him enough – the neighbors did too and eventually so did his friends. ❄ While the family bond with his side was already ruined from the get go, this only worsened. His parents even going as far as despising him until one point where he was almost 18 and they got into a large fight to when his father ended up abandoning him, forcing him to leave their household completely. ❄ This certainly wasn’t something a regular seventeen year old wanted to hear but after everything, he had obliged – dropping out of high school and instead joining a school he’s heard about from a friend, a spy school. ❄ It meant he’d be undercover, people not knowing what he did and lastly, to be away from his family. ❄ That’s also where he found his passion for combat, a way of just fueling his anger and energy into something productive and it was enough to get him into Gallagher as they started allowing males.

PERSONALITY

❄ Given his history, it’s not hard to believe that Grey is, although still quiet, short-tempered, snarky and generally unhappy ❄ He prefers not to talk to people too much, his replies always being short and without much emotion behind them ❄ He’s very, very stonefaced .. only ever furrows his brows or shakes his head at others ❄ He’s not very judgmental of anybody though, majorly himself because that was how he was raised ❄ Is very closed up, most might think he doesn’t even have a proper personality lmao ❄ Scoffs a lot ❄ He doesn’t drink anymore, although instead he smokes an excessive amount of weed since he believes that’s the only thing that calms him down

QUIRKS N SHIT

❄ His clothes are mainly dark hoodies because he does like to have it up and pretend like he’s not listening ❄ Someone once asked if he’s mute bc he never speaks ❄ Literally fears nothing ?? ay ❄ Has a weird protective kink … sister issues fam ❄ Sometimes paints his nails black ❄ Wants to have a lizard as a pet, idk he thinks they’re cool and fighty ❄ likes to wear rings ?? idk where he has that from he just thinks it rounds up his basic ass outfit ❄ likes to play basketball late at night ❄ loves, loves, loves to read ( don’t ask me what’s his favorite book is bc idk books )

UPDATES

❄ he’s the jealous type for some reason ?? but like he takes it very personal like once he’s envious he will most likely compare himself to that other person in every aspect n that’s toxic gregory smh ❄  he’ll go jump over his shadow to go out with people if he cares about them, most likely when he knows they’re drinking and he needs to be a sober buddy ❄ finds long drives really calming ❄ will kinda lie about having a sister ?? mad uncomfortable about talking about his home, most likely will just say he’s from England n that’s it ❄  addicted to coffee ?? never sleeps ?? trains too much ?? yes yes ❄  doesn’t know anything about movies/music or any other kind of media besides books ?? his childhood was playing in the bog thank u ❄  is fascinated by the slightest things ?? bc he’s not used to it, legIT EVERYTHING NORMAL IS LUXURY TO HIM ❄ has weird episodes where he just talks about strange stuff but only with people he’s really comfortable with ❄ gonna get a chamelon once they’re back from berlin yee yee ❄ uh, his prep school was in england ?? idk i just made that up recently so theres that

[universal-kitty]

.: Summer Days :.

Mani-Neko is insecure, and Hawks thinks about how he wants to spend his future.

NekoHawks

   “...I never liked the summer,” they blurted out, eyes still focused on the hustle and bustle of the city below. An unexpected comment, but it caught Hawks’ attention enough to turn, a brow raising. He’d wonder where it came from, but the temperature has been going up lately... Not too much, but the humidity will be their downfall sooner or later.

   “Humidity too much for ya?” Mani-Neko is keeping enough eye out (and ear) for the both of them, so Hawks takes a break from watching life roll by to focus completely on his partner, a small smile already on his face.

   “That...and I’m tired of it. Very, very tired of it.” A pause, a certain pain coming into their eyes. “...Actually, I’m getting pretty tired of everything, Hawks.” That part surprises him; he’s always known Akira’s taken life pretty hard over the years- he’s seen it personally enough times to get the idea- but the pure pain that’s seeping in this time...

   He didn’t notice the buildup. And that’s where the guilt kicks in.

   “Hey, kitten... I’m so-”

   “Don’t be,” they say, cutting him off. A sigh leaves Mani-Neko, standing up, though not meeting his eyes. It’s fine for now- they function better not looking at people sometimes- but Hawks already knows it’ll make him nervous soon enough. He wants to see their eyes... See the pain and try to help. “I...I didn’t tell you. You would’ve had no way of knowing.”

   But he should know. He can’t help but feel he needs to be able to read those eyes better than anyone else.

   “...Is it anything I can help with?” They laugh in that breathless, sad way that makes his heart hurt. The sound of the defeated and exhausted. When Mani-Neko’s been cornered by their own thoughts...a villain so tough, not even speedy Hawks can defeat it.

   It’s so frustrating, but... There’s things he can do to soften the blow. He knows this. It’s all the more frustrating that they have to wait to get there, though. Waiting’s never been an option for Hawks, as long as he could help it.

   “Take over the rest of the shift?” Mani-Neko finally asks, voice soft and uncertain. “I...kinda want to rest at home. Focusing is-”

   “Say no more,” he assures, stepping closer and pulling Mani-Neko into a one-armed hug, kissing their forehead. (He’s always liked that about their hair; perfect for forehead kisses.) “Go home, baby. I’ll be there soon.” It’ll be easier to round up on, too. Solo-work means flying as much as he pleases for patrol. Much as he loves his baby, being grounded for too long makes him itch for movement.

   They nod, sighing out some of the stress...and press a kiss into his neck before they go. After that, Hawks is alone, and free to patrol as he pleases.

   Hawks is still flying on patrol when a certain glow of lights catches his eyes, pausing in his sweep to stare. A jewelry store...huh? Things like that have never really caught his eye before- and what jewelry he has typically came from what few modeling gigs he picked up in the early days to bolster his name, from the rings to the custom watch.

   Now, however... He watches a couple exist the store, talking happily about something. Though with the bright smiles on their faces and exciting chattering, it’s not the biggest secret on what they probably went there for, though...

   It gives Hawks pause, watching from above...and sharp eyes noticing movements in a nearby alley. Seems that couple wasn’t the only group who wanted to go shopping... It’s just such a shame these guys don’t seem intent on paying, if the dark clothing and masks are anything to go by.

   Dealing with them is almost too easy: first go the feathers to pin them against the brick, then Hawks swooping down himself, subduing anyone he missed or who was strong enough to get away... The bigger guy- the muscle or the leader...?- gives him a bit of trouble, but a smaller size and far more speed hands the win in his favor.

   After which, Hawks steps into the establishment, to the confused gazes of the workers and customers.

   “No problems, just helped you guys avoid trouble,” he assured, waving a hand casually with an even more casual smile. His eyes sweep over the store until he spots the rings, walking further in with no hesitation. “Cops’ll be on their way soon to pick them up...but in the meantime, could I get a recommendation on a ring?”

   The silence was quickly filled with shocked gasps.

   Akira was still up by the time Keigo got home, landing on their balcony with long-practiced ease and a newfound weight in his pocket. Unsurprisingly, his partner had already taken residence on the couch, watching videos off of the internet while mindlessly eating chips. Though judging by the paper plates he sees on the table, there had been other food involved at some point early on. Nice to know they’d extended their interests to other foods and not just chips.

   “Hope you’ve been eating healthy,” is how he decidedly calls attention to himself, opening the sliding glass door and stepping inside. As a point and testament to how much of a badass, gives-no-fucks his datemate is, they simply tossed another chip in their mouth before responding.

   “I eat healthy enough. Better, actually, since you’ve moved in.” A moment of pause as they swallow the remains of chip, giving up on the bag for now to focus on and talk to him. “Patrol go well?”

   “Quiet and happy for it,” he admits, a small smile on his face as he takes off his boots, taking them in hand and walking over to set them by the doorway. “Stopped a small group from jewelry theft.”

   “Oooohh, a classic. I’m surprised criminals still do that,” Akira remarked, an ear flicking. “Anything else?”

   “We’re past our bedtime, maybe?” Keigo grinned at that one, leaning over to swipe the bag of chips from their arms, ignoring the gasp that sounded and the pleading whines for him to give it back. “Clean up the table, baby. And brush your teeth, okay~?”

   “...You’re terrible.”

   “You only say that because I upkeep the rules,” he shot back with a soft laugh, picking up the abandoned clip off of the kitchen counter, rolling the bag up to clamp closed. Quietly pleased when he heard soft rustling; the sound of Akira listening to him and cleaning up as he asked.

   Getting ready for bed went on without incident. Snarky comments and hilarious retorts going on as usual, Keigo having to hang up his jacket for the night. Hesitating...but unsure. Was it even a good moment? Did they even want to...?

   He hung his coat quietly, then went back into the bedroom to get changed into his pajamas.

   “Called out of work for a spontaneous date...? I never thought you the type,” Akira hummed, arm in his. People gasped and crooned, took pictures as they would...but to their credit, Akira handled them so much better these days. Much as Keigo was loathe to admit it, most people ended up tying his image to them. The only reason their heritage was put aside, as much as early-days rumors went flying at how Hawks was going to experience “abuse” at the hands of his new, public lover. How he would surely be screwed over by that--

   He needed to stop thinking about that. It always pissed him off so much remembering how nosy and assuming the press had gotten when the news leaked. Here, Keigo had been trained by the best how to wear masks and appear personable and friendly to the public... Be anyone they needed him to be.

   But at that one moment in time, Keigo had considered some pretty unherolike stuff if it meant clearing Akira’s name.......but considering it would’ve put BOTH of their images in the trash to do so, he spent more time around them, calmed down, and then took it to the press himself. Together. Just so they could handle the media onslaught.

   Damn, it’d been embarrassing to have been shown up so easily by Akira...but he was damn proud of them, too.

   Ah, anyways. Akira benefits, they’re better off, and people love them. That’s fine, isn’t it? It’ll have to be.

   “It’s a day well deserved,” he hums, sending a few feathers out to help some lady who’s dropped her groceries. Much as he’d love to help everyone, as per usual...he can’t waste too many today. Gotta keep his wings together for a flight later.

   “It is...but you’re such a work addict, you know,” Akira points out, a brow raising. “What changed?”

   “Oh, just some thoughts I’ve been having...” As of a few weeks ago, on and off, but who’s keeping track? Surely not him, who’s pocket is once again burning as hot as Endeavor’s flames.

   “I won’t let you keep spoiling me like this, you know.”

   “Oh, you will. Especially today.” Akira’s steps stutter a bit, looking up at him in bewilderment. Even-footed as she is, that threw them off harder than expected. Especially today...? What does that even mean?!?

   “Wh-?”

   “Oh, here we are~! Just where I wanted us to be.” And yet, before they can ask, he’s stopped them in front of a fashion store...? Their eyes widen and stomach drops in sudden, deep embarrassment; they’ve brought this up to him before in passing, mentioning how they’ve always wanted to dress cuter- more feminine- and though Keigo’s been covering bases on the masculine side... They never thought...

   He drags them in, despite their flustered protesting, and for a brief, tiny moment......they’re kinda glad Keigo never listens.

   “I can’t believe you made me dress cute just so we could go hiking,” Akira huffs, tail flicking as they scale the mountain ever-higher. It’s more like...a steep hill- just small enough to barely count as an actual mountain- but at the rate their going... A lot of view is about to open up before them, regardless. “For someone with a Quirk that allows him to fly- No, I’ll just say it: this is so out of character for you, Kei.”

   “I have my reasons for it!” He laughs, hand firmly in their’s. Not even minding the sweat that gathers there from the cooling temperature compared to their warm bodies or the exertion on either side. “You’ll see. Just give it some time.”

   It’s easy to miss their grumbles, Keigo- at the moment- at tad more focused on working out his stress than his datemate’s obliviousness. Granted, it’s likely for the best; he risked enough pulling a last-minute “how are you on marriage” bit that he can’t believe gave away absolutely nothing of his plans.

   “Marriage? A weird time to ask...” They’d muttered over lunch, confused, but rolling with it. “I used to really want to get married as a kid, actually. However... I guess faking my identity curbed my fierce desire to get married by a lot; couldn’t exactly get married, if I wanted to keep hiding who I really was. But it’s never gone away in full. It’s just a matter of figuring out how I want my life to go and how hero work fits into that...”

   Well. Hero work can be figured out another day. For the moment, Keigo feels like doing something that’s only been becoming more and more obvious the more time passes...

   As expected, the view is gorgeous. The nature in the area is without compare...and the flowers in the distance only add to it. Farther out, even, the rice fields in eye-pleasing patterns. The wind cools them off of any worked up sweat, but Keigo needs to pull in his wings more to avoid being buffeted too harshly. Last thing he needs is his wings dragging him away in such an important moment.

   “Well... It’s definitely worth it,” they murmur, green eyes taking on a new light as she peers at every last flower and tree their eyes can pick up. It’s adorable, how greedy their eyes are for the sight...but that’s not why Keigo brought them up so high.

   His hand slips into his pocket, heart rate officially picking up a stressful, worrying amount. But he forces himself to ignore it, pulling out that box, taking a deep breath...and turning to face Akira. Stepping back so he could go down on one knee... Watching their eyes widen in shock, mouth falling open at the pose alone.

   The way their breath (and heart) picked up when he lifted up that little, dark green box.

   “I don’t know how this went unexpected,” he said, giving a breathless laugh. “But I asked how you felt on marriage earlier for a reason... Cause I never thought much about it until you. You made me start thinking about how much I want a little band on our fingers. How much I want a private ceremony for us...or maybe a public one, if you’re ready for another paparazzi showdown.” He grinned a little more as they clasped their hands over their mouth. Good reaction? Bad reaction? Fuck, he can’t even tell and it’s stressing him out.

   ...Might have to wonder if smiling is a stress reaction of some kind. Hmm.

   “What can I say? Wanna spend my life with you the old fashioned, official-by-the-law sort of way... What do ya say?” Well, he can only hope for an answer as he opens the box to reveal the ring inside. A simple band for now (he��s going to surprise them with the fancy shit at the wedding), but engraved on it all manner of the sweet nicknames he’s called them in their time with him...and with one of his smaller feathers tucked under the band. (A bit of a reference to one of their favorite games, if a red feather instead of blue.) Though fighting back tears at the sight of the ring now before them...

   Akira manages to nod, muttering a chocked up “yes” through what’s likely about to be a sob. It’s an immediate relief on all the stress that’s built up, wings spreading open in joy despite the wind blowing around them, accepting the pull against his body as he scoops them in for a tight, delighted hug. One of the rare times he’s been filled with laughter, burying his head into their shoulder.

   A snap sounds as the box closes, clutching it tight as his wings unfurl a little wider....and flap them into the sky, grinning so wide it hurts at that familiar little squeak of surprise from his now-fiance. Only spurred on with how hard they hold him, the soft tears of happiness, and feeling their heart beat just as strongly as his.

   They’ll be okay... He’ll be okay, knowing he’s got a home to come back to no matter what. To a partner who’s always had his back and can hold their own. He’ll be able to help them even more, spoil them whenever he wants...be there for them whenever they need him. Keigo... He’ll give them one of his feathers. To keep. Fuck, anything they want.

   “I love you, Akira,” he murmured, face pressing closer into their neck. Relishing in the simple pleasure of calling them by their first name...especially when he knows their last name will be his soon, too.

   “I love you, too, Keigo... So, so much.”

[insane-control-room]

The Concept, Chapter 5

Ao3 Link

It’s been too long since I’ve gone on.

Warning: Contains themes and scenes that are not suitable for everyone. Specifics are: overdose, suicidal ideation and related, depression, and insanity

Henry learned rather quickly the place he found himself in was hell.

Then again, he knew it from the time he worked there, but the disheveled state of the building made the tyranny of the aura all the more prevalent.

There were locked doors, broken and flickering lights, creaking floorboards, the massive ink machine he remembered Joey tinkering with and creating.

Joey Drew. The name left a sour taste in his mouth.

Henry easily powered up the machine

He almost jumped out of his skin when a plank fell from the ceiling, cursing it out and sputtering, hand gripping his heart.

The damn cutout that just… appeared, out of nowhere, almost like it was set up, it’s black, dark, venomous pie cut eyes following him, trained on him, a vice on his body.

He looked beyond it.

He stiffened, walking up to the… thing mechanically, no choice but to investigate, to try and piece together the shattered bits of clues.

The… the sight of Boris’ mangled and vivisected body. It was sick, something very wrong.

Preternatural, twisted a fairytale gone south faster than the stock market crash of ‘29.

Henry did not have very many good memories of working here, but his old desk brought in a wave of nostalgia. But from what? Maybe it was just the joy of animation. Of bringing things to life with his hands.

To grow and create.

Back in the day, Joey made him stay late with him to work on animations.

Pushed him, encouraged his workaholism.

Work hard, work happy.

Then it got worse.

Work hard, work harder.

Happiness ebbed away, and stress alongside exhaustion strained into the job.

More and more effort, pushing himself harder, forcing himself to his limits.

Work your hardest.

Looking at the doodle on his desk, the doodle he had frantically covered, marked with a note for Wally to hide it, he realized how much time he wasted there. Cowering in some strange version of friendship and fear.

Mostly discomfort.

The friend that overstayed his invitation.

The invitation being into Henry’s life.

He tried to force him from his family, pushing the idea of a ‘studio family’, neglecting his own family, his wife and his daughter.

Sure, Diane and he did not last - but he had Linda.

His daughter, who he ignored and pushed away while he worked for Joey. He should have spent more time with her instead of leaving her with Diane or with one of her grandmothers, he should have bonded with her more.

He realized that when he left.

His daughter was so happy, such euphoria coursing through her when he told her that he quit, and she had taken him by the hand to spin around their living room with him, chanting, “daddy, daddy, you’re finally home!”

Now, for some inexplicable, insane, god damned reason, he was back. He was back in the place he lied to himself about. The studio was never anything good, it was a prison, a prison sealed with stockholm syndrome, a jail cell with the most cunning locks.

And here, back in this Hell… something was so very wrong.

Starting up the machine was easy.

The ritual was strangely familiar, as though he had performed it before, but maybe in a vague dreamlike state.

Was it deja vu?

No, he had definitely done this before….

______

Red eyes.

Angry, hurt, red eyes.

Henry stared at Joey. Something was off about him.

_____

The change in the man was obvious now. There was no doubt about it, he was changed. Skin dark like black tea, eyes red like rubies, magenta glasses, a tall stature on his shoulders yet bound to the wheelchair, black jacket, white pants, all familiar and yet so strange.

