#the testament of how not up my alley the sound is is the fact that i like Leave more than the rest of the tracks (except Lalala

[acexliety]

Bound By Trust

Bakugo Katsuki x Reader

Gender Neutral writing

English is not my first language, I'm sorry for any mistakes.

・・・・・

Warnings: angst, injury Summary: Bakugo is injured and poisoned, he swallows his pride to ask for your help

The night was cloaked in shadows, a darkness that wrapped around the alley where Bakugo found himself cornered, panting heavily as he struggled to catch his breath. Each inhale was laced with sharp, biting pain, and he could feel the warmth of blood seeping through his fingers where he pressed them against the wound in his side. The villain before him wore a smirk, relishing in the chaos he had wrought, his quirk amplifying the poison that curled in the air around them.

“You should’ve known better than to challenge me, Bakugo,” the villain taunted, his voice dripping with arrogance. “You’re nothing without your precious explosions.”

Bakugo gritted his teeth, frustration boiling within him. He could barely see straight; the edges of his vision blurred and warped, colors bleeding together like a smeared painting. He had unleashed everything he had, but it hadn’t been enough. Each blast he launched had been turned back against him, each attempt at offense twisting into a reminder of how powerless he felt now. The burning pride in his chest felt more like a curse as he struggled to stay conscious, the poison eating away at his resolve.

“Damn it,” he growled, forcing his legs to stay steady beneath him. He was a hero; he couldn’t let this villain win. But as the world swirled around him, he realized he needed help.

With shaky hands, he reached for his communicator, every movement feeling like dragging a boulder uphill. He swallowed hard, his pride tasting bitter in his throat. “(Y/N), I need you,” he rasped, the words spilling out before he could hold them back. “I can’t… I can’t handle this guy.” His voice trembled, and the admission felt like poison mingling with the one coursing through his veins.

The seconds dragged agonizingly as he leaned against the cold, unforgiving wall, trying to keep himself grounded. He felt his heart pounding in his ears, each beat reminding him of his vulnerability, of the fact that he couldn’t do this alone. He watched the villain approach with a predatory glint in his eye, and a wave of frustration washed over Bakugo. How could he have let it come to this? He was supposed to be strong, invincible—even now, when everything was falling apart.

Then, just as despair began to claw at him, he heard it—the sound of footsteps echoing through the alley. His heart leapt at the sight of you rushing into view, your face etched with worry and determination. “Bakugo!” you shouted, rushing to his side, panic flaring in your eyes as you assessed the situation.

“Don’t just stand there!” he barked, the words escaping his lips sharper than he intended. “Get out of here! This guy’s dangerous!”

Your eyes narrowed at him, a mix of concern and resolve flooding your features. “Are you kidding? I’m not leaving you!” You knelt beside him, the warmth of your presence a stark contrast to the chill of the night air. “Do you trust me?”

He blinked, momentarily taken aback by the question. Trust? In this moment of vulnerability, everything felt fragile, yet the connection between you felt unbreakable. Despite the confusion swirling in his mind, he nodded, determination flaring up amidst the pain. “Yeah. I trust you.”

“Then let’s do this,” you said, placing your hand on his shoulder, the contact grounding him even further. As you summoned your quirk, the air around you shimmered with energy, spectral forms rising from the ground like ghosts, ready to assist in the battle.

Bakugo watched in awe as the manifestations emerged, each one a testament to the bonds you had forged with those around you. He felt a surge of pride swell in his chest, battling against the frustration that had threatened to consume him moments ago. There you were, a force to be reckoned with, and all he could do was watch as you launched yourself into battle.

You moved with a fluid grace, weaving between the villain’s attacks while unleashing powerful blasts of energy infused with his quirk. The chaos around you intensified as you utilized the spectral allies, creating illusions that disoriented the villain, making him second-guess every move.

From his vantage point, Bakugo felt a mixture of admiration and irritation bubbling within him. Why couldn’t he be out there with you, fighting side by side instead of feeling like a helpless spectator? Each time you dodged and countered, he fought the urge to shout advice, the need to protect you warring against the helplessness constricting his chest. He hated the way it felt, knowing he was supposed to be the one doing this, the one winning.

But as you continued to press forward, unleashing everything you had, the tide began to turn. With a final surge of power, you struck the villain down, the force of your attack echoing through the alley like thunder. The villain crumpled to the ground, defeated, and a sense of relief washed over Bakugo, momentarily overpowering the pain that threatened to engulf him.

You rushed back to his side, your expression a mix of concern and fierce pride. “Bakugo! Are you alright?” Your hands were gentle but firm as you pressed against his wounds, and he felt warmth radiate from your touch.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he muttered, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. But the truth was, he was far from fine. The pain was becoming harder to ignore, the world blurring at the edges of his vision.

“You need to hold on, okay? Help is on the way,” you said, your voice steady, but he could hear the undercurrent of worry beneath it. He tried to push through the fatigue, to respond with something snarky, but the effort felt monumental, like trying to lift a mountain.

“Dammit, I should’ve taken him down myself,” he muttered, frustration bubbling up again. He hated that he needed you. Hated that he couldn’t be the one to save the day.

You met his gaze, your eyes fierce and unwavering. “You did everything you could, Bakugo. You fought hard.”

But that didn’t ease the tight knot of frustration in his chest. He could feel it mixing with an unfamiliar warmth that spread through him at your unwavering support. “I hate feeling like this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Like a damn damsel in distress.”

Your grip tightened on his hand, and he caught the glimmer of understanding in your eyes. “You’re not weak, Bakugo. You’re human. And being human means we need each other sometimes. I’ll always be here for you.”

The sincerity in your voice sent warmth flooding through him, a balm to the wounds in both body and spirit. “You really mean that?” he asked, vulnerability creeping into his tone.

“Of course I do,” you said, squeezing his hand reassuringly, the connection grounding him. As the sirens grew closer, Bakugo felt a flicker of hope amidst the pain, knowing that even when he was down, he wouldn’t be alone.

When the paramedics arrived, bustling into the alley with urgency, Bakugo’s heart raced, but it was not just from the lingering fear of the villain. It was the knowledge that you had fought for him, stood by him, and saved him when he had faltered. As they loaded him onto the stretcher, he kept his eyes on you, finding solace in the warmth of your unwavering gaze.

“Stay with me, okay?” you said, your voice filled with an urgency that matched the frantic pace of his heart.

“Yeah,” he replied, feeling the edges of consciousness beginning to blur, but determined to hold on. “I’ll… I’ll be alright.”

And as the ambulance doors closed, Bakugo felt a flicker of warmth in his chest—a realization that leaning on you didn’t make him weak. In this battle, he had learned that there was strength in vulnerability, strength in trust, and strength in the bond you shared. Together, they could face anything that came their way.

"Hey, pretend like this didn't happen," He tried to bark at you quietly as he laid on the bed to which you give him an unimpressed look in response, eyebrow twitching with brief irritation. Some things don't change. You only continue to hold his hand as the paramedics tend to his wounds as best they can in the ambulance during the drive to the Hospital.

⭑.ᐟ

Thank you for reading

[leemeanhoe]

ok i don’t like it very much…………

why did i watch the last four reels before bed i’m fucking VIBRATING with anticipation for the album HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SLEEP NOW jfc

[melsrainpod]

Probably spoilery, unsure at the time of writing this, thoughts about Wyrdwood under the cut. (Update: it's also rambly as all hell. You've been warned.)

I'm not sure if I can express my feelings about Oxventure: Wyrdwood right now. I'm not particularly sure what is it that I'm feeling, if I'm honest, but that's just a testament to how much there is to feel. Now that the season's over and there's more to come, there's gonna be this Heorth-shaped void in my metaforical fandom heart that I, for one, will be filling in by piecing fanlore into the shapes of the various districts.

The initial pitch of "folk horror Oxventure" was intriguing, but as not a big fan of horror I was more excited for just more of a serious tone and seeing how everyone in the oxboxtra(way) crew grew as a roleplayer. But oh wow, did they not only gain levels in roleplay, but apparently also everyone acquired proficiency in persuasion because this folk horror was somehow really up my alley. Unsettling, unnerving, genuinely scary monsters mixed with the psychological unease of not knowing when and how the magic will go wrong, interspersed with talks about throwing buckets over buildings or unexpected religion lore. Both the decision-making within combat and the casual chatter in calmer periods were rich with character and incredibly insightful.