“Joey?” he murmured. The man ignored him pointedly, eyes narrowing. Red eyes, red, eyes, alexandrite red eyes. Whose were those? Whose lanky body? “... Johan?”

The man before him froze.

Then he smiled nervously, a smile Henry knew very well, but why?

“Let’s talk.”

____

“You promised one more run,” Henry growled, jabbing a finger into Joey’s chest. He rose a hand in a worried protest, a hand that Henry plucked out of the air. Their eyes met, Joey’s puce fearful and confused, he did not recall making such a promise. Henry’s second hand grasped his wrist, and he twisted. Joey howled, back snapping straight with the pain he could not escape from. Seconds, agonizing seconds, passed, and with a sud- SNAP. Joey felt like he could not breathe.

Henry’s hands were on his other wrist, bringing it down onto the counter with a crack. Johan wordlessly howled, doubling over on his broken wrists.

“That should teach you not to lie,” Henry growled. Joey, on his knees, gasped in air as tears spilled over his cheeks painfully. “I expect you to finish on the next run, or if I were you, I would fear for my hands.”

Joey nodded soundlessly and slowly, shaking and shivering.

Henry walked to the door, slipping through it without a word. Johan, stuck in his kneeling position, lowered his forehead to the floor, allowing his tears to drip through his lashes.

Shakily, a smile spread on his lips. Soon it will all be over. Soon it will all end. He would be forgiven! What a benevolent master Henry was! How kind!

Forgiveness!

What a remarkable, impossible, wonderful thought!

___

Dear reader, the next moments are no fault of mine. They are the result of another, whom despite pleading, constantly put aside their wellbeing. And so, it is with a bitterness I divulge the plaintiff cry of self inflicted impairment. This is their fault in two major ways.

I am merely relaying it.

He regretted deleting the Numerica.

He had to have something.

Everything hurt, his wrists ached, more than with the pain of the chains that normally enveloped them, tight and cruel.

He wanted something to relax his mind.

He wanted it.

He NEEDED it.

He groaned.

His closed eyes snapped open, a grin lopsidedly spreading on his lips.

He knew where he could get something of the sort.

He rummaged in another’s dimension, pulling his hand back.

In it, yellow pills.

Half of one was one dose, right?

Shrugging, he tipped the whole thing into his mouth.

He smiled and let the drug take over.

Colors, brighter than he had ever seen in his life, due to his impairment, splashed over his vision. Pain vanished. Ink dripped from his lips.

The colors heightened.

Brighter.

Whiter.

Maybe death would be good.

He did not regret stealing the pills, he never would see him again, anyways.

Johan’s final gift to him, his death with the other’s instrument.

He groaned as the pain from overdose kicked in.

His stomach throbbed and his head ached.

Pain hit every nerve.

He wanted to curse him. To curse them.

But he could not, he was powerless, and he felt tears prick his eyes, only the bright green of the numbers on his vision.

They dripped down the sides of his face, slipping into his hair, shame burning into him again. He cried out in agony, needless needles jabbing into every muscle, tearing him open from the inside out like claws, ripping into every single bone and tendon, a gluttonous devour of any clean feeling he held.

He wanted to die as the pain coursed through him, but he knew he would not be able to.

He choked on his tears, unable to move as the pills wrecked his body, forcing him to scream out, his voice raw and aching, trapped more than before.

He gasped and sobbed, hating himself.

Hating his weakness.

Hating everything about himself.

Pathetic.

He tried to curl up to let the pain ebb away, but the pills kept him still.

He hated himself.

He closed his eyes, and sobbed.

Why did they do this to him?!

Why were they giving him more pain than he was in already!?

Did they hate him?

They must, right?

There was no other explanation.

Confusion sank into him. He thought they loved him. Did… did they never love him?

He felt his shoulders slump.

No one could love him.

Obviously.

He was just a glitch bitch, a worthless shit, empty code, useless machinery. Pathetic, broken, a toy. Nothing. A zero.

They were right to hate him.

He was nothing good, nothing kind, a liar, a drug addict, a murderer, and now, a thief.

Pathetic.

Such a blight.

A disgrace.

He moaned, hand clenching on the pill bottle.

He wanted the pain to end. He wanted it to all go away.

He wanted everything to go away.

He wanted to die.

And this was a reminder he could not.

He hated himself.

____

Henry’s lips kept taking his attention. He had to focus, he needed to barter this right.

“I can do it in a thousand runs,” Johan assertively insisted. Henry shook his head. Joey scowled. “How about you try to repair our world using only ones and zeroes, huh?”

“I’m not the one who committed genocide,” Henry growled, his hand fisting on the table. Johan swallowed roughly. “Fifty at most.”

“Fifty!” Johan exclaimed, disgusted. “Fifty runs will never be enough for me to code even half of south america!”

“Then a hundred will suit you just fine!”

“Seven hundred fifty!” Johan lowered.

“Seventy five!” Henry challenged, eyes narrow.

“Eight hundred!” Joey insisted.

“A hundred,” Henry returned, not planning on conceding.

“Seven hundred is my lowest,” Joey grumbled, eyes looking over Henry, slitted and frustrated. “You can’t rush art.”

“This isn't god damned art!” Henry roared, leaping to his feet. “This is my goddamn life!”

“It’s my goddamn life, too!” Joey seethed. “Y-You don’t understand what you’ll be taking from me! People I love, people I car-”

“What fucking people!?” Henry demanded in an explosion, eyes wild, hands slamming onto the counter, making Johan jump back in fright and shock. “Other yous!? Is that it!? Fuck that, when this is over I’m going to make sure you never see them again! They’re distractions! All of you, every fuckin’ version is a liar! That’s probably why you get along so nice and dandy, oh, he’s a murderer, that’s fine, we all killed someone last week! Is that it!? And how many of you share the same fucking deviance?! How many of you are sods, huh?!”

“Henry!” Joey sputtered, flushing and grabbing at his heart pin. “Y-you’re bisexual, how can you say such a thing? How can you be so, so crude?”

Henry scowled, and then stopped, sighing and slowly lowering himself back onto his chair. Joey watched him with hurt in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said, sincere. “I didn’t mean to say that, I got mad and I wanted to bother you. What I said was wrong.”

“It’s okay,” Johan murmured, sitting down in his wheelchair, his hands wrapping around his cup of tea. Henry’s cold hands pressed over his, and their eyes met. Joey’s lips quirked up in a small smile, Henry’s following in his smoother fashion. “Six hundred?”

“Two hundred.”

“Five hundred is the lowest I can do,” Johan shook his head.

Henry sighed, and stuck out his hand.

“Five hundred it is, then,” he said, sealing the deal with a shake.

Johan made his way to the door, opening it, paining a blue tack on the wall.

“This is run one.”

_____

Johan messed up. Repeatedly.

The artist was trying so hard, and Henry continuously got madder and angrier with him.

He wanted to please him so badly.

To be good!

He could be good!

He could!

Please, believe him, he could b-be good….

He offered Henry runs every time he failed.

With bright hopeful eyes.

Tears in them.

He was lowered, down, down, down, to 414.

____

He could not move properly. Something familiar, horrifically, hideously familiar, pressurized his chest. He was… on his knees? Something restraining him from falling. His blue black hair was splayed everywhere, messily spiking over his eyes. He swayed his head side to side, trying to get a bearing of his surroundings. A wry, tight grin crossed his lips, like someone tearing through paper unevenly with a knife.

Right.

He gave a hollow laugh, whistling to himself and swaying.

He could wait.

He was patient.

He would wait for the good doctor.

Eventually, the door clicked unlocked and swung open.

Footsteps waxed near him, and he continued to whistle and sway, head rolling on his shoulders and chest like a twisted pendulum.

The footsteps paused, and he tensed, a grin mangling his already eerie features.

Silence.

“Boo!” he sharply snapped his head up, jolting at the doctor before him, wild eyed and beaming maniacally. He dropped his notepad on the floor, the restrained man sticking out a leg to cover it and pull it back. The doctor, with his hand on his chest, glared at him as he cackled and hooted with laughter. “Aw! C’mon doc! You’re as white as a ghost!”

“Enough, Ramirez,” the doctor ground out, trying to get back his notebook. Joey grinned at him, kicking up the pad, bouncing it off his shoulder and catching it in his mouth. Quickly standing to full height, he towered over him, grinning smugly. “Joey Drew.”

“Fine, have it your way, Dr. Stein,” Joey grumbled tossing the book. His terrifyingly happy demeanor shifted to one of melancholy, and he sat back on the floor, straight jacket making him feel horribly itchy. “What’re you here for? To gloat?”

“No.” Henry flatly replied. “The lobotomy procedure was cancelled.”

“Really?” Johan’s head slowly rose, eyes wide with wonder. “And… and that means no split brain treatment either?”

“Neither.”

“Oh, thank you,” he breathed, sagging against the wall. “Oh, Doctor, thank you.”

“Are you going to take your medication without fighting this time?” Henry questioned blandly, measuring out a thick, black liquid, into a thin, cylindrical tube. Joey stared at it in disgust, hesitating before shaking his head in the negative. Henry grimace. “Take the goddamn medicine, Joey.”

“I don’t want that,” he grit out painfully, eyeing it with disgust and some fear. Henry approached him swiftly, holding him down on his shoulder. He glanced at him from the corner of his eye, flushing from embarrassment. “I’ll do it for a kiss.”

“Just take the it,” Henry growled, pushing the vial against his lips. Johan pursed them. “Come on already! Take it!”

He shook his head.

Henry’s nails dug into his shoulder, the glass painful through his lips. Joey reluctantly, feeling contempt toward himself, parted his lips.

“There we go,” Henry hummed, running a hand up and down his shoulder. Joey shuddered, his eyes squeezed shut. The taste of the ink… ink? What ink? INK.

With a skreech, he jolted back to reality, screaming, aching, trembling, thrashing.

He made sure he had command of his limbs, sharply lifting his hands and waving them in his face. He curled up, and cried.

Was that real?

Was his entire world a drug induced nightmare? Were the people he knew here just… just other people in an asylum? Was it all fake? It was, wasn’t it? There was no explanation. He was alone.

No.

He refused to believe that he was nothing more than a dream, he was real.

Think of the others.

More proof he was fake.

No.

He was real.

Nothing could stop him.

He was nothing, and nothing would stop him.

No.

He had to believe.

Belief never got him anywhere.

No.

He had to hope.

He had to hope, as belief abandoned him.

Hope was all he had, and he would use it.

He set his fingers to the keys.

Hours passed in his work. He slipped away to visit the others, having completed the necessary amount for the run, proud of himself.

In a few runs, he would have to meet with Henry.

He was not scared, he finally reconciled with his closest, and he was ready to face one of them again, he was ready.

He saved, and waited for Henry to come.

He fidgeted, an unfamiliar dull aching permeating his body.

What was wrong with him?

He coughed, feeling the throb from the simple action he was all too used to.

What was happening?

He tried to focus on the clock. It made him smile. Time worked again. It was a big accomplishment on his end, even if he saw it as a small feat. It was difficult, but he had done it.

What was wrong, why did he feel so… off?

. .. …

Pain spiked into all his being, every limb screaming, each cell shrieking.

He screamed, darkness flaring through his sight, and he felt the wheelchair dissipate from under him.

All he could feel was pain.

Agony seeped into every pore, his lungs burning, his eyes welling, his chest heaving as torment ripped though his body.

He could not move, all he could do was feel nightmares claw at his eyes, false memories of needles jabbing into him, tight restriction holding him in place as fire swept through him, razing every nerve.

“Johan! Are you alright!?” Henry’s voice cut through like a knife. Johan felt a strong arm on his back pulling him to sit. He felt himself get carried to the couch when it became clear he would collapse again. “Oh, Joey, you weigh less than ever before… Joey, pal, wake up, I’m going to get you something to drink, stay put.”

Joey groaned as he forced his bleary eyes open. To his relief, most of the apartment was still in place, and it seemed no progress was lost. Just a bit longer, and he would finish.

He sighed contentedly, leaning back against the couch, gripping it with one hand. Solid. The sensation made him want to laugh and cry out of elation and anticipation.

“Alright, Joey, I’m ba- holy shit!” Joey’s eyes rose to view the wide eyed stare of the other animator. His gaze was drawn to the top of his own head, following Henry’s look. He looked down at the hand on his lap shamefacedly as he caught the merest glimpse of silver. Silver! The other hand hastily shoved it off his forehead and back, not wanting to see any of it. He felt so young, but he felt so tired and ancient, and his body showed it. Henry rushed over to him, gentle, broad, calloused hands slipping through the locks in wonder and with great curiosity. “Your hair… it’s not black anymore. Or even blue.”

“Sorry it’s ugly,” Johan muttered, reaching to his knees and pulling them to his chest, Henry making an odd noise in his throat. “The cause of it is likely the fact that as our world becomes more filled, and as time measuring objects like clocks and calendars appear, I started to show the age I would be. I don’t suppose I aged very well, did I?”

“Joey, listen to me,” Henry’s voice was strange. Joey slowly looked up at him. “This isn't the first time I saw you with white. This is the first time it stuck. And it’s okay.”

“No it’s! It’s!” Joey made a frustrated sound, gritting his teeth. “I don’t! Want! To die! I don’t want to grow up! I’m still twenty two, no matter what my body looks like! I! I! I!”

“Calm down!” Henry soothed him, taking his hands off his face, where he was not even aware he was clawing at in his panic. "No, hey, don't worry about it! I think it... it looks nice! It suits you. And the tips… the tips are still black and blue.”

“Really?” Joey asked quietly, not wanting to grow a false hope. Henry nodded. “I’m certain I look like a buffoon.”

“Not at all,” Henry chuckled. “It’s kind of like a paint brush.”

He ran his hand through it again, Joey leaning into the gentle caress.

Henry’s hand continued to make its way through his hair repeatedly, until Johan felt his eyes slowly drifting shut. Henry’s hand slipped to his jaw, turning his head gently, until they were face to face. They looked at each other in their daze for a long moment, then eyes widened, and they both snapped away, muttering excuses to no one, Henry’s flush more apparent than Joey’s due to their skin tones.

“Here.” Henry muttered, thursting the cup of water he got at the other old gentleman, the liquid circling the glass as centripetal force tugged on it, a small amount leaping over the side, the drops landing on Johan’s hand. Henry’s breath seemed to freeze, and he shoved the cup into Joey’s hands. “Now, drink it, and don’t stop once you start. Doctor’s orders.”

“You... alright there, Hen?” Joey asked, lowering the empty glass, wiping his lips with a small napkin that moth brought him. “Thank you, Gracehopper. Henry, you look… hungry? Is there something I can get you to eat?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Henry shook himself out of it. “Uh, should we see how else you aged?”

“Sure,” Joey sighed in defeat. “It’s not like I’ve ever had go-”

A rumbling tore them from their conversation. Joey groaned.

“It’s destabilizing again. You should go.”

“Fine.”

Joey glitched himself into his wheelchair as Henry made his way to the door. Joey stirred before his computer before looking over at the man.

“I’m almost done,” he called out behind him. Henry paused, and left.

______

And then he was done.

He wept.

He cried his heart out.

He sobbed and shook.

Since, when all is finished, the shock hits.

Henry stood before him as he cried.

He hugged him, awkward from the wheelchair.

“Ten more runs,” Henry reminded, and Johan nodded and wiped his tears. Time to make them last. Hold each precious moment, for he will never have it again.

____

Johan waited quietly for Henry to appear.

When he did, they strolled onto the streets of Manhattan, weaving through the people.

People, something that had been missing for thirty long, long years.

Still, thirty years of life stolen.

Henry and Joey knew it was time to set things right.

They came back to the studio, the ink machine powered on, the computer on, and the world turning to black and green.

Joey typed in the formula with tears in his eyes.

Tears of hope.

The reset button appeared, and he and Henry silently approached it.

“YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME, JOHAN!” a voice that never was roared, calling the name like a mockery. “LISTEN TO ME, I AM GREATER THAN YOU WILL EVER DREAM TO BE!”

Pipes swirled up onto his ankles and ink welled against his limbs, restricting and grasping him, pulling him back to hell. He cried out, and Henry turned back to ask what the matter was, and his eyes widened as he saw Johan, being pulled back even as he dissipated, an arm wrapped tight around his throat.

Henry let out a battle roar, running back, punching the attacker in the face.

The man, for man it was, swore and stumbled back as Johan wheezed and typed a code as fast as he could to get him and Henry back to the button, and paused everything. Henry looked back at the man behind them frozen in time.

He stared at him.

“Joey?” he said, pointing at the default with confusion, eyebrows quirking at Johan.

“No.” Johan grit out. Henry scowled, pieces falling into place. He forced Johan to face him, the dark man refusing to meet his eyes. “What is your problem?”

“You have to deal with him,” Henry insisted. Joey bit his lip and looked to his shoes. “That man, that thing, that, that monster, he’s your problem to deal with. If you don’t get rid of him, he will always be a part of you. You will never be comfortable with who you are as long as you don’t face him. So go! Fight back!”

“Forget it,” Johan muttered, wheeling himself to the reset button. Henry let out a huff of frustration, going over to join him. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Henry curtly answered. “And you?”

“Yes,” he lied. He put his hand to the grey button, watching it fade into a deep indigo. He looked to Henry with a tilt of his head. “Your hand, if you please.”

Henry, saying nothing, placed his hand on the button as well, gold flowing from where his fingers met the code. It entwined with the blue, merging and dancing as one, sapping and strengthening each other, growing and changing and making something completely unheard of. There was a hum, and the button glowed green.

Active.

“Are you ready?” Henry inquired, his fingers twitching on the button, starting it.

“I am,” he fabricated. Inhaling sharply, he said, “Let’s do this.”

“Just so you know,” Henry’s hand tightened into a fist. “I don’t want to see you again. After whatever this is. I never want to see you ever again.”

Johan felt his heart break.

Again.

Something was wrong.

“Okay,” he whispered, ignoring the pang racing through his body.

“Well?” Henry prompted right hand pushing Joey’s left onto the button. “Click it now. On the count of three.”

The world was going to end, and Johan found it shoved in his face.

“Three!”

“Henry! Please, please, wait wait wait!”

“I thought you wanted us to end it all?”

“I don’t know!” he wailed.

“Two!”

“Please no! God, please wait, please, no, wait!”

“One!”

“Henry!”

He pushed their hands onto the button, slamming it and making the bright green glow gleam and glitter and glint and spread, time slowing, Johan able to see the numbers slowly making their way to the activated event.

He stared at the green numbers, eyes widening, and then

NOT THE FIRST TIME.

He gasped.

NOT THE SECOND TIME.

N-no… no, no, that does not make any sense, unless he had…

THIRD TIME.

He deleted his own memories.

Tears dripped down his face, memories flooding him, leaving him trembling, shaking, a tsunami of horror and disgust.

“Are you okay?” Henry’s voice asked him.

“Are you okay?” he asked twice before then.

Johan could not breathe.

Memory wipe?

Again?

Should he do another?

A fourth?

He looked back at the default Joey.

Henry was right, he would never leave him be if he did not fight back against it.

They stared at each other.

With a sharp turn, Johan wiped his memor

Johan Ramirez woke up in an abandoned apartment in Brooklyn.

He went to work and quit it.

He built a studio called “Joey Drew Studios”.

He built a computer.

He built an ink machine.

He deleted himself.

He destroyed his world.

He rebuilt everything, so slowly.

He stared at the default Joey.

Memories flooded back.

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

How many times will he repeat this?

How many times will he meet the same people?

If he moves on… what will change?

He would have only met others twice, if met at all.

Could he move on?

He hesitated.

“Joey?” Henry asked for the first time.

A chill ran down his back.

Everything will change.

It is changing now.

He turned his wheelchair slowly to face the fraudulent version of himself, sitting high and proud as he rolled to him.

To it.

To nothing.

He was the mother fucking Johan “Joey” Drew Ramirez, and nothing could take it away.

“You. Are. Not. Real.” he forced from his mouth.

The copy grinned.

“You never were.” he breathed, closing his eyes. “I am me. I am Joey Drew. You are not. You are coding that broke off of the original, because I was afraid of who I was not.”

He rose his head and stuck his chin forward, hands… perfectly steady.

“I’m not good looking. I’m not confident. I’m not smart.”

He inhaled, long and slow.

“And that’s okay. I don’t need to be.”

“I have been told that I am kind. That I am funny. That I am okay. You are not.”

He opened his eyes. The man before him wavered and snapped.

“I love who I am. And you are not me. And I deserve everything I’ve made for myself.”

He turned back around, and wheeled back to Henry.

No more memory wipes. No more feeling wrong.

Meant to be like this.

He was proud of who he was.

He shined his pin on his palm, smiled, and reset with Henry along him.

“Hey, so,” he called to him in the vortex, everything being pulled to them. “Henry, can… do you think we can meet up after all this? I’ve got something to tell you.”

Henry looked at him.

“I know you said that you don’t want to see me again, but… it’s important.”

“Can’t you tell me now?” Henry asked, testily. “While this is all ending?”

“This has happened before,” Joey told him. “All of this.”

“Really now?” Henry asked, curiosity sparked. “Among everything else that’s happened from what you’ve done, this one might just take the cake.”

“Will you meet me?” Johan questioned, tilting his head. “Tuesday, at the old park?”

“I’ll meet you in nineteen thirty, eh?” he smiled at Joey. “Change some things up?”

“N-no,” Joey shifted. “As soon as possible. I’ll probably… go home.”

Henry gazed at him.

“Tuesday at the old park it is,” he quietly affirmed.

Joey smiled at him.

He smiled back.

“I love you, you know,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Henry muttered. “Love you too.”

Joey blinked, then beamed as reality warped around them.

Things were going to be great.

The end.

.

.

.

No.

He still has so many problems.

So much delicious fear, insanity, pain.

He’s not done yet.

Not by a long shot.

He has a job to do, he has a world to fix, and when all is said and done, it will end.

And it is not the end.

It cannot be….

Three pairs of feet surrounded the code that once was the body of Joey Drew.

It will not be...

“Well?” A wavering, glitching voice prompted. “Do we know who’s next?”

Not for a long long time…

“I believe he is,” a pulsing, tired one replied, turning to the last of them. “What do you think?”

Not until the drawing is done and framed and hung….

The ink demon only grinned, all teeth and no happiness.

…. The End.

[terresdebrume]

The space between

Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (Movie) Series: Sequel to Rakuen Rating: General audiences Wordcount: 2 191 words Pairing(s): Napollya Character(s): Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin. Genre: Sometimes things are better when they’re not what they’re supposed to be. Trigger warning(s): None that I’m aware of. Summary: Solo can’t possibly understand what it’s like for a werewolf to be stuck in one for for years and years, but he suggested a wolf holiday anyway. Somehow, what Illya gets from it goes beyond what he expected. Note(s): Here, have an unexpected sequel (to a fic I completely forgot to crosspost here from AO3) that goes in an unexpected direction. Honestly, I wrote all of it in two days between 9pm and 2am: I have no idea anymore.

The wolf emerges, floating from a dream into the soft warmth of wakefulness. Familiar smells blanket him, shooing the rest of the world away even as something lumbers on hard wood somewhere in the distance. The ground is soft under it, something not-quite-sheep anymore weighing pleasantly on its shoulder. The wolf finds something not-quite-plant under its snout, pulls it closer with its teeth, and sinks into the thing’s faint smell of oily product with a contented sigh.

Darkness comes to it so softly he doesn’t remember greeting it at all.

***

It opens its eyes to the rich brown of fallen trees, ground as soft beneath it as it ever was. The smell of pine wood and winter-cold clinging to spring fills its nostrils, and he breathes in when he realizes something is rubbing against his stomach, steady and firm over the curve of his rib cage. The once-sheep-fur thing is gone, but the air glows warm with firelight, and when the wolf looks away away from the wood overhead—just shy of seeing his own body—the pink mountain on two legs rubs at his lips with its strange pink paw.

It is cold with snow, still, and it shies away when he tries to lick it in greetings, but the pink mountain rumbles, and pushes Illya back until it can resume the belly rub. Illya knows better than to complain, by now, the wolf too thoroughly addicted by the easy closeness of human hands to go back to its solitude without a fight.

Besides, after a year, even the mountain grew used to it enough to stop teasing.

They stay like this for a while, long enough for the light to go from mid-morning to early afternoon, Illya luxuriating in the easy physical affection until Cowboy asks:

“Water?”

It takes Illya some effort to manage a real nod, content as he is to remain in the hazy limbo between wolf and man now that he has someone who can be trusted with it again. He lets Cowboy prop him up for a drink, paws still too clumsy to maneuver a—a—thing for drinking, and yawns hard enough to make his jaw crack as he is lowered down on soft—on the mattress.

“Thank you,”” Illya says after some mental preparation.

“I like wolf you,” Cowboy says even as he takes the glass away again. “He’s polite.”

Illya grunts in protest and flops back onto the mattress, cheek landing just shy of Napoleon’s knee. He can feel the heat of him on his skin, smell the remnants of his usual cologne and last week’s Brylcreem through the unusual roughness of sturdy pants and a thick sweater over a flannel shirt. Outside, the pines are close enough to fill even human nostrils, and the lingering wolf still manages to pick up on the clean chill of Lake Superior, off to the East. Birds haven’t come back from their yearly migrations yet, and things that sleep through the winter won’t quite awaken until April, and the hush of it makes it feel like there is nothing in this world but Illya on a soft bed, with fire warming him up and Napoleon’s hand rubbing at his belly like he’s sporting fur and four legs and a tail.

It’s a wonderful thought, and Illya takes the time to savor it before he speaks.

“I’ve never asked—”

Illya’s sentence dissolves into another yawn, and Napoleon is far too consummate a pretender to allow his fingers to clench around the thick wool of Illya’s jumper, but his hand does come to a stop, just under Illya’s heart. Around them the air tenses, just enough to send a prickle of warning racing along Illya’s spine

He gives it a moment’s consideration—a heartbeat, if that—but he always did prefer tackling things head on, and his relationship with Napoleon, working or otherwise, has always been built on leaps of faith anyway.

“I never asked,” he starts again, voice breaking the quiet like a lone walker on freshly fallen snow, “how you knew what to do. When I came back. First time.”

Napoleon’s hand shudders, just the once and then it resumes its rubbing motion in a way that only feels stiff because Illya has been waking up to the gesture two times a weeks for the past six months and, at Napoleon’s insistence, every morning since they got to this modest but comfortable cabin in the northernmost parts of Minnesota.

“Well,” Napoleon says, practiced nonchalance too thin hide the tension in his words without the polished back up of high-quality suits and carefully arranged hair, “I do know a thing or two about dogs.”

Illya foregoes the habitual, playful swat at Napoleon’s shoulder in favor of a steady glare. It must appear lopsided, laid out as Illya is by Napoleon’s side, head level to the man’s stretched out knee...it does get Illya’s point across, though, and Napoleon’s features flicker into a self-deprecating smirk before he turns to look at the window to his left, away from Illya.

His hand doesn’t stop moving, though, and Illya sinks into the gesture the way he would lean into his father’s welcoming licks on his snout after a run; the way he’s rub his nose against his mother’s lips for hours on end as a child until she caved to the demands of human society and forbade him the gesture when he was not a wolf. His father left soon after that and, for the longest time, nothing of the wolf could be allowed to linger in Illya’s human life...then came Berlin and the smell of too many women mixing together over Brylcreem and sharp cologne. An amused rumble that so rarely allows itself to become a laugh. A pair of blue eyes, concerned but unafraid as its owner asked how Illya felt after turning back.

Illya squirms on the bed until his cheek touches Napoleon’s knee, eyes at precisely the right angle for the fading light to line Napoleon’s face with silver.

“You know dogs,” Illya prompts, unsurprised when Napoleon tries his very best to make his hum noncommittal.

It doesn’t quite meet the mark, but falls close enough to it to make Illya shiver with the sudden chill of it, the abrupt bone-cold of unexpected ghosts that makes up so many of his and Napoleon’s friendship. It isn’t the first time they have reared their heads at such a simple question: Illya has a graveyard in its chest but it knows its place. Napoleon’s ghost seem to hover all around, and take some sort of sadistic pleasure in catching at his heart at the most innocuous inquiries.

“We always had many of them,” Napoleon tells the window at last, “half a dozen, at any given time.”

An image bursts to life in Illya’s mind: Napoleon, shorter and much narrower in the shoulders, thrones on an elegant baroque couch, Darya Kuryakin’s favorite carpet absorbing the sound of six borzoi determined to grab a piece of their master’s attention. Napoleon, Illya must admit, has always seemed more like a cat person to him.

“You had good relationship with them?”

“They weren’t supposed to be pets.”

Napoleon shrugs, far too brittle for comfort and Illya has to restrain himself from pressing his cheek harder against the man’s knee, for fear of making him flee if he realizes just how much of him Illya has become able to see.

The conspicuous absence of the man’s suit is, after all, almost as much of a delight as the 'wolf’ part of what Napoleon insisted on naming ‘their first annual wolf holiday’.

“They weren’t supposed to be pets,” Illya says, once silence has had time to settle between them, careful not to put emphasis on any given word, even though he knows Napoleon must hear it anyway.

“I was lonely,” Napoleon tells the window, fingers coming to a halt on Illya’s ribs again. Then, non-sequitur: “one of the bitches had a litter with a wolf.”

In his mind, the landscape outside of young Napoleon’s window changes from a generic city  to an equally generic forest, albeit one with quite a lot of pine trees. The borzois are gone, replaced with sturdy, thick-pawed mutts running in a large garden.

“There was a run,” Napoleon continues. “Not sure why it’d been cast aside, but it would have been a pity to lose that kind of protection for the house.”

“You think five half-wolves are not enough to scare burglars?”

Overhead, Napoleon blinks and look back at Illya, as if remembering he is was even here to being with.

“Burglars?”

“You were too poor to steal from?” Illya asks before he can think better of it.

Napoleon doesn’t gape, far too well trained for that, but even he hasn’t mustered enough control on his body to prevent the slow, crimson creep of a blush up his neck and onto his cheeks. He turns away again, ears flushed even redder, before he mutters:

“I think even amateur burglars had more sense than to come and look all the way here.”

Illya, while not as practiced as Napoleon in the art of deception, is also a trained spy and so he does not gape. He does, however look around the room again as the image of young Napoleon, in his mind, flops on the very bed they are using now, shirt pulled out of thick winter pants, and is joined by a creature that looks far too much like the photographs Illya’s mother used to take, sometimes, when he stayed out later than she did in later years.

A minute passes, maybe five, while Illya digests the revelation, warmth flooding through his vein like a bath drawn at the end of an exhausting winter day, prickling at every frozen extremity of him until he can do nothing but swallow, shift under Napoleon’s hand, and let his head rest on Napoleon’s knee.

The wolf has gone back to sleep by now, and the proximity turns Illya’s throat dry but Napoleon doesn’t seem to notice or, if he does, to mind.

“An outcast, hm?” Illya prompts, quieter than even he expected to be.

Relief expands in his chest when Napoleon huffs.

“I was the only one with the kind of time it takes to nurse a dog. So, I did.”

A pause, thin and brittle, and Illya is all but holding his breath by the time Napoleon speaks again, barely above a whisper:

“The others wouldn’t teach him how to be a dog. So I watched. I taught him. Eventually, he integrated.”

There is a cold spot on Illya’s rib cage, Napoleon’s jaw tightening even as Illya sits up until his right shoulder bump into Napoleon’s. They sit close enough together for Illya to feel even the slightest shift in Napoleon’s posture, the care he puts into not stiffening, not breathing too fast, not sighing. He does close his eyes, but even then, only with reluctance.

Illya watches him; thinks of the lunches he shares with agents who aren’t Napoleon or Gaby now, in U.N.C.L.E.’s canteen. None of them are connections he made through his American friend, but none of whom would have approached him if not for the tangible proof that once could tease Illya Kuryakin and live to tell the tale.

“He didn’t forget you.”

It isn’t a question, but Napoleon answers it anyway, head turning so he can look straight ahead of himself. Illya watches the glow of the firelight turn the bridge of his nose to gold and is not, in the end, surprised by how beautiful he finds it—ridiculous butt shape and all.

“No,” Napoleon says. “He got shot because of me, too.”

He breathes in when Illya’s fingers close around his wrist, shoulders tensing again as if to run away, but Napoleon Solo doesn’t run. He didn’t run away from a giant with more fighting training than him in a public restroom of West Berlin, didn’t run away from the world after who knows how long in and electric chair in Rome, didn’t run away from anything they have encountered in the past two years of working together.

Illya has been present through enough of Napoleon’s not-running, by now, that pressing their shoulders a little closer together fills him with the relief of taking necessary but long overdue action.

“It’s okay,” Napoleon says, trying for nonchalance and mostly just managing to hit ‘strained’, “he wasn’t a pet.”

“No,” Illya confirms.

Then, emboldened by the turmoil of emotions swirling in Napoleon’s eyes when he turns to look at him, Illya adds:

“Neither am I.”

This time, it’s Napoleon who increases the pressure between their shoulders, Illya’s rifle wound from Japan an ache barely loud enough to register through the blood rushing in Illya’s ears, the delicious sting of his own breathing, caught in his lungs for too long.

“No,” Napoleon says, breath ghosting over Illya’s lips, “most definitely not.”

The wolf has gone to sleep, and soon Illya and Napoleon will have to return to the world of men, but it doesn’t matter.

Here, in the space between, they will always be free.

[cardhouseandthecage]

About The Drugs

*cracks knuckles* so @any-shadow asked about The Drugs, the House Specialty, that thing I so often reference and never explain. This is pretty central to my narrative, so uh,,,it’s a lot. HERE YOU GO.

General Like our drugs, fae drugs are “substances” that a fairy can use as a means of altering something about their internal state. I use scare-quotes because they aren’t necessarily substances you’re putting into your body: a drug can also take the form of a jacket that alters you when you put on, or a pre-packaged spell of some other kind. Like our drugs, however, they all still work by changing very specific aspects of how the “residue” that makes up the fairy operates and connects to itself and the world around it. Like us, fairies use drugs for medicinal, recreational, or performance-enhancing purposes (though they don’t always distinguish between those categories in the way that we do).

The Effects of Drugs Upon Spaces Unlike our drugs, fae drugs can additionally alter the space a fairy is inhabiting, since fairies often exist on more of a continuum with their surroundings than we do. This makes the effects of drugs pretty contagious: if you’re over at some fairy’s house and they get high and the space starts doing all sorts of weird things, some of that weirdness will rub off on you too unless you put up an explicit guard against it. Likewise, if a fairy wants to drug themself without drugging their surroundings at all, they have to put up barriers to prevent it (and this can be tricky). Also sometimes a drug can be a space: for example, a room that is a spell that heals certain ailments, or a room that makes you hallucinate. The line between a “drug” and a “spell” isn’t always clear. Technically drugs are spells—you can think of them as pre-packaged spells intended to do very particular things to individuals.

Medicinal Drugs Medicinal drugs are naturally tailored to treat fairy illnesses, not human illnesses. Some of these least look or behave comparably to certain human illnesses, however. Malignant dark residue can behave a lot like bacterial infections or cancer, for example (you can get infected with it from your environment, or the stuff that you’re made of can go dark and start mutating of its own accord, sometimes in ways you might not want it to). There’s even more overlap and equivalency with drugs for brain stuff; fae antidepressants are certainly a thing.

Performance Enhancers Fae performance-enhancers are probably the most notably different from our drugs, as a class. Performance enhancers (and performance dampeners for that matter) generally act on how and how powerfully the fairy is able to fuse with and manipulate the residue around them. Not all fairies are compatible with all residue, but you can sometimes find a drug that will make you temporarily compatible with a given form, or for a given purpose. Likewise, you can have drugs that block your ability to fuse with certain forms of residue: if you want to make a fairy powerless, you can give them a very strong performance dampener and they’ll no longer be able to to extend their will into the space around them and manipulate objects in that way. Alternately, you might find that your openness to fusing with some form of residue is inconvenient (or even life-threatening) in a certain circumstance, and voluntarily take one yourself. People often take blockers against very dark residue if for some reason they need to be around it, because most fairies aren’t powerful enough to hold their own against it.* Then there’s a whole second class of performance-enhancers that work more indirectly on your abilities via cognitive enhancement. These drugs can make you more luicd and quick-thinking, or alter the “mood” of your reasoning to better suit whatever problem you’re trying to solve. Some can even split your consciousness (so that you can literally follow multiple different trains fo thought at once) or extend your awareness throughout a territory, effecting a kind of limited omniscience within a given range. You also have drugs that can unmoor your awareness and let you send it wandering abroad, allowing you to see things that are far away (often you’ll use a drug in combination with a tool to do this). Anyway, performance enhancers aren’t looked down upon as cheating in Faerie; they’re just another tool in your magical toolbox. They do sometimes have undesirable side-effects, though, so you have to be careful.