Combat, by the way, was spectacular. I know Johnny isn't a big fan of combat, but after the usage of lair actions by the bear in the pit I genuinely whooped in excitement — the combat in this series is not only full of genuine stakes, but is also not boring to watch (props to all the producers and editors as well! lighting, sound effects, cuts to close-up rolls on initiative rolls — they are not unnoticed, I absolutely love it!). I think starting on fifth level was the right call, I just hope the group will get to level up for if not the second, maybe the third season and manages to nab some more cool powers. The mechanic of debt is also quite fun, although personally I would prefer for it to go off a bit more frequently, but I doubt it would be particularly fun to stop the game in the middle just to see who'll get 'loped just for the sake of more chaotic magic.

But speaking of magic and debt! Worldbuilding. Oh my absolute gods, the worldbuilding is so juicy. I want to know everything about Heorth. I want to know the courting rituals in Fennfold, where Willowfine is from. (I also want to know all the spellings, Johnny, please release the spellings guide, thank you very much, all the writers and theorists will be in the magical debt for you.) I want the map. It genuinely feels like Heorth is alive around everyone, and I want there to be more stories, big and small, set within its regions, because I truly think there's an almost onfinite number of them. I love the fact that the mysteries are now multi-layered — of course, we're trying to figure out why the magic got borked, but there are also questions of how the magic works, who is this Poor Man, who are those higher beings, and that's not even counting the side mysteries of common folk in Baelwood and Morven's death. It is crystal clear that Johnny has put their heart, sweat, and excitement into the worldbuilding and I would give a (non-monetary, because. well. real life geopolitics.) big value to get to see even one document of the hundreds on the google disc folder they have.

In short, absolutely bloody loved the season one. Can't wait for more. In the meantime, I've got some theories to write!

[splendidissimus]

late 2001 - Paranoia

((Content warning: anxiety / mental health issues ))

((Promptspiration: @whumptober-archive 2023: day 23: Its gonna get me by the end of the night. / Shadows / Stalking / "Who's there?" ))

((A couple months after the escaped Death Eater incident, which is largely what Theo's thoughts are referring to.))

Genre: hurt/comfort

Romance level: major

Angst level: 4/5

Draco's headspace: anxious / irrational -> frustrated

((words: ~1600))

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

Knockturn Alley was dangerous. It was just a fact. It was where you went if you were looking for criminals, Dark wizards, and those better not seen with. Draco knew that. Even he, Malfoy or not, had almost been mugged there. 

Theo had begged him not to wander around on his own. But he was stubborn. He was arrogant. He was in denial. Any of those things. He determined to walk the length of Knockturn Alley to Theo's house at the far end instead of flooing there, so that no one could gossip about where he went. He had told himself it would be fine. Why did he do that?

There was something wrong with his footsteps. There was another set there, in the echo, the sound of someone trying to match his steps so they wouldn't be noticed following him. 

The shadows had already taken over the street, leaving just a hint of orange sky visible over the roofs, rapidly turning purple, and the darkness left him feeling exposed. He didn't have enough eyes to watch every corner and crevice in the twisting street. He had his face turned back, trying to find the stalker, so he nearly ran into a street peddler and had to scramble onward to get away.

The street was lousy with strangers, with eyes, with furtive glances and whispers and backs that turned. With blank faces that would affirm they saw nothing that wasn't their business. 

There wasn't anybody there. He knew there wasn't anybody there. No one was following him. It was just people doing normal people things. All he had to do was walk calmly because he knew that there was nothing after him. 

He knew that but he could still feel it, that phantom echo of footsteps, closing in… He knew it wasn't there but secretly it was. And while he walked, calmly, logically, rationally onward, it was getting closer. 

He couldn't take it anymore. Apparating into a public street wasn't really safe, but he had to. He broke into a run, fishing out his wand as he did, and Disapparated between one step and the next. 

—

Theo came out of the kitchen when he heard the door slam, shoving a last bit of steak into his mouth, looking up the hall to see if this was Draco pissed off or if something was wrong. Finding him pressed against the door, shaking, with his eyes closed answered that. "What's the matter?" he asked with his mouth full, coming up to hold his arms.

"There's no one there," Draco blurted out. "I know there isn't, I just— My fucking mind!"

All right, that was completely nonsensical. He calmly pulled Draco away from the door, rubbing his arms to try to soothe him, and guided him down the hall. "Maybe Godot made some tea. You can start at the beginning." He had found that, outside of there being obvious danger, he tended to get calm as Draco got frantic. He thought it helped him. Right now, he felt like an icicle, which was a testament to how worked up Draco was. 

There was in fact tea sitting out by the sink, and he pulled Draco in front of it. On his way past, he shoved his steak and potatoes to the back of the table so Draco wouldn't have to smell it as much. 

Draco didn't even seem to notice the tea; when he was put in front of it, he pulled out of Theo's hands and paced the width of the room, running his hand through his hair. "I am not afraid of the dark!"

So it sounded like he was, actually, afraid of the dark? "After what you've been through, Draco, no one would blame you if you were." He started making up Draco's tea himself, loading it up with sugar. 

"I'm not," he denied with all the force of his personality, which did little to make it sound more true. 

When he stalked back in his frenzy, Theo lifted the tea into his path and caught his arm to encourage him to take it. 

Draco blinked down at it and accepted it without a word, his spiral interrupted. 

"Tell me?" He rubbed Draco's arms again.

"I…" Theo rubbed his back, and he took a bit of tea, then a deep breath. "I thought I was being followed. I wasn't — I know I wasn't. I knew wasn't." He sat down at the table with his tea, dropping heavily into the chair, without his normal grace. "It was in my head and I knew it. I was thoroughly aware that it wasn't real."

"But…?" He wrapped his arm around Draco's chest and shoulders.

"But I still had to run away." He gripped the teacup tightly and stared into it. "I still had to panic and run because if I didn't I felt like I was going to die. Over nothing." He shoved the tea back on the table instead of drinking more.

He smoothed Draco's hair back and kissed the top of his head, formulating a response in his thoughts, trying to find a way to phrase all of the understanding Draco deserved without making him feel pitied. 

"If I know there's nothing to be afraid of, why am I still so afraid?!" He shoved the table into the wall; it knocked over his tea, spilling it out over the worn wood and running up against Theo's supper plate. He grabbed his hair in both hands and let his head hang.

"I wish I could do something about it, or at least had an answer." Theo hugged him tightly, rubbing his arm and trying to get him to let himself go. The answer was that Draco had had so much that made him feel vulnerable, but Draco didn't want to hear it; he didn't want or need to hear a litany of his trials. He wanted to be able to ignore them, even though it was clear they were still affecting him. 

"I don't want an answer, I just… don't want to be like this…" 

He silently rubbed Draco's arm, and then pulled him to get him back to his feet. "Let's go sit outside." 

"Why?"

"So you won't be afraid of it." 

"I already know there's nothing to be afraid of, it's not going to accomplish anything."

He calmly rubbed his back. "Let's just do anyway." 

Draco reluctantly let himself be led back down the hall and out the front door. Theo pulled it closed solidly behind them. They didn't go anywhere; Theo just pulled him gently down as he sat on the top of the front step, legs stretched out to the cobblestones. 

Draco was as paranoid as ever about being seen with another man, so he just sat beside him, not touching, and Theo didn't push it. To be honest, they were sat right next to a skeevy rooming house; it was pretty conceivable that anyone who happened to see Draco holding hands with a bloke might get some blackmail-y ideas in his head — not because there was anything wrong with it, but just because Draco was hiding it. 

It wasn't a bad night; cold, but clear. They could see a pair of wizards in spirited conversation wandering vaguely down the middle of the road in their direction, plus a solid group in Muggle clothes going the other direction and talking in low voices amongst themselves, hear loud voices from the pub down the corner, and further up toward Diagon Alley a kneazle yowled its complaints as it was tossed out of a shop. They didn't have much in the way of street lamps, but half of the windows up and down the alley were lit; Knockturn Alley came awake after dark. 

"How do you feel?"

"Stupid." Draco felt around for a pebble or chip of stone and lobbed it clattering into the street. 

"Well, you're not."

Draco didn't say anything. He found something else to throw, and sat with his chin almost on his knees, watching the people go by without being obvious about it. Eventually, he pulled out his wand and cast a Disillusionment charm on himself with no warning, so that he effectively vanished. 

Theo sat up, watching the spot where he had been and trying to readjust his eyes in the darkness to pick out his shape instead of colour. "What's this about?"

Draco didn't answer, but he could hear him moving, and then he nudged Theo's leg and sat on the step below him, between his legs. He felt his arm picked up and pulled around Draco's shoulders. Draco settled back against his chest, holding his hand lightly on his shoulder.

He felt the top of Draco's head with his chin and kissed it. "Sure," he said, voice light. "This is inconspicuous." 

"People are used to you being weird. But I could do you too."

"That's up to you." He rubbed Draco's arm. He couldn't see it, but Draco felt more relaxed now, he thought. "Do you feel better?" 

He felt a nod against his shoulder. "I'd have been fine if I weren't alone," Draco said quietly. "It's not a solution, it's just another side of the problem."

"I don't know, it seems pretty reasonable to feel safer if you have someone with you." 

"But it isn't about that. No offence, but I don't feel like you're going to 'protect me'."

"Okay, a little offence taken." 

"All right, I know you would, but it isn't about that. It's that having someone there gives me a way to divert the crazy thoughts. Reality I can touch and push them away." 

"Your thoughts aren't 'crazy'." He nuzzled into his hair.

"They are," he said quietly. "I know they are. I am. I can just control it when I'm with people. When I'm alone I can't stop it." 

He knew nothing his instincts said to say, about not leaving him alone or about him not being mad, was the right answer. He didn't think there was a right answer. Instead of saying something empty and unsatisfying, he kissed Draco's head again and wrapped his other arm around him as well to hold him tightly.

[xjoonchildx]

Hi Ana,

I hope you've been well. I'm super shy and normally, reaching out to folks, much less to one of my favourite authors on here (Greedy!Yoongi will always have my heart), would drown me in anxiety, but I finally managed to read Kanalia (I'd had that on hold for years) and I just had to tell you how much of a wonderful writer you are.

I'm an editor by profession and aspiring writer by hobby, and I loved every part of the story. The characterisation, the yearning and the passion, the final realisation that if the King wasn't going to keep to his word, all bets were off... It made me cry but also brightened up my sunday morning, so much so that I've come straight here to ramble all this at you after spending a couple of hours sobbing into my pillow while reading it.

Ngl, i wondered if it would veer off into a humdrum love triangle, as these things so often do, and I was pleasantly surprised that it did not. The scene at the stables, especially, chefs kiss! Although, I've got to wonder - this Hoseok had shades of Anthony Bridgerton - was that something you were going for? The subtlety in there was very well done.

I also loved the FL and the way her motivations and character arc progressed. It was done logically and skillfully and I felt myself wishing again and again, while reading through, that some of the traditionally published authors I've read possessed the skillset that you and many others, not just in the BTS fandom but also elsewhere, have.

I've been reading fanfiction for such a long time and nothing has ever come close to how well written Kanalia is, imo. It has always astounded me that so many people are simply hanging around in this world, writing such amazing fics, simply for the fun of it. I've written, both for work and otherwise, and I know how difficult it is.

Fandom is wonderful and Ana, you and your friends are such a lovely, wonderful part of it. Please keep writing.

(Please excuse the familiarity with which I've written - I've read your work and lurked on your blog for so long, it feels like you're a friend. I apologise if I sound too familiar 😄)

wow, anon. where do i even begin with this kind, supportive, motivating message? i'm humbled 😭💕😭

first, let me thank you for reaching out even though you're shy. i know for some people it's kind of daunting to speak to internet strangers, but i assure you this ask made my day/week/month/year.

second, thank you endlessly for your kind words about greedy and kanalia. the fact that you are an editor makes this feedback even more precious to me (and an aspiring writer 👀). this story took me a long time to write (as you know) and the fact that people stuck with me through that long process is just the best.

i super appreciate your feedback about the plot developments, too. i know a lot of people were expecting a very dramatic confrontation between LJ and the King, but something about that angle didn't feel right to me. i saw both of them living these shadow lives as the most likely and most successful option and certainly there is still drama in them both choosing to seek their happiness in other people.

as to the bridgerton angle, i have yet to get through a full season of bridgerton and it's not because it's not right up my alley -- this is actually my favorite kind of historical romance! i'm just lacking for time lately so i'm going to pick it back up because the few episodes i did get through i really enjoyed. but i've read many a historical romance, so no doubt there are some similarities.

your girl is weak for an outwardly-cold, inwardly-mush man as my fics are a testament to 😂

the thing about this wonderful message is that it's scratched that part of my brain that yearns to write a real book. a real series. i have a dream to convert the guarded series into real books (along with stories sketched out for the remaining members) and i don't know what's keeping me from trying. i'm in this awful space where i've accepted a promotion at work and the time commitment that i have to put in is crowding out my real passions and that sucks.

i don't have aspirations of being at the very top of my field, because even though i know i'm very good at my job it's not my passion. and don't i want to give myself time and space to be able to do my real passion? i really, really do. and when i go back and skim through the guarded series i see so many things that i want to change and tweak and make better. transforming that story is a dream of mine, and maybe it's time for me to stop making excuses and actually chase a dream.

anyways, sorry for the rambling. just know that this message means the world to me. maybe one day i'll be able to come here and tell you that i've finally made my dream come true 💕

[northofdespair]

You know @obiwanobi , it really didn’t take much to tempt me lol. 

Part two of this post! And uh, well, it got significantly spicier than the previous part now that our favorite Togruta apprentice has vacated the scene.

This one is for @crvdematter , who really started the whole thing months ago, and I feel terrible for forgetting to mention you in the last post! Really, it’s a miracle that I’m coming out from under my nice, cozy rock to give you E-rated Obikin of all things, so hopefully it’ll make up for my grievous omission! Thanks for sparking this into existence!

SPICE under the cut. 😘

Enjoy? 😨🥰

~*~

This is not the first time that Obi-Wan has kissed him while he has a split lip, and Anakin is sure that it won’t be the last.

The pain is a constant, throbbing reminder of their earlier tangle, even as his Master sucks it gently in apology, but Force, Anakin never wants him to stop. He lifts a hand to squeeze Obi-Wan’s wrist where his face is framed by gentle, bloodied hands, then settles his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck with a shuddery sigh.

Obi-Wan’s tongue slides into his mouth and he lets out a guttural moan of approval at the sensation. It spurs his Master on just the way he knew it would, and Obi-Wan leans forward into his space to pin him against the wall. The weight grounds him, steadies him, and he breathes in the comforting scent of Obi-Wan between kisses. Force, even covered in sweat and blood, Anakin loves the spice-and-tea scent of him.

There was a time that Obi-Wan had left one of his robes in his quarters on the Resolute. His Master never noticed the missing garment, prone as he is to dropping the damn things in every corner of the galaxy, and Anakin decidedly did not tell him. It was a lonely month in space, far away from Obi-Wan and even Ahsoka, and if he wrapped that cloak around his shoulders at every sleep shift he got? Well. No one had to know.

The increased proximity lends itself to intimacy, and they both moan quietly into each other’s mouths as their growing erections press together for the first time that night.

The first time in too long, really, and Anakin feels giddy with the promise that this is theirs. That they can have this, and it doesn’t have to stay in the darkness of the Coruscanti underworld. Obi-Wan wants him, loves him, and this night won’t end in longing glances when they think the other isn’t looking, nor will they have to part.

Obi-Wan breaks the kiss to bite and kiss along Anakin’s jaw, sliding his fingers back into Anakin’s hair, and oh, Anakin could give himself up to the Force with how good those fingers feel tightening against his scalp. He gasps instead, rolling his hips forward to seek out more friction. In a rather uncharacteristic move, Obi-Wan lets him. He even grinds against him in return as he sucks on the tender skin behind his jaw, and Anakin whimpers into the open air at the allowance.