Recreational Drugs Recreational mood-altering drugs also run the full range of what ours can do, and more, because there are fewer limitations. For example, instead of general hallucinogens, you can have a drug that will cause you to hallucinate a specific experience of some kind—and that experience is prepackaged within the drug. There are also drugs that are meant to be taken second-hand or communally: you drug the space you’re in, and experience the effects as they bleed into you.  To give you something of a sampling there are also: - Lots of drugs with effects like various stimulants—things that make you feel more energized and competent and cofident and just…more. Intense. Fearless. Like you could do anything. - Lowkey/casual drugs that make you feel calm but also more lucid. - Drugs that block parts of your memory temporarily (usually coupled to some kind of enjoyable high) - Drugs that induce a kind of relaxing detachment from your context, coupled with a really languid, pleasurable, hypnotic sort of feeling?  Like a brain-massage. - Drugs that make you very silly and giddy and carefree. - Lots of drugs that enhance cognitive abilities (again, overlapping with performance-enhancers), but coupled with mood-altering effects (usually to the tune of lowered inhibitions and heightened confidence, sometimes bordering on mania). - Lots of aphrodisiacs, but like…fae aphrodisiacs.** Things that either enhance your experience of pleasure or effect stimulation in some way. These often go hand-in-hand with the hallucinogens, and overlap with genres of drugs that are not inherently erotic, but often used in an erotic context. Drugs that induce complex sensory deprivation and stimulation sequences are pretty popular.***  

Making Drugs in Faerie is Easier, But Also More Difficult Perhaps the biggest general difference between our drugs and fairy drugs has to do with the fact that everything in faerie is more subjective and relative than it is here, and the rules that govern how things work much more varied. In one sense, it’s easier to make drugs in faerie because there are fewer limitations. You don’t have to crack the kinds of very specific codes that you do here in order for something to work: to an extent, you get to choose the rules you’re working with. In another sense it’s much harder to make a drugs in faerie, or at any rate it’s harder to make drugs that work the same way across diverse contexts. Here we at least we know that everyone has the same kinds of neurotransmitters and general setup, and certain things pretty much always work. Everyone gets drunk if they ingest enough ethanol. But we still run up against a lot of uncertainty when trying to predict whether a certain medicines will work for a given person, how much they need, how much they can take without endangering themself, what the and what the side effects might be, and so forth. That problem is massively amplified in faerie. Individuals in faerie differ much more widely in how they’re “set up”—and things follow different rules in different spaces and different individuals act differently in different spaces and it’s just a huge mess. For this reason lots of faerie drugs are personalised and place-specific. Additionally, almost all drugs are done with lighter magic, because you’re trying to manipulate things on a very delicate scale and you need as much precision and predictability as you can get. This also means they usually have a pretty short shelf-life.

Cardhouse Drugs Part of what makes the Cardmaster so impressive is how reliably his drugs work for all kinds of fairies across diverse contexts, and how relatively long their shelf-life is. They’re not perfect, but they’re really the best you can get. Moreover, if he knows the specific individual the drug is intended for and where they’re living, he can get it perfect. And Cardmaster manufactures all manner of drugs. Some are purely medicinal, and they’ve been pretty helpful to a lot of fairies (not all of the CM’s impact is negative). He also makes a lot of performance-enhancers and performance-dampeners, and of course he has a HUGE line in recreational drugs, including all the ones i’ve described above.

And of course, there is the Immortality Elixir™. This is actually a cocktail of drugs, and the Cardmaster is constantly tweaking it. The dual-core of it however is a just really strong mutation suppressor (something that halts or slows the natural tendency of residue to mutate and darken over time) coupled to a…how to say? A substantiation booster? It’s basically channelling new residue from Reality directly into your particular form. Put another way, you’re getting the world to dream you (and you in particular) into existence. This kind of drug has to be tailored to the person taking it. Get this wrong and It’s Bad. Take someone else’s elixir and It’s Really Bad, it can really change who you are (hmmmmm). Technically this is a “medicinal” drug, but it also has some mood-altering side-effects. Not super intense ones, but there’s a general high that goes with it, and it’s a very particular kind of high. Like, god-complex high. You just feel super powerful and more than yourself. Again, a little like a stimulant but less frenzied, and there’s a touch of cognitive enhancement / awareness extension to it as well. Naturally, it’s very addictive. The Cardmaster can’t really sell this one because it has to be so specifically customized to whoever’s taking it—he’d have to do all sorts of tests. Also it’s really hard to get the resources to make; in his mind he hardly has enough to keep his own supply safely stocked. He does export drugs that are similar, but a step down. Aspects of this elixir actually form the basis of a lot of the recreational and performance-enhancing drugs he developed later.

——

*magic is always something of a tug-o-war between the fairy trying to impose their will on the residue and the residue’s own native inclinations, since all “matter” in faerie is at least lowkey-sentient. If you lose that war, the residue that you’ve fused to is actually manipulating you, and you may be temporarily or permanently subsumed by its will. Light residue pretty much never does this, but darker residue tends to have a very strong will of its own.  

**Important note about fae sexuality (i’ve been meaning to make this post for a while): fairies don’t have a primary pleasure spot for sex stuff like we do. They also don’t have genders based on biological traits—they don’t procreate, so there’s not any specific mechanism for how it’s supposed to go. It’s all about sensation, and theoretically they can get off on a heightening of almost any kind of sensation. Sometimes what they do looks a lot like human sex (because it’s largely our thoughts and desires that make up faerie), but they’re not limited to that. Many fairies don’t even have set erogenous zones, it’s more just the level of intensity and patterning and context that sets an experience apart as “erotic” for them. Also just…they way they define and socially contextualise sex is significantly different from us (though similar enough that i’m gonna go ahead and call it sex, just with a lot of qualifiers).

***Fairies are often into really into sense isolation and orchestrated synesthesia. Very precisely patterned sequences of stimulation. Those are sexy. Or just excruciatingly beautiful/impactful, like a symphony. For an example: say you can’t feel or see or smell anything, you’re just kind of floating, but you can hear, and you hear one faint, very simple melody. and suddenly that sound is a very vibrant colour, and now you can taste it, but the taste is in your fingertips and now it’s a sound again—but a much deeper sound and it builds and builds, and then nothing. you’re floating again. one touch, nothing. another, nothing. and so forth. there’s a whole art to such composition—sometimes it’s designed to be porn and sometimes it’s not, but fairies don’t really care a lot about that distinction. anyway and the Cardmaster is considered one of the best composers in this genre (mischance was even better tho). naturally it’s best when he performs live, but he can “record” a lot of his compositions as hallucinogenic drugs.

[ambiengrey]

Loitering Ch 7

Maybe heed the warnings: summary.

<-previous

attempting bravery

‘But going back again to get his glasses, when he knew the wasps were there, when he was really scared. That was brave.’

― Neil Gaiman, Coraline

A trail of footprints in the snow decorated the driveway in his wake.

Evidence of his approach.

One more reason he could add to the seeming ever-growing list of why leaving now would only serve to make him feel more embarrassed and stupid than actually knocking on the door would.

…So he might as well?

He thought he didn’t particularly want to, but…potentially, that was just the influence of his own…what?

Fear?

Cowardice?

Jason didn’t know which one he wanted it to be; which one would be better.

…He was beginning to wonder if they weren’t inherently the same thing, after all.

If he was too afraid to enter this once sort-of-home from a childhood that seemed to belong to someone else entirely, the more he thought about it; wasn’t that cowardice?

Considering the circumstances? Considering his mental list of reasons for entering – one to dispute every excuse he’d had for not coming, every excuse he was conjuring up now against staying even as he made to knock. All of those reasons sounding much the same, but that somehow only reinforcing their importance, or, their need, rather than shrinking them against the variety of excuses they were meant to dispute.

…

No… Being afraid didn’t necessarily make you a coward.

Jason had never thought of himself as a coward before; had always tried hard to be brave, even and especially when he was, in fact, scared.

Times when his father went out at twilight and came back at dawn with new bruises colouring his skin, lengthy dark hair a new kind of disarray; staggering, drunk, and his breath a pungent stink of mixed drinks that burned Jason’s nostrils as he led his father inside, small hands on the man’s broad back.

Jason had been scared on those days.

Scared for his mother, who locked herself in the bathroom for Jason to find later; passed-out, pale and breathing too shallow, mumbling at him with little coherence.

He tried being brave then, washing her face, singing or humming because it made her smile even if he wasn’t sure she actually heard him right. Somehow, he’d tuck her into bed without crying.

Too much.

He was scared over his dad, too. Scared he wouldn’t come back at dawn. Scared he’d come back drunk. Scared he’d come back sober. Scared he’d come back with friends. Scared he’d come back with enemies.

Jason tried being brave, once he caught on that his dad was leaving, sometimes before sunset, sometimes long after – when Jason was supposed to be sleeping, instead of listening to the sounds of his parents talking, or fighting, or not speaking at all and the only noises to be heard then were the creaks of the apartment, and the ragged breathing of their tiny old dog in Jason’s arms.

Jason tried taking care of the dog; tried taking care of his mom; tried taking care of his dad when he came back; tried taking care of the house. Tried not crying.

Too much.

When his father eventually went to prison, Jason tried harder. He couldn’t always manage not being scared, but he could always try being brave. You could be one without the other. And you could be both.

If nothing else, he’d learned being brave took a lot of guts. Took something that was buried deep down inside, and just needed a purpose to get out. Like doing the right thing.

That was a purpose – a good purpose. That was brave, even when you were scared.

As Jason had gotten older he’d learned, and believed, that doing the wrong thing when you had the opportunity to do the right one, despite hurting yourself, or someone you loved – making that choice, picking the wrong road because it was easier to travel, more convenient not to care—was cowardice.

Jason knew all about that by now.

He’d been on the receiving end of those consequences for what felt like most of his life – both of them.

His father had been a thief and a gambler and a drunken bastard-liar who cared too much about the money, or the score, or the job, and the street-cred than either his wife or his son.

His mother…had been too caught up in herself, too dependent on her addictions to care for her son, or care about what her husband was doing.

Taking care of her had taught Jason how to take care of himself even as it had hurt.

…Under his skin.

…

On the inside.

Because, for all the pain she’d caused him, and all the ways she’d let him down, he loved her inexplicably, without hesitation.

…

Perhaps because, when she hadn’t been incomprehensible, wide-eyed, pale and scaring him half to death, unmoving, grinning childishly – high – she’d been…been his mother.

Wrapped her arms about his thin shoulders and pressed him close. Smiled beside his ear and said his name.

“Jason.

“Come here, let me hug you—!”

“Mooooom—” before she planted a peck on his cheek and laughed, wandering off when he made to swat her away with one hand. She’d come back with cookies, or a sandwich, or juice, or water, or another hug, and helped him with his homework. While he’d still had homework.

Jason had no memories like those of his father.

They’d done things together, sure. Maybe when he was very little they’d done father-son stuff. Whatever that might have entailed. Maybe he’d just been too little to remember.

He’d learned from his father’s mistakes long ago, and had built up his own unique skill-set from the man’s teachings and successes, which were the only memories of his father Jason had, excluding the more vivid bad ones.

His father had never been more than a frame of reference, and a thorn in young Jason’s side, and a demon in his head, and a haunting visage of what his future had the potential of being.

Jason had taught himself to heed that image earnestly, and steer as far clear of that path as he possibly could.

His father’s was a cautionary tale Jason carried with him, but had no love for and did not dwell on. Instead there was a different figure that had become more prominent in Jason’s life – in both of them – than his real – in the biological sense – father had ever been.

The same way his mother had been.

A man for looking up to and aspiring to be like. Whose back seemed even broader than his real father’s had been where Jason’s hands would rest, leading another body forward – after a late, gruelling patrol, Batman limping and stumbling forward even as Jason – as Robin – tried keeping him upright until they got to the cave’s Med Bay where Alfred could stitch the older vigilante up.

Bruce Wayne would pull back his cowl and smile at Jason, and Jason could still feel the stretch of his skin from when his face would split into a returned grin, whenever he thought about that. Because when Bruce had left the house in the middle of the night, he was tracking down the thieves and lackeys and drug-dealers that were making the lives of kids like Jason hell, and locking them up where they couldn’t hurt themselves or their families, or other innocent people’s families, anymore. He was Batman, and Jason had admired and respected that – as much as he admired and respected…and loved the man beneath the cowl.

He had vague recollections of one large, affectionate hand resting on his shoulder, squeezing.

“Good work, Jason.”

Of training, and late nights, talking, and watching movies and—

Jason shook his head fervently, dragged his fingers through his hair and rested his forehead against the cool wooden door.

He was scared.

But he couldn’t be a coward.

He needed to be brave, like he’d been when he was a kid – when his mom needed him, when his dad needed him. When Batman needed him.

He needed to be braver than Catherine Todd who couldn’t overcome her drug-addiction to take care of her son. Braver than Willis Todd who couldn’t get off his lazy ass and find a real job instead of going for easy money.

…Braver than Bruce Wayne. Batman. Who couldn’t – wouldn’t – sacrifice a little of himself to get justice for the boy he called his partner, his soldier. His…son. Maybe.

…

The way Bruce had been, before he’d died… his…father.

If only that wasn’t also the reason why he was so damn terrified.

The fact of the matter was, Bruce supposedly dying the first time had shook and angered Jason to the point of lashing out in the only, ridiculously childish manner he’d known, still openly clinging to things and flaunting beliefs he’d privately accepted his once-father and the man’s legacy would never agree with and were never meant to portray.

Coming back from the dead, confronting Bats about not killing the Joker in the wake of Jason’s murder, had left him with a searing sadness inside and a grudging increase of respect for the man whose partner he’d been.

Because for all that Bruce hadn’t done the right thing, hadn’t killed the Joker – for justice, for Jason, for all the innocent people he would hurt in the future (Barbara; Timmy…) – he hadn’t done it lightly.

It had been a hard choice for him.

He hadn’t picked a cowardly, easy way out even if Jason had thought so at first, and been disappointed in his father-figure.

Facing Bruce in that old, dilapidated apartment, Joker trussed up to a rickety chair and a bouquet of explosives ticking away at their feet—

Jason had spent weeks after the explosion, languidly recovering, while he tried figuring out how much of what Bruce had said the night of his return was real.

The man had never shown as much emotion wearing the cowl as he had that night, not even in the safety of his own cave – and in front of the Joker no less.

But Jason hadn’t been sure if it had been real, or a ploy to placate him. To diffuse the situation and take him down.

Had he been lying when he’d confessed to considering killing the clown practically every day after Jason’s death? Lying when he’d said it was too hard a choice to make, and the wrong one besides, because he – Bruce – had to sacrifice that desire; that need to kill the Joker for his son – because Gotham needed a Batman with boundaries.

A Batman who couldn’t lose control that way. He had to stay within the perimeters he’d set for himself; that the city had set for him. To be an example. To stay above the murderers and criminals he was meant to put away, and not become one himself, no matter how badly he wanted to.

…

That was brave…

…

…?

Jason could, however grudgingly, live with it, he’d decided eventually.

He could live with that even as some part of him wasn’t able to quell the flush of anger – or the stinging, bitter hurt – colouring his insides whenever he thought about it, or came across Bruce or his brood on patrols.

Nightwing – Dick – who’d stared and grinned, and maybe even cried a little seeing Jason for the first time, even though Jason had tried forcing his father to shoot another man and then blew them all up as a peak in the performance.

Robin, Red Robin – Tim. Tim who was just a kid. As if throwing Jason’s memory away, calling him a failure and a mistake as if he had been some botched experiment, and then discarding him as a bad Robin and a villain when he’d come back (broken…broken?), wasn’t enough, Bats had replaced him with a(nother) kid. Coming back from the dead, after dying at fifteen, Jason had learned several things from both experiences: kids weren’t meant to be sidekicks, psychopaths didn’t deserve to live, and, the next time he bit the bullet, he was being cremated.

Beating Tim to a bloody pulp wasn’t enough of a warning for Bruce though, because the kid stayed Robin, and after Bruce’s supposed death, Dickiebird in all his self-righteous glory, had passed on the mantel to Bruce’s biological little brat – Damian Wayne. He needed an outlet, was the sloppy excuse, and if Jason had thought it would make any kind of difference he’d have done more to argue the point – but then, he’d concluded at last, what did it matter; he wasn’t family anymore.

Besides which, a little more time finally taught them that lesson while Jason had still mostly been struggling with Bruce’s miraculous return from his time-traveling odyssey, anyway.

Not dead then, after all.

Nothing much had changed between them, either. Jason was still Bruce’s biggest mistake, and, spitefully, painfully, Jason was still the thorn in his “old man’s” side.

…

Jason had never said “I told you so” even though he’d felt the words scratching at the back of his throat several times. Because Jason knew what it felt like.

Losing family.

He’d lost Bruce…more than once. Been lost, and been abandoned, more than once.

He felt that loss – keenly – whenever their paths crossed.

But he could hardly admit it when nothing had changed for Bruce. He was still dead. He would always be fifteen year old Jason Todd, status deceased.

It took losing another Robin for Dick to attempt crossing the bridge and inviting him back over, but…even though Jason had made uneasy peace with Bruce’s inability to avenge any of them, apparently, he could never admit as much to the man’s face – not even after his regret when he’d believed Bruce to be dead – and neither was Bruce about to welcome him back with open arms no matter what Dick wanted to believe.

The best they could do was co-exist relatively peacefully – Bats and his brood on one side of the city, and Jason, discarded and secretly still damaged, ruling the other side.

He still didn’t know what the hell had possessed him, to cross that carefully, tentatively placed line, and march right up to the Bat’s damn house like it partially belonged to him; more or less eight months ago now.

Perhaps Damian’s last request had finally begun to influence him. Perhaps it had been the weather. The season. The date. Perhaps he’d simply been lost…adrift without direction. Which better way to go than home…?