The indulgence doesn’t last long, however, before Obi-Wan nips at his earlobe and murmurs,

“Shall we take this back to the Temple then, dear one?” his voice rasps with lust, and Anakin gives a full-body shudder at the feel of it in his ear before he shakes his head.

“No. Not- ah- not now,” he swallows as Obi-Wan presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat with a speculative hum.

“No?” he comes back up to purr low in Anakin’s ear, “Why would that be? Do you want to stay where you can cry out for me? Where no one but I knows the sound of your voice? Or is it that you cannot wait that long?” Obi-Wan punctuates his last words with a hand squeezing over Anakin’s erection in his trousers, and Anakin pants out his breath at the pressure.

“Please, Master. Both, just- fuck me here, please,” he begs, tightening his hold around Obi-Wan’s neck.

His Master presses a long, firm kiss to Anakin’s lips before breaking it to look into Anakin’s eyes with his own intense, crystal blue stare. The sight of him, pupils blown and cheeks flushed in the dim, blue light of some far-off neon, makes Anakin’s stomach flip.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it; the way Obi-Wan stares at him with such desire plainly written on his face. He’d never quite been able to decipher it completely, the way Obi-Wan looked at him, but now he thinks he knows.

It was love, always love, and before there was a strange wistfulness that he never understood until tonight. There is no wistfulness to his gaze now. Now there is only heat and desire, amplifying the love he now readily identifies. It’s enough to make him dizzy, especially when his Master rasps, “Since you asked nicely,” and drops to his knees.

Anakin leans heavily against the wall for support as Obi-Wan wastes no time in tugging his trousers and undergarments down to his feet, taking his erection in hand and meeting his eyes as he presses a kiss to the flushed head. Anakin bites his lip, no longer noticing the sting as he watches Obi-Wan reach into his own trouser pocket with another hand to produce a packet of bacta.

Obi-Wan flicks his tongue against the slit, drawing out a surprised little moan from Anakin’s throat, before pausing to coat his fingers in bacta. Soon he’s rubbing cool circles at Anakin’s entrance, and Anakin gasps at the feeling, grinding back almost involuntarily to coax them in.

Obi-Wan stares up at him with something like wonder on his face and shakes his head slowly.

“The things you do to me,” he whispers, and leans forward to press a kiss to the side of Anakin’s cock.

“You’re one to talk,” Anakin’s breathless rebuttal breaks off in a broken moan as Obi-Wan takes him into his mouth and breaches him at the same time.

He clutches at the back of Obi-Wan’s tunic as lightning-hot arousal shoots down his spine.

It’s funny- all this time, between their fights and sex in back alleys just like this one, they’ve been sort of ignoring the fact that it’s happened at all when they get back to the surface. Obi-Wan was right; what happened here, stayed here, no matter how much Anakin longed for that to change. But all of this time, they’ve been learning each other’s pleasure. What makes the other throw their head back or bite down in desperation.

And so he is no match for the tongue that swirls with a knowing twist, the second finger that eventually adds to the first as he opens for his Master, and the deep, rumbling moan of Obi-Wan’s voice around him.

“Master. Master I’m- hhahhh- I’m going to cum if you-“ Obi-Wan curls his fingers at that moment, and he cuts off with a whimper, clenching his fist in Obi-Wan’s tunic and gritting his teeth against the crashing wave of arousal that follows.

His Master pulls off of his cock with a wet pop and looks up at him speculatively, adding a third finger and watching intently as Anakin groans from deep in his chest.

“Do you want to come now, darling?” he asks, squeezing at Anakin’s thigh to catch his attention.

Anakin tries to clear his head enough to think. He- he could come now, and he knows that Obi-Wan would fuck him just the same, but...

“No. No, I- with you, Master. Please.”

Obi-Wan smiles up at him, stretching the wounds that decorate his own face after his night of fighting, and kisses his thigh.

“All right, love.”

Anakin sighs through his nose at the simple, gentle response, and lets his head fall back against the wall as he closes his eyes and attempts to calm down a bit. Obi-Wan’s fingers have all but stilled in him, occasionally moving slow enough that the quiet tide of pleasure he feels isn’t enough to push him back to the receding edge.

It’s a testament to how well Obi-Wan knows him, how much he can read his expressions and his countenance in the Force, that the moment he feels like he can keep going, his Master spreads the three fingers and curls them once again to brush against his prostate. He inhales sharply through his nose and clenches his mechno-hand against the wall behind him at the sparks of pleasure that crackle through him.

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” Obi-Wan’s voice falls, deep and gravelly from his mouth.

“Yes, Master,” he whispers.

“Good.”

Obi-Wan presses one more kiss to his thigh before removing his fingers with a wet squelch and rising slowly to his feet. Anakin clenches around nothing, swallowing a whine as Obi-Wan caresses his skin on the way up. This time, it is he that draws Obi-Wan into a kiss with a hand around the back of his neck. His Master willingly goes, quickly taking the control that Anakin so readily gives.

In battle, he does not mind control. He might even go so far as to say that he thrives on it.

On missions and even in teaching, he will gladly lead.  

But oh, in this.

In this, he wants nothing more than the way Obi-Wan dominates him with his tongue.

In this, he wants nothing more than Obi-Wan’s weight, pinning him to the wall, caging him in, grounding him.

In this, he relinquishes all control to his Master, until he cannot think beyond the violent pleasure that flows like magma through his veins.

The biting kiss does not last long before Obi-Wan breaks it with a low growl, dipping down to grab the backs of Anakin’s thighs and hoist him up against the wall. Anakin lets out an undignified squeak and scrabbles for purchase on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, wrapping his legs around his Master’s waist.

Obi-Wan chuckles. “All right?”

Anakin huffs indignantly. He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, he feels Obi-Wan’s hand shift, and suddenly the head of his cock is nudging at Anakin’s entrance. He hadn’t seen Obi-Wan slick his own cock, or even push down his own trousers, but he’s certainly not going to complain. His voice gives way to a high-pitched whine, pleading wordlessly for Obi-Wan to just-

“Ahhhh-“

Obi-Wan’s cock finally sinks into him, all at once, and Anakin keens.

Force, he could come from the stretch alone. If Obi-Wan didn’t appear to need a moment himself, he might have. But Obi-Wan simply pants into his neck for a stretch of time as Anakin does the same into his ginger, sweat-damp hair, and it both calms and stirs up the sea of need between them in one fell stroke.

When Anakin is seconds away from begging Obi-Wan to move, he lets out a cry instead as Obi-Wan growls and pulls out slightly before snapping his hips forward. The pace he sets to begin is slow for what feels like only a moment–though it is surely longer–as their pleasure quickly builds.

Obi-Wan mouths at his neck as Anakin gasps with every thrust, clinging desperately to Obi-Wan’s back. He feels Obi-Wan shift him in his arms and wonders idly if he’s too heavy after Obi-Wan’s already strenuous evening, but all thought is immediately erased as Obi-Wan finds what he was looking for and Anakin sees stars.

“Master,” he moans breathlessly, and Obi-Wan groans.

“Force, you’re perfect. You take me so well, darling. So good,” the words melt into Anakin’s veins, and he moans from deep within his chest as Obi-Wan nips at his throat. “Can you come from this, darling?”

“Yes. Yes, Obi-Wan, Master, yes, just don’t stop- ah- don’t stop, please-“

His words devolve into incoherent babbling into Obi-Wan’s ear as their pace quickens, and the sound of skin on skin echoes in the empty alleyway.  

“Come on then, love,” Obi-Wan’s voice is rougher now than it has been tonight, and Anakin knows by some thoughtless instinct that he’s close as well. “I’ve got you. Come for me, Anakin. Love you, dearest. I love you.”

And that, with one more thrust against his prostate, is enough. Anakin throws his head back against the wall and comes so hard he sees white. A deep, punched-out noise rises from his chest and his nails sink into Obi-Wan’s tunic. His mechno-hand scrabbles so hard he’ll probably leave marks, awash as he is in the tempestuous wave of pleasure.