Jason’s heart ached at the thought.

He opened his eyes, not knowing when they’d closed, and stared at the wooden door.

This wasn’t home. It had been, once, but he had no right to it any longer.

He hadn’t been brave enough to fight for it. He hadn’t been strong enough to forgive his sort-of-father, couldn’t give up his own beliefs and forget. Couldn’t go back to following the Bat’s rules – and would it really have been such a bad choice? It would have been easy…

Cowardly?

Really?

Locking up Gotham’s scumbags rather than sending them straight to the hell they deserved, if it gave him what he wanted?

If it allowed him home?

…Yes.

Fuckit, yes. Always yes.

Because his way had been the right way. The right way for him, for Gotham, and he couldn’t live with himself if he just let so many murderous, drug-peddling bastards rot in jail for a little bit only to come back out and wreak a hell of a revenge on new innocent people just because Jason craved his family back.

There were other people who deserved families more than he did.

He’d always known that.

So why he’d come looking for his old one that day he couldn’t begin to fathom.

And it scared him.

It had scared him ending up here with no purpose. And now it scared him because he was here with reason for a change.

Moreover, he’d been…well, he’d bloody well been invited. Fucking summoned, in fact.

Because…because it was different this time.

The old man was really…dying this time.

His…his father was—

Jason had to suck in a breath and turn his back on the door, clenching a fist against his forehead, eyes shut again, unable to finish the thought.

He breathed, deep, through his nose, and let it out in a huff, eyes opening to the snow-covered grounds, hands settling on his hips, a rigid tenseness in his shoulders. He rolled them back and forth uneasily, rubbed at the back of his neck with cold fingers – he’d put his gloves somewhere he couldn’t remember, which was stupid, but—

Not important.

…

Jason took another breath, letting it out slowly this time, as his gaze roamed across the snow, the footsteps he’d left – a solitary trail, pausing to backtrack at irregular intervals, before turning around again and again, and again, to create a dizzying mirage of stomping, trudging, sauntering feet belonging to more than one person, all of them crowding together and moving this way and that without anyone moving back and only one making it forwards.

Jason swallowed.

There was no more going back.

He was already here and he needed to do this. Selfishly, he wanted to – because this wouldn’t be for anyone other –well, mostly – than him.

He needed to be brave for himself, to be honest for a change – with Bruce, with himself, with the dead fifteen year old kid that didn’t exist anymore and wasn’t important no matter how much he’d thought he was or wanted to be.

There wouldn’t be another chance to settled this; once and for all.

Jason spun, boots sliding around and clearing a patch of snow from the porch, leaving white slush in a heap.

It was Cassandra who opened the door when he knocked – finally – almost at once, and Jason wondered if she’d been standing on the other side just waiting for him to pluck up the courage.

He swallowed again, throat unexpectedly dry, palms sweaty despite his cold, numb fingers.

She peered up at him, brown eyes squinting, and Jason would have opened his mouth to snap at her to stop it if he’d had any fire left in his gut, but…everything was cold and unfeeling at the thought of what he meant to do. As if he’d quite suddenly shut right down inside, like that would make it easier – not thinking about it, not feeling anything.

Lips thinning as she regarded him, her eyes darting this way and that between his own had Jason shifting his weight, unable to contain all of his discomfort – she was reading him, he knew that. Like a damn book, and he didn’t like it – until finally she shook her head, quickly, averted her gaze and stepped back, pulling the door further open as she went.

She was wearing a faded brown sweater at least three sizes too big for her small frame, the sleeve bundled up in the palm of her hand, held out for him in invitation.

Jason bit at his lip, staring at the clear entryway into the gloomy foyer with a bout of apprehension chewing away too quickly at his calm disassociation.

He was anxious and scared all over again.

He hadn’t set foot in the manor since before he’d died.

He hadn’t expected, in that damned warehouse, feeling all alone even as his biological mother stood not two feet away, to ever set foot in the manor again.

And then, much later still, he hadn’t thought he ever wanted to again.

That part of his life was over. That Jason was gone.

He didn’t want to—

He couldn’t—

Swallowing reflexively, for the third time in as many minutes, Jason made to move – forward, for goodness’ sake, but—

There was an itch in his throat, and a hitch in his breath, and his fingers were twitching and—

He thought he could feel every tic of his muscles, every blood-pumping beat of his heart, the expansion and contraction of his lungs as he breathed, and every pause between—

His lips were trembling—

A little sway, a stutter, to his shoulders, his knees, when he meant to step forward, but didn’t—

And then all the air in his lungs came out in a rush, shoulders slumping, his body just falling forward of its own accord as he bent over, one palm hitting the still-closed door on his right and the other making a smacking sound that seemed to echo in his ears as he hit his forehead.

I can’t—stuck somewhere in his head or halted on the tip of his tongue, or maybe he had said it after all, he didn’t know—

He clutched at his hair, yanked a little, and bit into his lip, and shut his eyes tight until all of it just hurt, before he could breathe again and straighten up.

It hadn’t occurred to him until he’d opened his eyes and found the entryway right in front of him still empty, how awful it would have been if someone had, in the meantime, entered the room.

The clench in his chest eased at the knowledge that no one had.

There was still Cassandra, of course, half-hidden behind the door as she’d been the very first time he’d seen her, her inviting gesture dropped and her gaze, he was embarrassingly thankful to see, on the wooden tiles at her feet.

Jason was just contemplating what he could possibly use to back-up a threat accompanied by “don’t tell anyone I was here,” and then sprint off, when she looked up – sharply, and narrowed her eyes almost imperceptibly at him before she’d moved—

Out from behind the door, her sleeve-clad fingers grasping firmly around his wrist, forcing him forward as she pulled—

Jason pulled back – a quick, angry flick of his wrist, and, almost instinctively, unintentionally – habitually – he tapped into that trickle of seemingly ever-present anger, letting it spur him ahead, acting with it as his driving force – like he always seemed to do; like he’d always seemed to do—

“Let go, I don’t need your damn help—”

He’d tracked snow across Alfred’s immaculately polished floor with a jerky pause at the door, a scowl at Cassandra, another deep breath, and a determined set to his jaw as he finally crossed the threshold – only to halt, several steps into the dimly lit foyer, with a shuddering breath at the realization of what he’d done.

He rounded on Cassandra, furious, and scowled at her, blunt nails digging into the skin of his palms—

She was only just not grinning at him, the smug expression hovering at the edge of her features even as there lingered a hint of sympathy in her dark eyes. It only turned Jason’s scowl deeper, and he looked pointedly away, but couldn’t do much more than that – sound stuck in his throat, unable to escape and form words or sentences, and his limbs felt stiff and weighted, disabling movement.

He was stuck. Stuck in the foyer of a house he’d once called home, that had felt more home than any place had been before or after, for longer than any other place had ever felt.

And he remembered – trudging down the staircase, wrist trailing along the banister, and not a trace of dust on the end of his sleeve when he checked at the bottom.

When he’d only just arrived, Alfred would find him at the foot of the steps and greet him with a formal nod, and Jason – what had he been; twelve? – short, scrawny-ass kid, nervous as all hell and chewing at the inside of his cheek till it bled, would sort of nod back and almost smile, and try really, really hard not to cry like a damn baby because it had been several weeks already since he found his mom, pale in a different way than the usual, not breathing – taking him all of three minutes to realise she was dead, and five more before he couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, and fifteen more before he trailed off, no longer whispering at her to come back, dammit, don’t leave me, but she was – not coming back, and he wasn’t a baby anymore, and he couldn’t still be crying over her. Especially not in front of strangers.

Only, things had been so new and unfamiliar, and strange, and he missed her more because of it, and he felt guilty as sin, because things were better for him now – better than she’d ever managed to make it, better than his dad had ever tried to have it – and if he’d known, if he’d known, trying to jack the Bat’s wheels was all it would take to make things better he’d have done it a long time ago instead of trying to stay good and straight for his mom—

Jason blinked. And couldn’t breathe.

Alfred would lead him into the kitchen just around the stairs, through a doorway down the hall, into a pristine white palace Jason didn’t want to touch for fear of leaving smudges even though he knew, in the back of his mind, his hands were clean. He had decent baths nowadays—

Jason sucked in a heady breath of air—

Alfred would present him with freshly-prepared meals, enough to ignite his taste buds with unique and never-tasted-before flavours, and leaving him with the supposed certain promise of more to come when next his tummy rumbled.

Jason would smile gratefully, but watch the food with a trickle of apprehension before digging in, chewing around the guilt that came inexplicably with having food and a table to sit at when he’d been digging through dumpsters not a week ago, because he was still hungry, and barely a week from now he might yet find himself in front of that very same dumpster again.

Stretching his healing chest almost painfully—

So he ate everything presented no matter what kind of delicious or faintly atrocious taste it may have left in his mouth, from the medium-rare meat and steamed vegetables to Alfred’s neatly squared waffles, pasty as they tasted.

Jason remembered; eventually, when he went back to school, and got back into reading – how excited he was when Bruce came back from Wayne Enterprises one evening, presenting him with a book he could keep, for himself. In the foyer they’d been.

Right around where he was standing now—

And Alfred’s fine cuisine had extended from formal recipe books to fictional meals conjured up as if by magic with his old capable hands, like they had drawn the plates straight from the stories. On any and every day Alfred could manage it.

He couldn’t—

Have any of it back—

Remember it—

Eventually, Jason was only just not bounding down the staircase, long since not bothered by what unfathomable means Alfred was using to keep the place immaculate – because he had in fact picked up a few of them himself at this point – eager to see what meal the butler had pulled off the pages this morning—

The thought struck him without warning, catching his breath in his throat – chicken.

Alfred had fed him chicken for breakfast on his last day in the manor.

“‘Bet they don’t have chicken for breakfast at the White House’,” he’d quoted jokily, guessing as he did every morning what book his meal had come from – Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. Alfred had smiled, which he did more often than Jason thought – now – they ever gave him credit for.

He’d washed his dishes and gone down to the cave after that meal. And he’d trained, and he’d studied.

Jason remembered the way he’d studied when he was a kid – Batman’s formulas and chemicals and solutions, case files, and theoretical manoeuvres he needed to know the make-up of before he could even think about trying it in training. Jason had tried hard to impress, to always improve; to live up to the image of Robin Golden Boy Dick Grayson had left behind, but in the – three? – years he’d lived in this house, Jason wasn’t sure he ever had.

He’d thought he had, somewhere in the middle—

Somewhere around the time he could curl up on one of the wide window-sills in B’s office to read, and recite all the facts around their current case at once if prompted without missing a beat in his reading, and looking up only to catch the slightest wisp of a sly smile on his father’s – mentor’s – lips.

Around the time Dick would come by, and take the blame as instigator for their races down the railings, and he’d smile like a goofy moron when Jason did a successful flip off the highest beam, landing in a perfect roll, before he’d ruffle Jason’s hair and say something stupid like “Nice,” and calling him “Little Wing,” making Jason wonder for a moment why the hell he even disliked the guy in the first place—

Until he’d get caught in a bad argument with Bruce before the end of the day again, and Jason would be vaguely reminded of his parents, in a comparison where Dick had turned into his father and Bruce was his mother and things were just better when Dick went back to Blüdhaven—

And Jason could pick up that slack Dick had left – as Bruce’s son, if that’s what he’d really been – and Robin, because Jason was Robin now, and he was Bruce’s son now. He tried.

He had.

—

—

Jason couldn’t breathe.

His chest heaved anxiously up and down as he sucked in air he could somehow not feel breathing in, even as he knew his lungs were being filled—

“Good work, Jason.”

That was—

There were too many memories here, and for years he’d had no reason to look back on them – that Jason was gone, that Jason was dead, he didn’t want—

He couldn’t—have any of it back—

Live in that past; there was no future there—

Here—

He had to—

He couldn’t—

He’d—been kidding himself that he could—

He’d—

He’d rounded his back on the foyer and half-run, half-stumbled past Cassandra and whatever expression her face wore, whatever she thought she saw in him now, and shuffled through the snow, tripped down the porch’s steps to land, hard, on his knees, bloodless naked fingers sinking into wet snow as he bent forward, gasping for air—

“I can’t breathe—” he mumbled. “Can’t breathe, I can’t—

“I can’t breathe—

“I can’t breathe—” even as he swallowed big gulps of air.

“I can’t breathe,” he drew his head down to his knees, pulled his arms, his freezing hands, in closer.

“I can’t breathe…”

He could feel the frown across his forehead.

Saw darkness he couldn’t recall invoking.

“…You breathe…fine,” Cassandra’s voice was soft, to his right, and her hand gentle on his back.

Jason shook his head, though at what he didn’t know. He was breathing fine, the row of immaculate stitching across his chest stretching with every rise and fall evidence thereof despite the hammering heart in his chest feeling like the only thing inside doing any work to keep him alive.

Too alive.

It was cold outside, in the air, and around his fingers, and through his soaking knees in the snow. And the light outside was only marginally better than it had been inside. And the breeze ghosted past him – them – touching only quickly.

Cassandra was rubbing circles across his back and Jason wondered if Dick had taught her that, or…had her assassin-father been affectionate?

Jason opened his eyes.

“Stop that,” he mumbled, if only half-heartedly, as he shrugged his shoulder and got languidly to his feet; Cassandra coming nimbly to her own, hand retreated without comment.

Jason ran his fingers through his hair, eyed her beyond the view of his raised arm. She was watching him, the way she watched everyone, he could only assume, and he knew he was already thinking it, planning on doing it, and so she must already have seen it – read it on him the way she could read everyone. It was vexing, and made him feel incredibly vulnerable, the way she needed no more than a look to know what he meant to do, when, for years, he’d trained so hard to mask his intentions.

Since there was no point with her, though, and no way of pretending he didn’t know what he wanted to do now, he might as well just go ahead with it.

“Don’t follow me,” Jason said, much more intently than he might have before, as he dropped his hand and started off, pointedly not meeting her eyes and finding himself surprised when she didn’t immediately try to stop him. With his back fully to her, he rubbed his palms over aching, freezing fingers in an attempt to warm them some, before sticking his hands in his jacket pockets – all the while keeping an ear out for following footfalls, feeling an itch between his shoulder blades that must have been Cassandra’s stare. But apparently that’s as much as she did.

He assumed.

Right up to his sixth or seventh pace away, when a wet white mass landed with a hard smack against the back of his neck—

Jason yelped, and hissed, as the cold started slinking down the back of his shirt almost at once. He’d already stopped walking, arching his back at the invasive coolness of ice on his skin, tugging at the back of his shirt to force it to the ground quicker.

“What—” he started, “—the hell?” as he turned about, meaning to fix the girl with as intense a glare as he could conjure, only to be interrupted with another flurry of frost hurtled his way. Jason only just managed raising his arm in time to stop the projectile from colliding with his face.

“Would you quit throwing me with snow?!” he snapped, lowering his arm only slightly in case she had every intention of hitting him again.

But Cassandra, shorter though she was, stood several paces away, drawn up to her full height, shoulders squared and looking every inch the fear-inducing Black Bat of Gotham’s dark streets, even in her too-big sweater with its rolled-up sleeves slipping down her arms.

Jason swallowed, and dropped his arm carefully, finding himself on the receiving end of the glare he’d never quite gotten to mastering.

He scowled back, and might have said something if not for the need to protect his face again, Cassandra hurtling the snowball in her hand at him.

“Come—” she said, loud even though her voice sounded small, and like it could never possess so much volume.

“In—”

“Hey—” Jason moved closer, batting at a second – or, fourth – snowball with his arm.

“—side!” Cassandra snapped, and Jason ducked beneath her next assault. Gathering as much snow as he could, as tightly as he could, in both hands, he threw it almost aimlessly at her as he came erect, missing, of course, when Cassandra dodged effortlessly.

“Are you freaking kidding me?!” he exclaimed, frustrated, and angry all over again, “Did you not see that?!” he asked, gesturing at the door behind her with one embarrassingly trembling hand.

He held it there, hovering mid-air.

Cassandra already had two more snowballs clenched in each hand, but he’d apparently gotten her attention enough she didn’t feel the need to pelt him with them – yet, at least.

“...I can’t,” Jason started, slowly, into the stretching silence between them, “Go back in there.”

Cassandra’s lips thinned in response, her fingers twitching tighter into the snow.

Jason threw his hands up, exasperated, “Seriously! I don’t know why, okay? But that damn house—” he pointed a set of fingers at it sharply, “And—”

It was all the memories. All of them just rushing back to him at once, and he couldn’t will them away like he’d been doing for years, trying to put little now-dead Jason Todd to rest and leave him buried. He’d managed, because he’d left Jason inside that house, and going back in again would only wake him up further. It wasn’t fair.

“I just can’t!” he said at last, almost pleading and not knowing why he was pleading at her. Until a couple months ago he’d never even seen Cassandra Cain face to face. They’d spoken all of once, before, and part of Jason seethed at having to apparently explain himself to anyone at all.

The larger part of him, though, felt rotten, and guilty, and needed to make its case, and—

He’d come with reason, and intention – he’d been asked to come, and he’d said he would, and he’d meant to keep that commitment. He’d meant to be brave. He’d meant to try.

But, entering the house had left him more afraid than he’d been before he’d set foot inside, when the only fear he’d had was never seeing his once-father again and telling him—

Whatever the hell Jason decided on once he got there.

Jason hadn’t expected it would be so hard to come through the door of his destination, however – hadn’t expected to be bombarded with a hoard of happy memories he’d thought he’d buried next to dying.

And now he was intent on breaking his promise because he couldn’t manage to deal with his past.

Perhaps if he’d had more unpleasant experiences in the manor it would have been easier to shrug it off, be dismissive of the entire building, regard it with a cool aloofness and flip it off when he went away – his spat, or heart-to-heart, or whatever the hell it would have been, with the old man settled and done.

But the manor had been his home. And entering it now reminded him of that home. Of what it had meant, and—

And could it still…?

Dick always being so adamant that he was family.

Alfred had said the same thing. Replacement had damn well invited him inside months ago.

…

Cassandra had commanded just a moment earlier.

Damian had tried to make him promise—

“I can’t,” Jason breathed, shaking his head, defeated. He dragged a hand across his face, frowning at the whiteness around his boots. Footsteps still lay haphazardly in the snow, from when he’d arrived; turning as if to go back, only to decide at last there was no more going back.