He is distantly aware as Obi-Wan thrusts rapidly a few more times, fucking him through the crest of his orgasm before he comes with a snarl of Anakin’s name and a bite to the juncture of his neck. Anakin gasps at the pleasure-pain of teeth set into his flesh and shakes with aftershocks as Obi-Wan pulses inside him.

They come down slowly, breathing together as Obi-Wan mindlessly kisses at the bite and Anakin strokes his Master’s hair. A few long, peaceful moments pass this way, simply holding each other and pressing lax kisses into each other’s skin and hair before their position grows to be too much.

Obi-Wan slides out of Anakin, setting an apologetic kiss to Anakin’s cheek at the hiss of discomfort it draws forth. He sets him gently to the ground and steadies him with hands at his waist when Anakin’s legs shake at the reestablished equilibrium. Anakin bows his head for a moment to collect himself, and when looks up he finds Obi-Wan watching him with a soft smile on his face.

His eyes twinkle in the low light, and Anakin’s breath hitches quietly. The communication that passes between them then is too marvelous, too complex for words. Just by staring into his Master’s eyes, Anakin knows that Obi-Wan understands all the words he can’t bring himself to speak into the night air.

Softly, in the back of his mind, he feels the stirring of a familiar pathway. He sucks in a quiet, surprised breath as he realizes at once just what it is. He hasn’t travelled that road for a long, long time, but he knows the well-worn path of their training bond better than life itself.

Obi-Wan searches his eyes even as he strokes over the quiet remnants of the bond, and Anakin knows the question that lies behind the icy blue of his Master’s gaze. And just as he knows the question, he knows the answer. He reaches for his own side of their bond and brushes away the cobwebs, pushes aside the vines, and then-

A rush of consciousness, not his own, floods into his very being, overwhelming and all-consuming as a sandstorm. He hadn’t really known what he was missing, hadn’t let himself miss it, but oh. Obi-Wan’s Force signature dances with his own and fills the dark places of his mind with beautiful light.

It’s overwhelming, awe-strikingly powerful, and the rightness of it fills a part of his soul that he didn’t know he was missing.

He gasps brokenly, tears welling up and spilling over his eyes before he can stop them, and Obi-Wan laughs wetly. Anakin can feel his joy in the Force, as physically as the hand that comes up to wipe his tears away.

Hello, dearest, Obi-Wan’s voice echoes brilliantly in his mind. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Anakin can only nod through the tears, completely overwhelmed by the resurgence of their bond. He had thought he’d never feel this again. The fact that it was Obi-Wan who initiated their re-connection is almost surreal.

Force, they have so much to talk about, but for the moment, Anakin simply shuts his eyes and breathes.

Patient as ever, Obi-Wan holds him quietly until he is sure that Anakin can stand on his own before setting about putting them to rights. Anakin had all but forgotten that they are standing in an abandoned alley, half-naked with cum drying on the front of his tunic and dripping down his leg. He winces at the realization, shifting uncomfortably as Obi-Wan pulls up his own trousers and produces a cloth from his pocket. He wipes Anakin down gently before lifting his trousers and handing him the cloak he’d dropped when Obi-Wan first kissed him.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

The bond somehow feels so fragile, so new, that he’s afraid he might shatter it if he deigns to speak through it. Obi-Wan casts him a gentle, knowing look, and kisses his cheek.

“You’re welcome,” he smiles.

Like a picture coming back into focus, Anakin suddenly notices the wounds that litter Obi-Wan’s face and dip down into his tunic.

“Master,” his voice comes out as a pained breath.

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows in question, then winces as it pulls on a nasty-looking bruise. Their bond colors a sheepish pink, and Anakin tries not to reel from the sensation of the extra feedback.

“Ah. Yes, that.”

“What happened? You never let them touch your face,” he reaches forward to brush his fingertips lightly over the deepest bruise.

“Yes, well, that Devaronian was tougher than he looked. You landed a hit or two as well, I daresay.”

Anakin grimaces. “Sorry.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head with a fond chuckle.

“You should see the other guy,” he winks.

Anakin huffs a laugh and shakes his head in return, and when Obi-Wan smiles at him? He knows then and there that no matter how fragile their bond may feel, no matter what happens next, they’re going to be okay.

[paralleljulieverse]

‘Gentlemen like you are few...’: A Supercentenary Tribute to Irwin Kostal

1 October 2021 marks the 110th anniversary of the birth of Irwin Kostal, the musical arranger, orchestrator and conductor whose work helped shape the sound of the post-war American stage and screen musical. In this post we look back at the career of this remarkable 'music man’ with a particular focus on his collaborations with the equally remarkable Julie Andrews -- who, as it happens, shares the same birthday, so this post is doing double birthday honours.

A gentle, unassuming man, Kostal or ‘Irv’ as he was known by associates, was not one for the limelight. It’s possibly why he gravitated to the ‘behind-the-scenes’ art of musical arranging. Unlike composers, performers, or even conductors, arrangers seldom loom large in public perceptions of professional musicianship. They are, for the most part, the ‘invisible artists’ of the music industry: their contributions to the sound and experience of music are immense, but they remain largely ‘uncredited in records, liner notes or books or records’ (Niles 2104, p. 4). That Irwin Kostal would ultimately prove a rare exception to this tradition of thankless anonymity -- becoming sufficiently well-known to have his own name not only included on recordings, but emblazoned on the front cover alongside those of the ‘star’ vocalists with whom he worked -- is a testament to the singularity of his talents. 

Born the son of first generation immigrant parents in Chicago in 1911, Kostal claimed he was instantly ‘smitten’ by music when he saw a piano at the age of two-and-a-half, but his family was too poor to afford such luxuries. Moreover, his father -- a hard-drinking Czech with a fiery temper -- was ‘rigidly opposed’ to his interests in music and ‘could see no future in it’ (’Irwin’ 1962, p. 70). So Kostal initially had to content himself with listening and absorbing as much musical knowledge as he could indirectly. When he was eleven, his father finally brought home a broken player piano salvaged from a removals job and it provided the young Kostal with the launch pad he needed. 

Kostal devoted himself to his musical education with single-minded zeal. His formal training was intermittent -- enabled by a supportive mother who ‘surreptitiously managed to save money from her weekly allowance for my musical instruction’ (’Irwin’ 1962, p. 70) -- but he was a passionate autodidact who would spend countless hours studying and practising on his own. By age 15, he was already playing professionally with local touring bands, while also offering his own services as a piano teacher with, at one point, more than 40 pupils (ibid.).

When he wasn’t playing, Kostal would be found in the local library poring over musical scores and reading about the greats of the classical canon. He was particularly intrigued by orchestration and the possibilities it offered for varying the sound and feel of music. He recalls how he would take orchestral scores home and study all the parts learning ‘about musical instruments I never knew existed’ (Suskin 2009, p. 56).  He progressively worked his way through the music of the masters, going alphabetically: 

‘Bach...Beethoven, Brahms, Debussy, Elgar, Frank, Gounod, on and on through the alphabet...I tried to absorb everything. By the time I came to Ravel, Tchaikovsky and Wagner, I knew quite a lot about music in a jumbled way’ (Suskin 2009, p. 57).

While still in his teens, Kostal started to experiment with arrangements of his own, scoring a high school production of Uncle Tom’s Cabin with multiple variations on the American folk melody ‘Way Down upon the Swanee River’. ‘By taking away the rhythmic aspects and playing it in a minor key,’ he recounts, ‘I found lots of ways to play this song, making it fit the dramatics of the half-hour long story’ (ibid., p. 56). Thus, Irwin Kostal the arranger was born.

Throughout the 1930s and early-40s, Kostal honed his talents in a professional capacity, working with various big bands, before finally landing a job as a resident arranger for an NBC radio affiliate in Chicago. Following the war, Kostal moved to New York where, after a rocky start, he secured regular work as conductor and arranger on a number of long-running radio and TV variety shows including Your Show of Shows (1950-54), Max Liebman Presents (1954-56), and The Garry Moore Show (1959-63). It was demanding, fast-paced work with Kostal having to arrange and orchestrate hundreds of score pages a week, but it consolidated his musical versatility and capacity to work across a wide range of styles and forms (Suskin 2009, pp. 57-60).

Throughout this period, Kostal was also orchestrating for Broadway shows, racking up over 52 credits on theatre productions big and small (Allen 1995, p. 18). Many of these assignments were done in a ‘ghost-writer’ capacity including contributing work to such classic musicals as Wonderful Town (1953), The Pajama Game (1953) and Silk Stockings (1955). A major breakthrough came when Kostal was contracted to work in a credited capacity as co-orchestrator on the original Broadway production of West Side Story (1958) -- collaborating with Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Sondheim and Sid Ramin. It earned him his first Grammy Award and a subsequent invitation to arrange and orchestrate a string of other big Broadway musicals including Fiorello! (1959), Sail Away (1961) and A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum (1962).

The success of West Side Story also saw Kostal do repeat honours on the film version (1961) which would, in turn, earn him an Academy Award and kickstart a hugely successful Hollywood career. In 1963, Kostal was invited by none other than Walt Disney to take on the major job of arranging the songs for Mary Poppins (1964) which had been written by the in-house Disney composing team of Richard M. and Robert B. Sherman. The Sherman Brothers claim to have suggested Kostal because they were fans of his Broadway work and they wanted a bright theatrical sound for the score. However, Walt Disney demurred. He reasoned it was a period film and they needed someone who could write music for any style or era, suggesting they get the musical director from The Garry Moore Show instead. Cue mutual delight when it was discovered they were all referring to the same man, Irwin Kostal (Sherman & Sherman 1998; Suskin 2009, p. 65).

Kostal’s work on Mary Poppins catapulted him to new heights of mainstream success. It not only secured him another Academy Award nomination -- he lost to Andre Previn for his work on My Fair Lady -- but it also brought him a tidy fortune in royalties from the film’s best-selling soundtrack album (’Kostal’s’ $65,000′, 57). His fame -- and fortune -- skyrocketed even further the following year when Kostal was contracted to arrange the score for The Sound of Music (1965). His dazzling efforts on this box-office blockbuster confirmed Kostal’s status as Hollywood’s presiding musical wonder-boy and saw him walk home with his second Oscar. A string of other big screen musicals followed including Half a Sixpence (1967), Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (1968) and Bedknobs and Broomsticks (1971). 

Many of these films were repeat collaborations because Kostal favoured working with people he knew and with whom he clicked personally and creatively. He would for example continue as the de facto ‘house’ arranger for Disney well into the 1980s, working on various assignments for the studio including Pete’s Dragon (1978), Mickey’s Christmas Carol (1983) and the controversial re-recorded 1982 release of Fantasia (1940/1982) (Tietyan 1990). Kostal would also maintain a long association with the Sherman Brothers, acting as musical arranger for all their big screen musicals including the aforementioned Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (1968) and Bedknobs and Broomsticks (1971), as well as Tom Sawyer (1973); Charlotte’s Web (1973); and The Magic of Lassie (1978) (Sherman & Sherman 1998).

The other great collaboration of Kostal’s career was of course with Julie Andrews. Perhaps it was the fact that the pair shared the same birthday but Kostal had an extraordinarily sympathetic relationship with Julie and he would work with her more than any other vocalist. Long before they teamed on Poppins and The Sound of Music, Julie and ‘Irv’ were making musical magic together. Kostal was the arranger and conductor for Julie’s first two solo albums for RCA: The Lass with the Delicate Air (1957) and Julie Andrews Sings (1958) where his sensitive facility with a wide range of musical idioms from English classical to Broadway and Tin Pan Alley came to the fore. Reviewing the first of these albums at the time of its original release, one music critic lauded it as ‘a record to charm every member of the family...[with] a combination of sincerity and simplicity and wholesome sweetness...Thank goodness arranger and conductor Irwin Kostal met the challenge and set the ballads winningly without overpowering Miss Andrews’ light pure tones’ (RRS 1958, p. 5A). In a similar vein, another reviewer praised the second album for ‘its charming unforced version of standards, well known and almost forgotten...Miss Andrews still sings naturally and purely [and] the deft accompaniments played by an orchestra under Irwin Kostal are agreeably restrained’ (Masters 1959, p. 11).

In this early period Kostal also worked with Julie as guest star on several episodes of The Garry Moore Show, where he was resident musical director. In this context, Kostal was pivotal in helping establish the legendary teaming of Julie and Carol Burnett which came out of the Garry Moore appearances. He would go on to act as musical director for their breakout 1962 TV special Julie and Carol at Carnegie Hall which would earn Kostal his first Emmy (Taraborelli 1988, pp. 172-79). He would secure his second Emmy a few years later working with Julie again on the 1965 variety special, The Julie Andrews Show (1965) where, among other highlights, Kostal scored a series of stellar song-and-dance medleys for Julie and guest star Gene Kelly. The same year, Kostal teamed up with Julie on yet another recording with the 1965 edition of the annual Firestone Christmas albums. 

It was however their combined work on the two big musical mega-hits, Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music, that secured the Kostal-Andrews partnership a place in the history books. A cultural phenomenon of the highest order, the soundtrack recordings for these two films remain among the most successful albums of all time. Mary Poppins held the #1 spot on the US national music charts for 14 consecutive weeks in 1964, beating out Elvis Presley and The Beatles (Hollis and Erhbar 2006, pp.72ff). The album for The Sound of Music sold over 9 million copies in its first four years of release alone, remaining in the Billboard Top 100 for an unbelievable five-and-a-half years, and becoming the highest selling LP of all-time in the US up to that date (Murrells, 1978)  The Sound of Music continued its record-breaking run abroad, dominating the international charts and holding the #1 spot for 75 weeks in Australia, 73 weeks in Norway and 70 weeks in the UK, becoming in the process the single biggest selling album worldwide of the 1960s (Harker, 1992, pp. 189-91).

Commentators have frequently singled out the combination of Julie Andrews’ soaring vocals and Kostal’s dynamic arrangements as instrumental to the phenomenal success of these two albums. ‘Miss Andrews glows--positively glows--right through the record groove, vinyl disc, amplifiers, speakers, and all other mechanical barriers,’ enthused one contemporary reviewer of the Mary Poppins soundtrack, noting how the ‘songs that Richard M. and Robert B. Sherman have written’ and ‘the handsome arrangements by Irwin Kostal have the perfect balance ‘of lilt and flair to provide Miss Andrews with an effective working basis’ (Wilson 1965, p. 109). Apropos The Sound of Music, another critic pronounced it ‘as good a reproduction of a score as has ever been made’, noting how it ‘presents Julie in a most appealing role and given the splendid musical direction of Irwin Kostal, her talent comes shining through...as a treat beyond measure’ (Moore 1965, p. B6). 

In total, Julie Andrews and Irwin Kostal would work together on six recordings, two musical motion pictures, two television specials, and a host of other TV appearances representing some of the very best of Julie’s musical work during her heyday of the 1960s. Considered alongside the wealth of Kostal’s other work across film, stage, television and recording, it’s hard not to concur with Disney’s Nelson Meecham who, on the occasion of Kostal’s passing in 1994, eulogised: ‘He brought the joy of music to more people than it is possible to count’ (Allen, p. 19).

Sources:

Allen, John F 1995. ‘Remembering a Music Man: On the life and work of Irwin Kostal.’ Boxoffice. August: pp. 18-19.

Harker, Dave 1992. ‘Still Crazy After All These Years: What was popular music in the 1960s?” Cultural Revolution? The challenge of the arts in the 1960s. Bart Moore-Gilbert and John Seed, eds. Routledge, London and New York: pp. 186-200.

Hollis, Tim and Erhbar, Greg 2006. Mouse Tracks: The Story of Walt Disney Records. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi.

‘Irwin Kostal: Music in all its many forms is his life.’ (1962). The Province. 2 June: p. 70.

’Kostal’s’ $65,000 Poppins Score’ 1965. Variety. 10 March: p. 57

Levy, Charles 1964. Mary Poppins: About the stars and photo-story features [Press kit]. Buena Vista Distribution, New York. 