Only, he’d been wrong. It seemed there was no more going forward.

He was just here, now.

…

Gotham needed someone cruel to keep her in line. Jason was the only one who could be that and not lose his head over it, too. He kept other families safe, the way he always had in red, and green, and yellow – he couldn’t have his own, too. Not when they didn’t want him as he was, anyway.

Neither of them deserved that mess.

…

…

Silence, so long he thought maybe Cassandra had left him alone, until a fistful’s worth of snow hit him in the leg.

Jason sighed.

“Will you stop throwing shit at me?” he snarled, looking up sharply – and recoiling instantly when another handful hit him in the chest, “Cassandra—”

Presumably relieved of all her ammo, sweater-sleeves hiding her hands again, Cassandra stood thin-lipped, and frowning, her shoulders slumped—

“This is…your fault,” she said, carefully, slowly, but…firmly.

Jason stared. “Like hell it is,” he breathed, fingers curling into fists.

“You do this!” Cassandra continued, though, almost not giving him chance to finish and cutting off whatever else Jason might have tried to say. “Our family,” she went on, haltingly, swinging one hand half behind her, indicating the manor, “Is…broken. All it wants, is—you—everyone—here, and – but—” she shook her head, shoulders hunching, shifting her weight from one foot to another, “You want—” she squinted, and frowned, and shook her head, “I don’t, I can’t…see – you don’t, know, either, I—” she had her hands up in front of her, fingers peeking out of the sleeves, reaching and clenching like she meant to grab hold of the words she was looking for in her palms.

“You could – I don’t—fix, it?”

Jason shook his head slightly, not knowing what to say to her. It wasn’t…it wasn’t as easy as that. It wasn’t as simple.

There was too much to “fix,” and not enough time to wade through all of their issues, and too much pride to sweep it under a rug and hug and call it done—

“Cassandra,” Jason began, stepping forward, one hand raised, placating, but Cassandra shook her head again, expression crumbling—

“Then leave!” her voice cracked, and she dropped briefly to her haunches, grabbing at snow, tossing it half-heartedly at him. Again and again, “Don’t come—back!” Jason visibly started at the words, suddenly quite aware that no one had actually ever chased him away before. They hadn’t needed to, in so many words – he was the Bat’s big failure, his one mistake; an outlaw from the family, a son disowned for the way he could no longer condone and follow his father’s antiquated, ineffective code of moral justice.

They hadn’t said it, but the Bat had never needed to use words with his Robins – Jason had always just known. He could read the cowl almost better than the man’s actual face, and just as well as any book. Batman – Bruce – had never needed to tell Jason to leave. He’d only needed to look at him, and he had, too many times.

Jason already knew he wasn’t welcome, knew he couldn’t be, but—

—inexplicably, hearing the words hurt.

“You always c-come—back,” Cassandra sniffed, and breathed, and fixed him with a glare that made Jason feel like he was thirteen again and had done something stupid, even though the corners of her eyes were glittering with moisture. “Always want to—but, you won’t, help, so—stay,” she tossed more snow at him, hands jerking with frustration, the edges of her sleeves wet, “Away!”

More snow.

Jason dropped his gaze, his hands still clenched tightly, but all the anger having rushed to the surface when she’d laid the blame at his feet, had evaporated in the interim – instead, he had his shoulders hunched, and his teeth grit, lips dry and his ears burning—

He didn’t know what to say.

…

He didn’t know how to fix it—

When he couldn’t even enter the house—

When he couldn’t—

Cassandra had chucked a last chunk of ice in his direction and turned on her heel, rushing away, up the stairs, almost colliding with Tim, who Jason hadn’t even noticed sneaking up on them.

Jason watched, feeling intrusive, when the kid caught her by her shoulders, sounding concerned – Cassandra in the way, he couldn’t see Tim’s face, “Cass?”

Her short hair shifted this way and that when she shook her head, and curled herself out of Tim’s loose grip, slipping around him and disappearing across the threshold, Tim half-turned back to watch her go.

Jason couldn’t move. He hadn’t seen Tim since before the Joker had—

Had what…?

Jason hadn't bothered finding out, he didn’t want to know.

Tim turned back to face him and Jason took a breath as he did, not sure what to expect on the younger boy’s face, but—

There was nothing.

No scars on his skin, or bruises, or marks, and – and Tim didn’t carry himself in any way suggesting he’d been beaten to a bloody pulp with a crowbar, made to watch the timer that was counting down the last seconds of his life, before the big Bat could swoop in and save him with time to spare—

He was thinner though, than when Jason had last seen him in civvies.

Jason blinked, drew himself up, carefully unclenching his fists as Tim took the steps down to meet him.

“What did you do?” Tim asked plainly, but there was no demand or accusation in his tone.

Jason scanned the kid’s face, looking for something he didn’t know – something just…felt, wrong about the kid. “I—” he started all the same, perhaps intent on defending himself, when really…he had no idea how to explain. He’d screwed up again. That’s what it was. “Nothing,” he said firmly, snapped almost, pushing aside some of the hurt from Cassandra’s words, and the surprise, and uncertainty, doubt, fear, false bravery, he’d been lugging around all day. He didn’t want another spat, especially, somehow, not with Tim – who’d been offering him juice, and inviting him in and getting his wrist twisted for his troubles; maybe if Jason had offered they share notes on the drug case after all, worked together, Joker wouldn’t have been able to—

He shook his head, angry. No.

“I was just leaving.”

“No,” Tim said, like he was answering a question. “You have to see Batsy, c’mon,” Jason frowned at the address, and Tim’s audacity, grabbing him by the front of his jacket and tugging as he made for the house—

Jason didn’t budge, caught him by the wrist, bending slightly forward so as to meet the kid’s eyes better, “Tim.”

Tim looked at him briefly, dropped his gaze to Jason’s hand around his arm, and his own hand on Jason’s jacket before he released the fabric, and Jason let go of him as well. He met Jason’s eyes, brows pinched, lips twisted into a frown before, slowly, they curled into a grin instead.

“I forgot.”

Jason eyed the kid carefully, but he could never have predicted Tim’s actions—

He lunged at him, and Jason moved instinctively to defend himself against an attack that never came, because Tim was not attacking him. Instead, the teenager had caught Jason about the waist, arms locked tight in a hug, his chin against Jason’s shoulder, and Jason—

Stood awkwardly with his mouth open and his arms hovering aimlessly in the air.

“Uh…” Jason stared at what he could see of the boy’s unruly mop of black hair from the corner of his eye, his hands moving to touch Tim’s unspeakably thin wrists at his back, intent on prying him loose, but, for all that he’d definitely lost some muscle mass, the kid still had an intensely good grip – and he wasn’t about to just let go, either. “Imitating Dickie, Pretender?” Jason scoffed, more than a little bite to it. Tim hardly noticed – if anything, he squeezed a little tighter. Jason didn’t really want to yank him away, for fear of bruising the boy, but he could hardly stand much more of this either.

He caught sight of Cassandra in the doorway then, eyes red, jaw clenched, and he felt—

Guilty.

“You’re bruising my ribs, here, kid, c’mon,” he said at last, tugging on Tim’s sleeve. Tim let him go almost at once, with a gasp and a yelp, taking two steps back, onto the porch, holding his hands close to his chest, biting hard at his bottom lip.

“S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to, um, do that – or, um—” Tim stumbled over his words, eyes on where he’d been latched onto Jason just now, making the older man shift his shoulders, uncomfortable under the intent gaze.

“Please,” he scoffed, thus, playing it off as best he could. He straightened his jacket, brushed it off for something to do, “Like I bruise that easy,” he waved a hand dismissively. “What’s the matter, kid? Dickie skimping out on annual cuddles, so you’re jacking ’em wherever you can get away with it?”

Jason grinned at him, lopsided and snide, the way he was used to.

“Um,” Tim blinked, meeting Jason’s eyes, and then – he giggled. High-pitched, and in a way that made Jason’s insides quaver like they hadn’t in a while.

At once he was no longer grinning. Cassandra’s eyes had gone wide, Jason noticed. Tim, almost immediately, had slapped both hands over his mouth with a loud, probably not entirely painless, smack.

He was still giggling though, hiccupping as he tried in vain not to, shoulders shaking, eyes shutting tight and opening, blinking, gathering tears on his lashes—

“Timothy?” Jason tried, half-raising a hand, taking one cautious step up, coming just a little bit closer—

“Timmy—” Cassandra had her arms around Tim from behind before Jason could do much more, her nimble fingers working at the kid’s own, trying to loosen the grip he had on his face – but Tim clutched tighter, his nails scratching at his pale cheeks, and the back of one hand, leaving lines slowly reddening.

“Let it out—” Jason heard Cassandra say, urgent if quiet. He stared, at a loss for what to do, or what was happening—

Tim rocked forward, back, tried turning his head, shifting his shoulders, lifting his elbows to shrug Cassandra off – she wouldn’t budge—

Tim was hunched forward, looking smaller to Jason than even Cassandra was, despite being the same height, Tim’s shoulders broader—

He blinked, hard and fast, tears trailing down his cheeks, colliding with his clawing fingers—

“Let it out—” Cassandra hissed at him, digging her fingers in between Tim’s hands, but getting no further—

Tim was still giggling, louder and faster, sounding more strangled every second shudder as he tried hard to suppress it. He sounded just like…like Tim, but unlike Tim, and Jason—

Couldn’t take it anymore.

“Timmy,” he’d half-snapped, half-pled, before he knew he’d done it, and grabbed the kid by a shoulder with one hand – Tim gave a startled yell in between the giggles, hands springing free from his mouth, and his body hunching, dipping back, out of Cassandra’s hold—

Tim had spun around and run inside the manor, up the staircase before Jason had more than blinked, leaving them with another stuttered apology, and the echoes of his laughing, sobbing, choking voice bouncing off the walls as he fled.

Jason stood, dumbfounded, watching him go, only then becoming aware of the quickness of his breathing, the drumming of his heart—

“What the hell?” he mumbled at Cassandra, half-heartedly gesturing the stairs inside.

Her lips thinned, her gaze on the porch in thought, before she looked back to the staircase, and back around at Jason, her brown eyes sweeping over all of him before settling on his eyes, “He’s—” she looked away, the motion almost abrupt with the way she cut off as well, and Jason couldn’t help but think, with their earlier exchange, maybe she wasn’t about to tell him after all. But then—

“…Grateful…you know,” she shrugged one shoulder and frowned at the floor.

Jason frowned, too, not sure what she was on about now, “What?”

Cassandra glanced at him, unperturbed by his confusion, “Dick, told him…you found him, he’s…grateful,” she said, shortly.

Jason’s shoulders slumped, his still-hovering hands dropping to his sides. “Oh.” A beat passed. “But, what just – I mean, with the—” he brought his hands back up, unable to find the words, exactly, “He was—just—what the hell?” he asked again, voice tight, and when Cassandra regarded him, brows knit together, it was with a vague look of pity Jason wasn’t sure was for him, or actually Tim. There was anger there, too, though – that, Jason was sure was meant for him.

“The…Joker, he…” she started, slowly, and Jason swallowed. “You don’t, want to know,” she shook her head, looked away again. “You didn’t like the thought, before…less, now.”

Jason had clenched his hands without realising.

“And, you don’t like…when I—” she looked back at him, just a shift of her eyes.

“Read me like a damn book—no, I don’t,” he snapped, glaring at her.

She ducked her head, fingers peeking out the sleeves of her over-sized sweater to play at the hems.

Jason loosened his fists; spoke more quietly, “You can’t help it…can you?”

Jason watched her suck in a breath through her nose, and let it out slowly. She shrugged.

“Dick said, once…” she lifted her head, but kept her eyes averted. “Language…is not something, you unlearn. When you’ve known it…forever. He can…no more not understand a…different language he hears, on…accident, than I can…stop…” she met his eyes, “Seeing. It’s…hearing, to me. And I, wouldn’t want, to. Stop. It makes me…” she squinted at nothing. “Better,” she said at last, nodding firmly.

Jason frowned, “Better? At what…?”

“Being Batman,” she replied simply, as though it should have been obvious.

An exasperated little growl crept up Jason’s throat before he could stop it, “Cassandra—” he started.

“Cass,” she interrupted, and he paused. “Call me, Cass.”

“Er—” he blinked at her, heat rising up his neck, touching his ears, the memory of her words from before still echoing in his head, and the redness about her eyes still too fresh from the tears he’d caused her—

What the hell was she seeing in him now that made her give him permission to call her by a nickname?

“Cass…sandra,” he mumbled awkwardly, looked away, paused again. “You shouldn’t be… ‘being Batman’ – you’re a kid, you should,” he waved a hand, “Be in school or something—”

“I’m your age,” she interrupted plainly.

“Well, that’s just—” he scowled. She was short, and thin, and a dozen different kinds of lethal, he knew full well, but with her small frame he’d guessed her no older than Tim. Younger, even. Another teenager. Another kid, fighting Batman’s war. “…Still,” he muttered lamely, shifting his shoulders, stuffing his hands in his pockets, long since having forgotten the mild chill clinging to his fingers. He still couldn’t quite meet her eyes again, “You didn’t…ask for this.” None of us did, not really. None of us knew what we were asking for.

“No,” she agreed. “I was…made. For it,” not a hint of self-deprecation in the statement, and Jason had to look up, a little surprised. “It’s…what I am. And, if I can…use that. To help,” she watched him, pointedly, and her eyes were pools of deep dark brown, pulling him under. “I know you understand.”

Jason swallowed, and looked away, because he did. He did understand. It’s the only reason any of them did anything – helping. Everyone but themselves.

“You don’t…have to,” she said, earnestly, and her dark eyes were filled again with moisture when Jason dared to look up, “Do this alone.”

Jason flinched, when she raised her hand to him, palm up, the sleeve of her sweater pulled back far enough he could see all her fingers. But his breath was stuck in his throat again at the offer she was making—

He clenched his hands to stop his fingers from trembling, and shook his head as much as he could manage – feeling frozen again, one boot in the snow and his other foot on the nearest stair—

“I don’t know—how, to fix it,” he whispered at her fingers. “I can’t—” he breathed.

“Please,” she whispered back, and grabbed him by the front of his jacket. “Just try,” she insisted, quietly—

Jason had ducked his head, could see her feet on the edge of the porch – she wasn’t wearing any shoes, and her bare toes seemed to be reaching toward the first step down like she was about to come even closer though he could already feel her breath against his forehead. Her toenails were bright blue.

“I’m…with you,” she said, and he shook his head at the sincerity in her tone, “Nothing…will happen to you – in there. We’re…your family, Jason—”

“No—” he whispered.

“You promised,” she said, and he shook his head, eyes closed, until she finished, “Alfred.”

The breath he sucked in at that both caught and didn’t, in his throat, making a noise close to sobbing—

He ducked his head farther, pressed his eyes closed tighter, and clenched his fingers around Cassandra’s strong wrists—

She was right.

He had promised Alfred.

A short, frustrated sound escaped his throat, and when he opened his eyes his vision was hazy, unfocused—

“That was low,” he said to the ground, voice rough. He blinked, and blinked, and let go of Cassandra’s wrists and pressed his palms against his eyelids.

“I’m sorry,” she replied, but didn’t release the grip on his jacket.

“No, you’re not,” he said, sharp and unforgiving when he finally straightened up.

She said nothing to the contrary, but stepped backwards, pulling him up the porch and closer to the threshold by his lapels, and he followed, trance-like, without protest.

He walked right up to the doorway, saw the staircase cast in shadow over her shoulder, and caught hold of her wrist again, stopping in his tracks.

He breathed in, deep, and her hold on his jacket loosened until it was nothing but the press of her fingertips against the fabric, feather-light on the outside of his chest, while his heart pounded again, harshly on the inside.

She watched him carefully, and he felt stripped to the bone, like her dark eyes were reflecting the depths of his soul she was looking right into—

“I’m scared,” he admitted, scarcely louder than a whisper, and unintentionally besides – not to mention, she’d probably already seen it, anyway—

She nodded, which came as no surprise, but said then, “So are we…” which did.

It was several loud heartbeats later, the silence seeming eternal between them, before Jason could manage to move again, stepping around her through the doorway, into the foyer proper—

—he breathed—

—chest heaving painfully as he looked around—

He felt dizzy—

Faint—

He was turned around a moment later, not sure whether he was about to go stumbling from the house a second time, or if he was going to spill his breakfast over Alfred’s nice clean floor, when—

Cassandra – Cass – was right in front of him, her fingers cool against his suddenly clammy face, her palms pressed against the line of his jaw—

“You’re…alright,” she insisted, and he blinked, tried to focus on her eyes swimming in front of him. “Jason—”

His fingers twitched – against the skin of her wrists though he didn’t remember reaching for them again—

His eyes were closed; his brow furrowed, his forehead, oddly, pressed against hers—

“Breathe,” she kept whispering at him, and he did—in deep, and out slow, trying to keep it even—“Just breathe, little brother—”

He blinked his eyes open at that, pulled away slightly, and stared at her, surprised, “Huh.”

Jason’s gaze drifted—his heart no longer beating too frantically at its cage, but his thoughts catching up to his actions and wondering what the hell he was doing—to the doorway on his right, leading off to what he remembered as sort of a lounge, with a wall-length bookcase housing little actual stories—

“Then what’s the point of all these…?”

“Master Bruce often entertains guests here, young sir. As a prominent social figure and business icon, he has a certain image to maintain. These…assist.”

“That’s boring.

“…And fake.”

“Such is a life of secrecy, Master Jason.”

“Well, it sucks, Al.”

Cassandra was still watching him, reading him, though the expression on her face suggested she didn’t quite know what she was seeing, which – Jason hardly knew what he was feeling himself.

Besides, he’d gotten distracted—

—for a fleeting moment Jason thought he could see himself, though the boy had no actual face he could make out, coming through the lounge’s doorway, looking up at the tall, black clad figure beside him – smiling, maybe – and Bruce put a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed.

“Good work, Jason.”

For all the hard work he’d ever done, as Robin, as Jason, in this house, trying always, to impress, and succeed, and live up to a name and what had now become a legacy he’d always been uncertain about deserving even as he felt a rush of pride donning the suit, donning the ability, the capability, to help people, and change their lives in a big way—

For all the bad bits that came with that, he’d had family here, too.

This was home.

Every good bit of his existence that didn’t include his mom, had happened here. Because of here.

And then Jason was no longer smiling up at Bruce, but was instead settled in the older man’s arms, still clad in his uniform, being carried up the same stairs Jason stared at over his shoulder now, up to bed, feigning sleep – because Robin-training wouldn’t keep him ignorant of being lifted off the couch where he’d succumbed to slumber, despite being ill – because he could not, for the life of him, remember ever being carried and tucked into bed before, by his father. And it felt nice.

…

Jason breathed. Could feel the way his heart pounded, beat after beat.

It was overwhelming, and strange – strangely comforting, strangely disconcerting – to, so suddenly, be reminded of this, when he hadn’t considered these memories in years.

Things between him and Bruce had been at a stalemate for so long, Jason had thought it would go on forever as is.

They’d end up old men on different sides of the city, just…being.

But now – that wouldn’t be the case, anymore. He’d been having, what he thought was undoubtedly every version of whatever this conversation could be, with Bruce in his head since Dick had told him the truth about Bruce, and the old man’s condition, and practically begged him to come inside and settle things.

Sometimes Jason would tell him everything – everything he hated about him, everything he loved, everything he wished he could change, everything he’d learned from Bruce, and everything he hadn’t—

Sometimes Jason told him about dying.

Sometimes Jason told him about waking up in his coffin.

Sometimes Jason told him about the Lazarus Pit.

Sometimes Jason tried to make him understand.

Sometimes Bruce did. Sometimes he said it was alright, and he could accept Jason’s way of doing things. In fact – sometimes it wasn’t Tim who’d killed the Joker, but Bruce instead.

Jason’s mind couldn’t supply a method, exactly, because imagining Bruce wielding a gun, even for putting down that rabid psychopath, only made Jason’s stomach turn.

He’d realised, a long time after he’d tossed Batman his firearm in that old apartment so long ago, how much of a twisted act that had been.

Clowns and crowbars and fires and small, dark spaces, silences, and a host of other things he’d never thought of twice, before, had bothered him for the longest time after he’d come out of the grave – even out of the Pit, still.

He’d worked hard, trained hard to get over whatever he could, and move on, as much as he could.

But he’d realised, wondering how the thought hadn’t occurred to him before – or had it? Had it been intentional? – that Bruce, of course, hadn’t moved on after his parents were shot in front of his very young eyes.

He carried that image, that aversion to that kind of violence, and guns, with him. In hindsight, Jason thought he might have handled his return to Gotham a little better – with regards to the gun, at least.

Sometimes…Jason understood, too.

Sometimes things worked out. Sometimes…Bruce would hold him the way he had in one of those deeply locked-away memories.

Sometimes they shook hands.

Sometimes Bruce even smiled – properly.

Jason looked up, over Cassandra’s shoulder and saw his footprints in the snow again, the trail he’d left up to the steps…

What was he going to tell Bruce when he saw him now?

With the past clinging this tight to his insides, what sort of resentment and heartache and disapproval would that conjure inside him? How would he screw up this chance for—?

Jason didn’t know what, but—

Eyes on the snow, feeling Cassandra’s fingers slowly fall away from his face, her wrists slipping from his grip, Jason did know – there was no going back, even as the memories seemed too much—

No more forever.

This was…it.

Jason needed to do this. For himself. Maybe a little for Bruce, too, he didn’t know.

It was the right thing, regardless, and no matter how unsure he was, or how many happy memories ended up stumbling out of the dark, or how much easier leaving seemed – he needed to be braver than that.

He could do this.

Jason didn’t know how long it took him to gather his wits, but Cassandra had silently let him take his time, and when, with a quick breath, he’d turned around to face the foyer again, she was no longer by herself—

“Master Jason,” the butler stood several steps up the staircase. A couple rungs further up stood Tim, looking placid and plain and much more like himself.

“Al,” Jason replied, quiet, nodding at the man.

“I’m pleased to see you could make it after all, sir,” Alfred said formally, making it sound as if he’d given Jason a choice, but, when the elder man had stood speaking in Jason’s less-than-stellar safe-house only the day before, removing a pair of bloody surgical gloves and clashing ridiculously with the décor, he’d made it quite clear Jason was being all but ordered. There was no other way to take a friendly request from the butler.

Alfred only made requests straightforward and plainly when he knew they were absolutely pertinent, but his charges were being too stubborn or prideful to do what needed to be done.

Besides which, the old man had picked him apart, laid bare Jason’s own soul before him as if it had been Alfred’s, and Jason could not have denied a single thing he’d been told then even if he’d tried. He’d have only been lying.

Alfred had always known him best, and…if Jason owed anyone anything, it was Alfred, who didn’t deserve any of the hurt Jason must have caused all these years, and, while Jason couldn’t – wouldn’t – take it back, because he’d meant it at the time, because he’d wanted Bruce and Dick and Tim, to hurt, he hadn’t ever meant the same for Alfred. He had a chance to make it right now, and he’d promised…There was no more going back.

He did need to do this. For Alfred as much as for himself.

“If you’ll follow me, then, sir.”

Jason breathed, apprehensive at once, but.

Alfred waited with the perceived patience of a thousand resolute, battle-ready soldiers, and Jason set his jaw, determinedly making his way toward the stairs, very carefully not jumping when Cassandra – Cass – shut the door with a low thud once he was properly inside.

next->

[chamomilehoneytea]

“Out of Reach”

“Yano-chin! Hey, wake up!”

Slumped over her desk, Ayane only offered a muffled groan from the makeshift pillow of her arms. To wake up she’d need to be asleep first, and that was impossible with Chizu around.

“It’s only the first day of the term! You’re off to a worse start than me,” Chizu said, clapping a hand on her friend’s shoulder and shaking, to no avail.

Summer vacation had been far from rejuvenating. Her days were spent poring over complex equations, nonsensical English words, and obscure dates that all ran together like a cruel sequence of code. The few hours of sleep she’d granted herself had been wasted staring at the ceiling of her room.

And it was all his fault.

“Ugh, wake up for real this time – Pin’s coming!”

Ayane’s head shot up from her desk so fast that Chizu nearly fell over.

Did she have any stray hairs? Dried drool on her cheek? Smudged mascara? Her hands were at a loss what to fix first, and before she could decide, Pin was at the front of the classroom.

“So, how was your summer break, brats? No, don’t bother answering – I know it wasn’t half as good as MINE!” he yelled, opening the attendance book with a sloppy flourish.

“Yeah, right! I watched you get turned down at the convenience store! I’ve never seen a girl run that fast!”

“Whoa, no way! I saw him get rejected at the park! And the movie theater! How is that possible?”

“SHUT UP!! I’M TRYING TO TAKE ATTENDANCE!”

Warmth spread through Ayane’s cheeks, and it had nothing to do with the summer heat pressing against the windows. She lowered her eyes to the top of her desk, praying that no one had noticed her embarrassing reaction.

He’s still trying to pick up girls? When will that idiot learn…?

“KURONUMA!”

“H-Here!!” Sawako answered frantically, as if trying to match Pin’s energy.

“SANADA!”

“Here,” Ryu said, his tone sleepy and uninterested.

As Pin screamed through the rest of the list, Ayane found herself staring at him. She may have been tired, but for the first time in her life she had been desperate to return to school. After so many days of not seeing him, her eyes travelled eagerly over the gentle lines of his face, the dark tips of his hair, his long eyelashes…

“YANO?”

He was staring back at her, heavy brows raised and mouth open, like he was waiting for her to speak. The best response her frenzied thoughts could render was a straightforward, spontaneous:

“Huh?”

The whole class burst into laughter, submerging her in an unapologetic chorus of brays, giggles, and snickers. Even Chizu was covering her mouth in an effort to stifle her snorts.

How long had he been calling her name?

The intense heat in her cheeks spread to her ears.

Did everyone notice her staring? Did he…?

“Here!” she quickly cried, praying that Pin would spare her any further humiliation.

But he just smirked, turning his eyes back to the class roster.

“Yano’s break must have been so good, she’s still there!!”

Ayane shot him the greatest glare she could muster, though she found it strangely difficult to stay angry with him as he continued down the list of names. She was the one who’d let her guard down, after all…

I’m the idiot!

The nights were starting to cool, and the rain drying on the asphalt rose up in a weak mist over the streets. The cricket-song had long faded, but the sound of water dripping into drains filled the silence left by summer’s passing.

Sawako and Kurumi were walking home in the opposite direction, their long hair bobbing gently as they went. Studying together at the library after cram school was becoming routine, and for Ayane, it was a welcome distraction.

At home she was too scattered to accomplish much of anything.

The sight of Kurumi and Sawako striving towards a common goal never failed to motivate her. How often had she wished to be someone like them? Cute, intelligent, and above all, honest. In love with the same boy, they had both fought to make their feelings known, even at the risk of a painful rejection.

I could never do something that stupid…

Ayane smiled a little, turning her back on their receding figures. The walk to her house was long, too long, but she shortened the distance with quick, efficient steps.

A too-long walk meant too much time to think.

In the middle of studying for the most important exam of her life, her traitorous mind continued to circle around Pin. What he might tell her if he knew she was struggling. The feeling of his hands enveloping her own, his hand on her shoulders, his hand on her head. The memory of his touch never failed to reassure her…

Every morning he was in the careful curl of her lashes, the pat of blush to her cheeks, and the gloss on her lips. The face staring back at her in the mirror was the face he would see that day, after all. Pin would have doubled over laughing if he knew that she cared what he thought of her appearance. Last year she might have joined him, mocking the girl who wanted such a cocky, careless, coarse man to think she was beautiful.

Ayane’s cheeks flamed at such an embarrassing idea. How old was she? Thirteen? Five? With those fairytale expectations she felt young beyond her years. Besides, what would it matter if Pin thought she were pretty? He’d never…

She stopped in her tracks.

Never…what?

She buried her face in her hands, shaking her head from side to side to banish those reckless, terrifying thoughts.

What am I going to do? I need to get a grip, before someone sees me…

“Oh! It’s you, Yano!”

His voice washed over her like a pitcher of ice water, and her body went rigid at the sound. Looking over her shoulder, her eyes confirmed the horror of her ears. 

Pin stood not five feet behind her, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. He eyed her with a certain suspicion, as if he were struggling to read her frightened expression.

“What are you doing out this late? Cram school was done hours ago,” he said, taking a step towards her.

Ayane quickly turned her head away from him. “I was studying at the library…”

“Ha! I figured as much. The way you were dragging your feet was a dead giveaway,” he said, and she could hear the cocky smile in his voice.

“No way! Were you stalking me or something?!”

“My apartment is this way too, idiot!!”

“That doesn’t mean–”

The words died in her throat as she turned around to find they were no more than a foot apart. He looked down at her with a mixture of confusion and amusement.

“You’re studying so hard there’s no more room in your brain for comebacks!”

She took a step back, adjusting the bag on her arm. “I’m…that’s not…”

Her cheeks were burning, just like that afternoon at the train station. Being close to him had been much harder since then, despite the fact that she increasingly craved his company. How could someone like him make her feel so awkward?

“Let’s keep moving – I don’t have any extra meat to protect me from the cold,” Pin said with a smirk, rubbing his hands together as he walked past her.

“I-I don’t have any extra meat on me either, if that’s what you’re implying!” she stammered, running to catch up to him as his pace quickened.

The rain-darkened streets were empty and quiet save for the echoes of their coupled footsteps, soft and rhythmic, like a pulse. Her own heartbeat was aggressive and angry, so she kept her gaze fixed on the minute cracks in the pavement.

One look at him would kill her.

“Not too long before it snows,” Pin said, tilting his head back. “This year is really flying. Pretty soon you’ll be taking exams…”

“Don’t remind me,” she said, her shoulders slumping forward.

“You’re too young to be that tired!” he said, pointing a finger at her drooping posture.

“I’m doing my best, okay? Even when I sleep I dream about studying,” Ayane said, vigorously rubbing her eyes.

Too young. I’ll always be ‘too young’…

Pin suddenly turned away from her, hands clapped over his mouth. Panic ran cold down from her head. Had she said that last part out loud?!

“I-I can explain!!”

Then she heard them: the quietest of snorts.

“Are you…?”

The dam broke, and laughter erupted from deep in his chest.

“You must really be tired…your…eyes…BWAHAHAHAHA!!!”

What the…?

Her hands shook as she retrieved a compact mirror from her bag. Flipping the lid, she braced herself for the worst.

The eyeliner and mascara she had carefully reapplied before leaving the library were generously smeared around her eyelids, and her lashes were thick and clumped together, sticking out at strange angles. She’d been so wrapped up in their conversation that she’d rubbed her eyes without thinking!

“You’d give Kuronuma a run for her money!” he cried, wiping a tear from his eye.

This wasn’t how she’d wanted him to notice her efforts, but seeing the way this laughter brightened his face almost made up for the initial embarrassment. She could see the happy little creases at the edges of his eyes, the dimple winking near the corner of his mouth…

Her cheeks flushed as she turned her face away from him again. It was all too easy to get caught up staring at him.

“Hey, your face is kind of red. Are you feeling okay?”

She froze in her tracks. How could she play this off?

“I-It’s nothing…I’m just a little cold – that’s all!”

They continued walking without another word, and for the first time that evening Ayane could breathe a sigh of relief. Pin kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, as if lost in thought, but he seemed to have accepted her explanation. There had to be a way to control her blushing, or this would be a very long year…

Since their meeting at the train station, she’d become aware of the strange sensations he produced in the pit of her stomach. Light-headed and queasy, with heart racing, she’d been sure she was deathly ill at first. But with that intense nervousness there was intertwined a euphoric excitement that was addicting. She suddenly craved his presence; every afternoon as she walked the halls of Kitahoro High, she fanned a flicker of hope that they’d meet. That she’d catch a glimpse of him, or hear his wild voice reverberating through the walls.

I really am pathetic…

She was startled out of her thoughts by a slightly scratchy material brushing past her cheek.

Pin stood close to her side, wrapping a long, marled gray scarf around her in tight loops; before she could faint from the shock, he had stacked it all the way up to her eyes. Sputtering and more red than ever, she ripped the garment away from her face.

“W-What are you doing?!”

“You said you were cold, so I’m letting you borrow my scarf,” he said, shoving his hands back into the pockets of his jacket.

“I can see that…but…” she said, grabbing each end of the scarf, “…don’t you need it?”

“You can’t afford to get sick right now.”

Her chest tightened, and for a moment she was sure there were tears in her eyes. He was worried about her health…!

Turning away from him, she carefully re-wound the scarf around her neck, adjusting the oversized garment as best she could. It had a distinct smell that was difficult to describe. Warm. Soft. Salty. Deep. Her eyes fluttered closed as she breathed it in.

His smell.

“I’m surprised you didn’t just give me a trash bag,” she said, smiling a little into the warm knit.

“Crap! And the convenience store’s up ahead too! Give that back to me,” he demanded, holding out his hand.

“Thank you,” she said, looking him in the face for the first time.

His expression seemed to soften, and his mouth curved into a gentle smile. Rubbing the back of his neck, he resumed their former pace.

“Yeah, well it looks silly on you,” he said with a mischievous grin.

“Then it goes great with my makeup,” she said, playfully blinking her smudged eyes at him.

He laughed, tilting his head back to stare up at the sky. “You’ve got that right!”

As they neared her house, Ayane gradually slowed her steps. Their walks never felt quite long enough, but tonight the idea of parting with him was almost unbearable. Why? She would see him again tomorrow, and the day after. But in the halls of Kitahoro there were a thousand reminders that despite their affinity, they really were living in two different worlds. There, they conversed across a wide desk, she in her uniform and Pin with a pen in his hand.

‘What do you think of me?’

The question still haunted her months after that meeting. She hadn’t meant anything by it, not then, but with each passing day, the desire to know his answer loomed over her thoughts. He had probably forgotten that exchange, as well as every one they’d ever had. She seemed to remember every word he said, but there was no way he did the same for her.

Why would he?

Sneaking a glance at his face in the cold, unnatural light of the street lamp, she felt a deep ache in her chest. Being this close to him would make it all the more difficult to be apart in the morning.

It wasn’t fair.

“Here we are,” he suddenly announced, stopping in front of the entrance to her house.

Do you want to come in? Just for a minute? I could make us some tea, or grab you a beer? We don’t have to drink anything. Oh, just to talk. I have a few questions about the application process…I know I could ask you at our next conference, but I thought I should do it while they’re fresh in my mind.

We don’t even have to speak. Being near you is enough for me.

“Be careful on your way home. Sawako told me she felt a presence today as we were leaving the library, so who knows where it is now. Those spirits move fast,” she said, quickly stepping onto the walkway.

“I HAVE TO GO!!” Pin yelled, sprinting down the street.

That’s that, then. See, it wasn’t so hard to split up, was it? You were sad for nothing…

As she turned the key in the lock she was suddenly aware of the weight around her neck.

Crap! I forgot to give him his scarf!

Slipping the key into her pocket and dropping her bag in front of the door, Ayane raced back towards the street.

He was running so fast earlier, I probably won’t be able to catch up –

But there he was, no more than a few yards ahead. She was surprised to see he was walking slowly, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.

He’s braver than I thought…

“Pin! Wait!” she called, unwinding the scarf as she ran to meet him.

“AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!” he screamed, stumbling backwards as she approached. “Stay away from me, Spirit!!! I’m just a humble homeroom teacher, I’ve never done anything wrong and –”

She stopped in her tracks. Spirit?

“It’s…just…me…” she said, bending over a little to catch her breath.

“It’s just you, Yano…” he repeated, staring down at her with a look of wary relief in his eyes. “You know, it’s not nice to play pranks on your superiors!”

She held out his scarf. “Unlike you, I don’t enjoy tormenting people! Keep better track of your things.”

“You’re welcome,” Pin grumbled, reaching for the long garment. “Kids have no sense of gratitude these days!”

“You’re one to talk! I ran all the way over here to give it back to you when it would have been so much easier to just throw it in the trash once I got inside!” she yelled, her tongue lashing at Pin’s ego.

“Why, you – !”

They stood there for a few moments, bristling but silent in the cold night air. Ayane stared at her feet in an effort to obscure her blazing cheeks from his gaze. That wasn’t how she’d meant to react, but only he seemed capable of drawing those biting retorts out of her…

I should apologize.