Masters, John 1959. ‘Off the Record: Enchanting Music.’ The Age. 7 January: p. 11.

Moore, Robert 1965. ‘Record Turntable: Julie Andrews out in front again in film album of”Sound of Music”.’ The Arizona Daily Star. 7 March: p. B6.

Murrells, Joseph, ed. 1978. Book of Golden Discs: Records that sold a million. Barrie & Jenkins, New York.

Niles, Richard 2014. The Invisible Artist: Arrangers in popular music (1950-2000). BMI, London.

Oliver, Myrna. 1994. ‘Obituaries: Irwin Kostal; Film, TV Orchestrator.’ The Los Angeles Times. 1 December: P. B8.

RRS 1958. ‘On the Record: ‘Lass with the Delicate Air.’ Bristol Herald Courier. 9 February: p. 5A.

Sherman, Robert B &  Sherman, Richard M 1998. Walt's Time: From before to beyond. Camphor Tree, Santa Clarita, CA.

Suskin, Steven 2009. The Sound of Broadway Music: A book of orchestrators and orchestrations, Oxford University Press, New York.

Taraborelli, J. Randy 1988. Laughing Till It Hurts: The complete life and career of Carol Burnett. William Morrow & Co, New York.

Tietyan, David 1990. The Musical World of Walt Disney. H. Leonard, Milwaukee, Wis. 

Wilson, John S. 1965. ‘The Lighter Side’. High Fidelity Magazine. 15: 4: pp. 107-111.

© 2021, Brett Farmer. All Rights Reserved.

[goulets]

Heartland

Chapter: 1/8 Pairing: Jason Todd/Dick Grayson Additional Characters: Colin Wilkes, Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake, Alfred Pennyworth Rating: T (for now) Case Fic/Kid Fic a03 link

Jason looks down at the baby, at watery brown eyes and tiny hands, fingers stretching out without knowing what they're reaching for. She yawns and makes a sucking noise, turning her head into his chest.

Damn it.

“We'll do shifts,” he says to Dick, making his tone as businesslike as possible. “I still have shit to do; I can't sit around playing house with you all day.”

Dick doesn't smile, but Jason can see that he wants to. “That sounds reasonable.”

“This is temporary. Just until we find the fuckers that want to take her out.”

“Sure it is.” Dick's all doe-eyed now, watching the baby settle down to sleep. “Welcome home, Jaybird.”

(colin)

It's a quarter past five and the first streams of daylight are curling over the horizon when Colin finally makes it back to the orphanage. He's down to his normal size, brass knuckles heavy in his pockets and slowing his already exhausted steps. It'll be at least three hours before the younger kids wake up; time enough to get one REM cycle in before he's got all those mouths to feed. Damian taught him about monitoring his REM cycles, how it's sometimes better to get three hours than four, how to stay sharp even when he's running on no sleep at all.

Even better, Dick once told him he's welcome at the manor anytime he needs to rest undisturbed, or a hot meal, or a 'flying lesson', whatever that means. Damian had thrown a batarang at his head when he'd suggested it, so Colin assumes it's some kind of inside joke. Regardless, he hasn't been back at the manor to take Dick up on his offer. Batman's back – the real Batman – and Colin would be the worst kind of liar if he said he wasn't a little bit terrified to face him, considering the circumstances of their first meeting.

A motion in the alley next to the orphanage catches his eye, and he stills. Vagrants don't usually start coming around until the soup kitchen opens, and all the thugs he's used to dealing with tend to wait until the kids are up to start messing with them. That's why Colin likes the walk back from patrol, despite his tiredness, despite the chill that rolls off the ever-present fog. The city's glow is muted at this hour, its inhabitants either just starting to stir or just turning in. He's alone with the smog and the molten aura of the streetlights, and there's a quiet about it all that makes even the bloodstains on his knuckles feel pure, purposeful.

That said, he really does need to invest in some gloves.

The figure in the alley is still moving, clumsy and hurried, and all at once Colin realizes what it is they're fumbling with. There's a sort of house-shaped capsule outside St. Aden's, a narrow chute with a small door that doesn't have a lock, and a weathered sign on the front that depicts the outline of an infant. It's a Safe Surrender site, a place where people can legally abandon their newborns, and someone is using it for the first time since Colin's been at the orphanage.

He creeps closer, keeping to the shadows.

The figure spends about five more seconds fumbling with something on the ground, then wrenches open the door to the capsule and deposits something inside. Colin's stomach twists; the blue light above the capsule illuminates, and he can hear a faint alarm going off in the nuns' office. He wonders if they'll even know what it's for. The figure startles at the light, hastily grabs what looks like an empty bag off the ground, and bolts.

Colin wants to follow, but finds himself unable to walk past the capsule without checking it, and once he sees what's inside, he knows there's no chance of him giving chase. The baby is sleeping, definitely not a newborn, but not more than a few months old. Its tiny body is wrapped in a dirty blanket, wisps of black hair sticking out from an unprotected head. Colin supposes he wouldn't have needed to pursue whoever dropped it off; for all intents and purposes, they might think they're doing the right thing. St. Aden's won't turn the baby away, and it's a better option than leaving it in a gutter or a dumpster, which, in Gotham, is not a thing unheard of.

The baby stirs as a stiff breeze swirls through the alley, making Colin shiver. The nuns will be dressed and out in five minutes, give or take. They'll at least put a hat on the baby, Colin thinks. He doesn't know much about babies, but he knows they need hats. The orphanage has baby hats, and diapers, and blankets, albeit thin ones, most with holes. They might even have a spare teddy bear for when the baby has nightmares. No one comforts you when you have nightmares at St. Aden's. The nuns aren't big on hugs, even the babies they hold as little as possible.

Colin may not know a lot about babies, but he knows what happens when you don't hold them. The kids at the orphanage who've been there since infancy are a testament to that. Colin shivers again, thinking of vacant eyes and hunched shoulders. Pale skin and raw voices. Underdeveloped, broken bodies, floating in the river.

The light in the nuns' office comes on. Less than a minute now. Before he can fully process what he's doing or why he's doing it, Colin scoops the baby out of the capsule and cradles it carefully in his arms, walking briskly out of the alley the way that he came. The fog feels damper; it clings to him like it means to shield him from view. As an afterthought, Colin takes off his own hat and uses it to cover the baby's head.

***

“What is so urgent,” Damian snarls, swinging into the garage and making Colin jump and almost topple over, “that it couldn't wait at six in the fucking morning?”

Moving past his initial alarm, Colin feels relief wash over him at seeing his friend. Damian is decked out in his Robin costume and, all things considered, no grumpier than usual. “I'm so glad you're here,” he says in a rush. “I think – I think I screwed up, and I don't know what to do. Um.”

He decides not to draw it out, and instead steps aside, gesturing to the side compartment of his motorcycle. The baby is still sound asleep; he's wrapped his jacket around it as well. He won't die from the cold, but he worries that the baby might.

“What the – ” Damian blinks at the sleeping infant, then points to Colin without looking away. “Explain.”

Colin does. “And I thought if I called you, you might know what to...because you and Batman have handled this kind of stuff, right? You know who to, um.” He pauses, and realizes that he doesn't actually know why his first instinct was to call Damian, aside from the fact that he really has no one else to call. He wraps his arms around himself and lets out a short breath. “What do we do?”

“There's no 'we',” Damian says automatically, just like Colin knew he would. “You can't take care of a baby. You're ten. You have to put it back.”

Colin doesn't move. He knows Damian is probably right. “I just,” he starts to say, searching for the words. He's so tired he can barely think straight. “I guess I wanted it to have a chance. You know? Kids at the orphanage...kids like me, we don't get a lot of choices. Everyone ends up being a bad guy or a victim.” He swallows. “We don't need any more of either in this town.”

Damian scowls and rubs at his mask absently. “You're not either one of those things.”

Colin look at his fist and squeezes it, concentrating. Within a minute, his forearm is as big around as his leg. “No, I'm not,” he says. Damian has gone very still. Colin closes his eyes and feels his way back to his normal size, flexing his hand once it's shrunk back down. “Not anymore.”

“I – ” Damian cuts himself off, clenching his jaw. “Fine. We'll take it back to the manor. We have to go now, before they realize I'm gone.”