“I’m…sorry. Thank you for letting me borrow your scarf,” she said quietly, still staring at the ground.

He didn’t answer her right away, and for a second she wondered if he was actually angry with her.

“Thanks for returning it.”

His soft voice took her by surprise. She met his eyes in spite of her self-consciousness, but her heart still leapt at the sight of him.

“It was nothing,” she said, feeling for the bag that was no longer on her shoulder. “I thought you’d be halfway to your apartment by now.”

He clicked his tongue at her, wrapping the massive scarf around his neck. On him the knit looked completely normal; she’d been swimming in it! She couldn’t help but stare as he effortlessly adjusted it. His long fingers were surprisingly elegant for their size, and they captured her attention with their precise movements.

They really are beautiful…

“Is something wrong? You kinda zoned out,” Pin said, waving his hand in front of her face.

A new surge of heat rushed to her cheeks at his sudden proximity, and she shook her head frantically to cover for it. Did he have any idea how he made her feel?

“Well, you should probably head home now. I don’t want to be blamed for distracting you!” he said with a laugh.

You have no idea!!

“R-Right!” she squeaked, trying to look sincere. “Thank you again…for the scarf.”

“Night, Yano,” he said with a gentle smile, turning away from her and starting down the lamp-lit street.

“Good night!” she called after him.

Pin answered her with a brief wave of his arm. As his impressive shape sank into the shadows at the end of the street, Ayane was suddenly overcome with the desire to follow him into that dark unknown.

What would it feel like to walk with him all the way back to an apartment they shared? 

Her house would be just another building they had to pass on the journey home, and not the end of their time together. Unlocking the door, she would see their shoes, side by side against the wall; though she’d make sure that hers were neatly placed, she’d leave his the way he haphazardly tossed them on the floor. She would scold him as a formality, but secretly she’d treasure the little signs that he lived there.

Dinner wouldn’t be anything special, just the cup noodles they had hiding in the back of the pantry. But he would loudly praise her for it while messily slurping it down, as if the way she carefully poured the boiling water into the Styrofoam had any bearing on the taste. He’d grin at her across the table, laughing at something his students did that day or teasing her about the way her face still turns red when she holds his hand.

At night, he would begrudgingly let her ruin the hairstyle he was so proud of. She’d run her fingers through his hair, ruffling the thick strands and assuring him that he was even more handsome with it down. He’d press a soft kiss to her lips.

‘That’s why you’re the only one who gets to see it,’ he’d say.

Lying together on the futon, she would insist that it’s time they buy a big, Western-style bed. He’d remind her that the apartment was too small for that, and besides, futons were much cooler. She’d snuggle closer to him in the dark, promising that she’d earn a raise soon and that once she did, they’d find a spacious house with room for a thousand beds, so he’d better get used to the idea. He’d scrunch up his face in mock-anger, declaring that if he gets the raise first, they’ll buy the spacious house, but they’ll sleep on this very futon for the rest of their lives!

She’d pretend to fall asleep to his arguing, and when he’d eventually realize that she’d drifted off, he’d let out a tiny, exasperated sigh.

‘You’re such a pain…’

He’d gently stroke her cheek, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

‘Night, Ayane.’

When she’d finally hear the sound of his quiet snoring, she’d move even closer, burying her face in his chest. She’d always fall asleep this way, submerged in his deep, familiar scent, with his comforting pulse beating against her cheek.

‘Good night, Pin…’

Ayane covered her eyes, shoulders quivering in the chill of the night. Her silly, embarrassing fantasies were just that: fantasies.

All her life she’d taken pride in her sense of realism. People might have called her cynical or pessimistic, but she’d avoided a great deal of pain thanks to her outlook on life. Without any expectations she’d felt free to live without worry.

It wasn’t failing if she didn’t try in the first place.

Then Pin forced her to doubt everything she thought she knew about herself. She’d dismissed his suggestions at first, but, sure enough, beneath that cool, detached façade was a deep ambition she’d tried for years to ignore. ‘Ayane Yano’ was not the mature, aloof woman with both feet planted firmly on the ground.

She was a teenage dreamer reaching for a distant sky with stars in her eyes.

Now, without knowing it, he was inspiring all sorts of strange new feelings in the depths of her heart. At first she’d excused them as a kind of pathetic admiration for the lessons he’d taught her over the years. But admiration didn’t make you long for someone’s touch the way she longed for his.

“Admiration” didn’t capture the racing of her heart when she caught a glimpse of him.

Walking back towards her house, she resolved to fight against those persistent feelings by studying harder than ever. Pin’s face would be forced out of her mind by newly memorized algorithms and formulas. The sound of his voice drowned out by English CDs on repeat. Diagrams, essays, and case studies would supplant every last trace of him.

She just had to make it to graduation, and then all of the confusing sensations would disappear. They wouldn’t see each other regularly after that, and if she were accepted to J University in Tokyo, she probably wouldn’t see him ever again. She would eventually forget about him, and he would definitely forget about her.

The thought should have lightened her mood, but as she passed through the front door, she felt sick to her stomach.

 What am I going to do?

Thank you so much for reading! (Now go rest your poor eyes!)

There have been massive developments in the last few months for ayapin, but I wanted to explore what Ayane might have been going through in the period between Chapter 107 and Chapter 111. The first part takes place when they return from summer vacation, and the second takes place in late September / early October.

[recentanimenews]

Bookshelf Briefs 1/14/19

After Hours, Vol. 3 | By Yuhta Nishio | Viz Media – The scenes in this book of the rave, before, after and during, as well as what comes next, are fantastic, and the volume is worth picking up for that reason alone. That said, the romance in this third volume is the weak point. Kei abruptly disappears from Emi’s life right as Emi is ready to move into Kei’s life permanently, and while the family issues that Kei has to deal with are understandable, the author seems to think it’s 1959 and not 2019. You have phones! The journey by bus is a long one, but completely doable! There is no need for the ambiguous “maybe ever after” of this ending. That said, overall I found this series highly enjoyable, and if they want to do a sequel with Emi alone running raves, I’m cool with that too. – Sean Gaffney

Chihayafuru, Vol. 14 | By Yuki Suetsugu | Kodansha Comics (digital only) – Mizusawa has made it to the semi-finals of the national tournament, facing a team led by Megumu Ousaka, a candidate for Queen. Although Chihaya ultimately loses against her, she makes quite the impression on her opponent and others, causing one observer to think, “I never knew another girl this good existed.” I loved that it’s Desk-kun who seals the team’s ultimate victory, but less than an hour later, they’re facing formidable opponents in the finals. Fujisaki is full of Class A players but Chihaya’s opponent has an additional advantage: her grandmother is the reciter and she’s especially attuned to her nuances. Tense, fun, addictive, emotionally rewarding… I always want more when I get current with this series. – Michelle Smith

Kuroko’s Basketball, Vol. 29-30 | By Tadatoshi Fujimaki | Viz Media – In Japan, sports manga tend to have varying endings, with either the team winning it all or losing in the semis and resolving to try harder. North America tends to see a lot more of the former, so hope you like our heroes winning. It’s as well-handled as you’d expect, and I really enjoyed the development shown in Kuroko, Kagami, and Akashi here. There’s also a nice epilogue where Riko reminds us there’s a new tournament in the Spring, and they have to recruit! But for now let’s enjoy both their victory and the fact that the old Miracle Generation have mostly resolved their differences. The last shot has the old middle school picture balanced with his high school team, which is lovely to see. Do we get the sequel? – Sean Gaffney

Lovesick Ellie, Vol. 7 | By Fujimomo | Kodansha Comics (digital only) – Last time, I was a little worried that drama fueled by misunderstandings would become the norm for Lovesick Ellie, but I’m happy to report that no longer seems to be the case. While it is true that Ellie’s classmates get the wrong idea about her relationship with Kaname and Ohmi is freaked out by this rival, never at any point does Ohmi think she’s actually cheating on him. In fact, he opens up to Kaname about his insecurities, potentially making a friend in the process, and takes a good look at the kind of boyfriend Kaname could’ve been to her that he presently can’t be. With his focus on acting how other people expect, and remaining the other girls’ princely ideal, he’s never acknowledged Ellie as his girlfriend. Now, he’s ready for people to know how special she is to him. I’m so glad this series is back on track! – Michelle Smith

Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic, Vol. 33 | By Shinobu Ohtaka | Viz Media – I will admit the high point of Magi for me was the resolution of my ship, and the rest is just gravy. (Though I did enjoy the naive Alibaba being horrified at having a fight with Morgiana—that seems to have lasted five seconds.) But yeah, Sinbad’s still trying to make the world be at peace, and his methods are growing more and more horrible, as Kou’s dramatic cessation from the Alliance causes him to challenge God and emerge with the “it’s OK if I just mind control everyone to see it my way” solution. Sadly, Aladdin does not see this as anything but despotism. Aladdin is right, of course, but this is still Alibaba’s title, so he gets to mediate between these two. Who will he side with? – Sean Gaffney

Mob Psycho 100, Vol. 1 | By One | Dark Horse – There were several reasons why I was interested in reading Mob Psycho 100, the two most prominent being that One is the original creator of One-Punch Man (which I have been greatly enjoying) and that there was so much excitement surrounding the Mob Psycho 100 anime (which I still need to watch). But the main reason that I’ll continue to read Mob Psycho 100 is that I absolutely loved the first volume. Shigeo is a young man with superhuman powers which he tends to control by suppressing his emotions. Life being life, and middle school being middle school, there’s only so much he can bottle up before exploding. His mentor is Reigen, a spirit medium whose only extraordinary skill seems to be the ability to somehow convince others that he’s a legitimate exorcist despite all evidence to the contrary. Mob Psycho 100 is terrific, with a great sense of quirky humor and heart. – Ash Brown

Queen’s Quality, Vol. 6 | By Kyousuke Motomi | Viz Media – The volumes of Queen’s Quality seem to alternate between characters saying that Fumi is too weak and characters saying Kyutaro is too weak, and this time around it’s the latter, as he really gets put through the ringer here. The training they have to take on may involve some unsettling looks at Fumi’s background and heritage, which to be fair we’ve known was coming since the first volume. I admit I am somewhat surprised by Ataru’s promotion to sidekick-type character, but he serves it well, though there’s also a nasty flashback to his past I’m sure he’d rather do without. This wasn’t the best volume of Queen’s Quality, but that’s likely as it was transitional, and it’s still pretty solid. – Sean Gaffney

The Water Dragon’s Bride, Vol. 8 | By Rei Toma | VIZ Media – Asahi’s time as a captive in the underworld is brief, though it does afford us a few nice scenes in which the worried Water Dragon God is trying to find her. Instead, most of the volume is focused on Kurose, a boy from our world who seems to have become the plaything of Tokoyami, the god of the underworld. Kurose had a horrible home life and after potentially dying, he wakes in the underworld and is promptly whisked off to a village where he experiences kindness and a loving family for the first time. That is, until war comes and the Water Dragon God refuses to notice his desperation to save someone he cares about. I’m left to wonder… did this all really happen, or was Tokoyami mentally torturing him to create an ally in a vendetta against the Water Dragon God? Very intriguing! – Michelle Smith

The Water Dragon’s Bride, Vol. 8 | By Rei Toma | Viz Media – There was a surprising swerve in this volume. After dealing with rescuing Asahi from turning into a rotting zombie, and seeing the Water Dragon God have to deal with these pesky things called feelings, the rest of the volume is devoted to sketching out the tragic backstory of Kurose, the mini-villain from the end of the last volume. Not only is he merely a useful puppet to the true Big Bad, but he’s also a lot closer to Asahi than she might suspect, and has a suitably tragic backstory—in more than one world. I was expecting the adorable little girl he befriends to be horrible killed, and she is, but that may not be the end for her, unfortunately. Riveting. – Sean Gaffney

By: Ash Brown

[idolizerp]

[ LOADING INFORMATION ON HONEY’S LEAD VOCAL DAHYE… ]

DETAILS

CURRENT AGE: 25 DEBUT AGE: 23 SKILL POINTS: 05 VOCAL | 15 DANCE | 00 RAP | 10 PERFORMANCE

INTERVIEW

due to dahye debuting in an older age, msg really pushed a more mature image on her on stage. her whole looks and demeanor while performing contributed to it, and at first dahye was supposed to have a mysterious sexy image, without being too much about it, of course. she was supposed to mostly stay reserved and serious in interviews, to do the talking mostly when they were talking strictly business. besides group activities, she started being pushed  to photoshoots and some other smaller modelling gigs. and that’s how things went for a little while in the beginning of cherry bomb’s career.

but her fans quickly picked up on some sort of “mom” image to dahye and her management was quick to capitalize on it. she’s a caring girl and she was seen caring for the members more than once, which earned her a lot of points with her fans and on varieties that she was on. so she started being promoted on varieties as someone wise, mature, respectable, who has a funny side for being “an old woman trapped in the body of a young person”. dahye never thought she’d end up being in any variety of any kind, but she actually enjoys it once she starts being invited to more shows due to this twist on the way she’s perceived by the public.

and this little twist actually helps her on other fields. this difference between her girl crush stage persona to the wise grandmother offstage gives her a boost of popularity inside the fandom of her group, mostly between girl. and that also, consequently, also boosted her modelling career. which put dahye in an awkward position, since she’s being driven farther and farther away from her main passion: dancing, something that, as of now, she’s barely recognized for.

BIOGRAPHY

five.

moon dahye learns from a very young age that she has to work to get what she wants.

one, because the world is a cruel place, or so her grandmother says. the world does not forgive and it does not forget. if she slacks off, or if she waits for divine intervention for her life to work then she’s in for a rough ride. nothing comes out easily, her grandmother says while sitting down with a bowl of kimchi between her legs.

two, because she’s a woman. and women have it harder, always. they have to work twice as hard and protect themselves twice as much. and that’s how life is.

and moon dahye agrees, nods, as if she could understand such a thing at the height of her five-year-old self.

but one day she would.

eleven.

“why you don’t have a father?” her classmate asks and she can hear laughter. dahye squeezes her bag against her chest, feels the hot tears burning her eyes. and she hates her mother right here. she hates how she never tells her anything about him, how he’s a ghost, something that haunts her. though is he even dead?

she doesn’t know.

all she knows is that she has his eyes. fiery. destructive.

“is it true your mother is a whore? my mother said she is.” another asks and there’s more laughter, more screaming. dahye sees red, white knuckles, tears streaming down. she could jump him. she could break him apart.

but she runs.

thirteen.

she finds refuge in the small things.

there’s reading. she loses herself in books and series, imagines a world where she could fit. finds love for these characters that sometimes are so much like herself: fatherless, broken.

and then there’s dancing. it starts as this thing she does in a school festival for fun. but she enjoys it, joins an academy, starts going basically every day. every time she feels that it’s getting too much she goes, dances until her hair is all wet, until she can’t even think anymore.

because when she dances it’s almost like she isn’t herself anymore. it’s almost like she starts feeling human, feeling something. it becomes a part of her and who she is, truly.

and there’s nothing else she wants to do.

fourteen.

“mom,” she starts, one day, feeling brave, finally putting into words the question that has been haunting her head for years, “why did dad leave us?”

her mother pauses, looks down. it takes her a whole minute to reply.

“you never had a dad, sweetheart.”

and that’s all she ever says about it.

fifteen.

dahye is fifteen.

she’s fifteen and she’s sitting in a corner of the practice room, eyes locked on an older girl who is dancing right in front of her. she feels her mouth drying. she feels like there’s a hand around her throat, squeezing and squeezing. and suddenly there’s this thing, this terrifying thought that becomes bright as day.

no, she thinks and she feels sick.

she buries the thought deep inside.

sixteen.

she is sixteen when she joins the company. it had been a while year of auditioning to company after company, of listening to her mother complain that she didn’t raise her all by herself for her to go and become an artist. a whole year of crying, desperation. of almost giving up.

becoming an idol had never been something she even thought about but once she put her mind into it dahye gave her sweat and blood for it. it was a good idea, one a sunbae from the dance academy told her about.

(“you’re so pretty, dahye,” she had said, soft lips on her ear, “you should become an idol”)

now here she is.

and trainee life goes on like some sort of hell that she gets addicted to. dahye is competitive. she thrives on the competition, she wants to be looked up to. she dances and dances and learns all those other things. she learns how to carry a tune. she learns how to speak some rhymes in some way that almost seem like she’s rapping. dahye works twice as hard, she goes to her limits. she throws herself in so hard her life passes her by and she almost doesn’t see it.

suddenly she’s twenty-one and she’s still here.

and then she’s twenty-two and she’s seen younger people make their debut, she’s seen people who trained less than her go on stage. and she starts to wonder.

maybe she’s now that good. maybe she’s not that pretty. maybe she should just give up, find some office job. maybe she should accept she’s just not that special as people made her believe she was. and in dark moments like this is when old ghosts come back to haunt her. maybe that’s why he left her. maybe that’s why he never even called, he never even looked for her. there’s nothing to love here. nothing of worth.

until she’s twenty-three and finally. finally, she’s chosen.

finally.

twenty-four.

they’ve debuted and it almost feels like a dream. like an hallucination. still does, even after a few months. and then a year passes so fast dahye barely sees it. it’s just a flash of light, of photographs, of photoshoots and shootings. the awe of it all passes soon and dahye is in control again, back straight, eyes focused. she wants everything to be perfect. she will work twice as hard for her group and she want them to get to the top. and she won’t let anyone to get on their way.

dahye was already hard on the edges, a rose with thorns. her years as a trainee hardened even more. and stardom was just finishing up the job.

but there’s still things that get to her. a girl’s smile, her fingertips on her skin. her fans letters. dancing.

and of course, him.

they’re on a tv  station, recording a music show. they’re  just sitting there, laughing it off, being ridiculous and young and with the whole world  on the tip of their fingers. and that’s when the phone rings, a number she doesn’t quite recognize. they’re being too loud so she goes outside to pick it up, shaking while wearing a short dress in the middle of fucking winter.

“dahye?” she hears in a rough voice and her heart stops. “it’s dahye, right?”

“who is it?” she asks even though she knows. she doesn’t know how but she knows.

“i just saw you on tv. I asked your mother for your phone, she didn’t want to tell me. but… yeah. yeah it’s me, kid. and-”

she turns it off, closes her eyes. she cries quietly and then goes back inside.

some ghosts truly never leave.