Colin bites back a grin and scoops the baby up, cradling its head carefully against his chest. The baby's face isn't cold anymore, which gives him an unexpected surge of elation, and he practically skips to Damian's side, earning a severely reproachful look from his friend.

“How did you get here?”

“I swiped Father's keys,” Damian says dryly, holding them out and pressing a button. Brilliant headlights illuminate the alley outside the garage, and Colin's jaw drops as a sleek, two-door Batmobile pulls up in front of them.

“How did – ”

“Remote autopilot. It drives itself.”

“Whoa.”

Damian rolls his eyes and presses another button, making the roof retract halfway. He swings in over the door and says, “Don't scratch the interior.”

Colin slides in beside him, awestruck. He's in the freaking Batmobile. If everything under the sun goes wrong with this sort-of kidnapping, even if he winds up in jail, it'll be so worth it.

***

(jason)

Jason's not having a particularly good day.

Scratch that, it's nine in the morning, and Jason's already not having a particularly good day.

“Where did you say you heard this?” Bruce asks, frowning at his computer screen. Translation: which parts of this are you lying about, Jason?

“Oh, you know,” Jason says, not caring to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Me and some of my League buddies were doing tapas over at Ocho, and you know how they get when the wine starts pouring.” Bruce glares at him, and he glares right back. “All I know is Shiva's overseas for the foreseeable future. Just thought I'd share, since I heard you were looking. But whatever you want her for, I'm telling you, she probably didn't do it. This time.”

Bruce stares at him, cold and still as a statue. Jason wants to hit himself. Idiot move, coming here. Not like the Great Bat Detective needs his legwork anyhow.

He squares his shoulders and says, “Hey, take it or leave it. Which, speaking of, I'm gonna go ahead and leave now.”

Bruce's silence follows him out, and Jason practices the tried-and-true strategy of stirring up old resentments to mask the hurt. Not like he'd expected old Batsy to fall all over himself with excitement on account of a visit from his fallen son, but there's a cold reception, and there's the patented Bruce Wayne Freeze-Out. If Jason had imagined their shared history of returning from the dead would bring them closer together, he'd been sorely mistaken.

“Will you be joining us for breakfast, Master Jason?” Alfred asks, wiping his hands on a dish towel as Jason attempts to hustle past the kitchen. Habit has him pausing, because you just don't blow off Alfred, and that small hesitation is all it takes for the smells wafting out of the kitchen to hit him head-on. And oh, do they hit him. Pancakes, eggs, bacon – turkey bacon, Jason's favorite, of course Alfred remembers that stupid little detail. He probably also remembers that Jason is pathologically incapable of refusing food. Bastard.

“I'm not really – ” he starts to say hungry, but his stomach picks that exact moment to let loose a traitorous growl that echoes down the hallway and probably wakes up any still-asleep inhabitants of the manor.

Alfred, to his everlasting credit, doesn't even flinch. Jason heaves a sigh. “Yeah, all right. Just a bite, I guess.”

“I'll set a place for you.” Like the old man hasn't already.

Jason tugs off his gloves and makes his way to the sink to wash up. No telling what's living under his nails these days, but it's probably better not to ingest it.

“This is really good, Alfie,” he says through a thick bite of pancake. “Damn. I hope the new kid knows how good he's got it.”

“I'm afraid I haven't met anyone quite as enthusiastic about my cooking as you, Master Jason. Except, on occasion – Master Richard!”

“Hey, Alfie! Man it smells good, what's the occasion?” A shirtless, pajama-pants clad Dick Grayson bounds into the kitchen, more golden retriever than man, and stops on one foot with his face six inches above the bacon pan, breathing in. “Hey, is that turkey bacon?” He whirls around. “Jason!”

“Um.” Jason goes very stiff in his seat, teeth locked together around a forkful of eggs. Chew, swallow. He hadn't know Dick was here; hadn't figured any of the bat clan would even be awake at this charming daylight hour, except Bruce, who Jason's convinced deprogrammed the biological need to sleep out of his system years ago. “Hey.”

Dick looks pleased to see him, but confused. He's still on one foot. Jason represses the childish urge to throw something at him; knock him over like a big stupid bowling pin. “What are you doing here?”

“Just came by to drop off some intel,” he shrugs, fidgeting with his napkin. “You know how it is. Spend enough time cracking skulls, more than brain tissue leaks out.”

When Dick doesn't react beyond placing both feet on the ground and pursing his lips disapprovingly, Jason puts on his best shit-eating grin. Ah, ruining family meals. Just like old times.

“Thanks for the grub, Alfie,” he calls, swinging his legs over the side of his chair. “Think I've overstayed my welcome now, so I'm just be on my way.” He deliberates for a moment before snatching the last piece of turkey bacon off his plate, then walks briskly out of the kitchen and towards the front door.

“Jason – wait up a second.” Dick's voice behind him, close behind him, practically a whisper. Jason turns and takes a deliberate step backward, putting space between them. He's fairly sure he can take Dick hand-to-hand, but he wants to be as close to the exit as possible when he does.

“What?” he demands, more roughly than he needs to. He shifts his hip to feel the handle of his knife pressing into it; the exact shape he'll mold his palm to if he needs to draw it.

Dick crosses his arms and stares him down steadily. It's a mistake to make eye contact with him, because Dick's stare isn't like Bruce's, shrewd and penetrating, it's not a gaze that takes any effort to hold. Quite the contrary – Jason's always had trouble breaking eye contact with Dick. Bruce's stare goes through him, turns him inside out, but Dick's grips him, surrounds him, takes the full measure of him without pulling everything ugly to the surface. It's unnerving. He'd rather face Bruce any day.

“You don't have to leave just because I walked into the room.”

He shouldn't be able to project so much earnestness in nothing but faded Superman sleep pants, Jason thinks. It defies human nature.

“It was more of a sashay,” he smirks, still not blinking. “And it's not on your account, don't worry. I just have shit to do.”

“You should come by more often,” Dick presses.

It's all Jason can do not to throw his head back and laugh. “Right,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “That's gonna happen over Bruce's dead body.”

There's a flash of pain on Dick's face, and Jason thinks his phrasing was probably ill-advised. Too soon and all. Oh well.

“That's not true,” Dick shakes his head, shaggy hair falling in front of his eyes. Jason feels a bizarre and fleeting urge to brush it away, makes it an immediate priority to repress desires like that as far down as they can possibly go. “Look, I know it hasn't always been easy – ”

Jason scoffs. “Oh, sure.”

“ – but if you'd just give him some time, I know he wants you back, Jason. You're family. And I think you know it too, or you wouldn't even be here.”

Defiant rage stirs in Jason's stomach, but this isn't the time or the place for that kind of reaction. He settles instead on indifference. “That's an old tune, Dickie. Might be time to learn some new ones.”

Dick's expression softens. Damnit. This is why he can't stand around talking to Dick, making fucking chitchat and this perverse, endless eye contact. They observe each other in circles, it's nearly impossible to hide, and Dick doesn't hide anything, which means Jason's at an automatic disadvantage. Every goddamn time.

It's pointless to bare his teeth in a grin and offer a sardonic wave, but Jason does it anyways. “It's been real, Boy Wonder. I'll catch you la – ”

“Shh.” Dick puts up a finger, frowning. He looks up the stairs. “Do you hear that?”

If this is another strategy to try and stall him, Jason's gonna start throwing punches. “Hear what?” he demands. He's about to tell Dick to go fuck himself – which, he probably can, fucking acrobat – no, bad visual, stop thinking about Dick naked, Jesus fucking Christ – when he hears it too.

It sounds like – “Is that a baby?” He looks sideways at Dick. “Bruce have a second love child already?”

Dick says, “I'll see you later, Jason,” and starts climbing the stairs.

Well, obviously Jason can't leave now.

They follow the cries down one of the many upstairs hallways, which, from the portraits and weaponry lining the walls, Jason figures must lead to Damian's room. Dick pauses outside a closed door, pressing his ear to it, and, curiosity getting the better of him, Jason follows suit.

“You have to get it to shut up! The whole mansion's probably heard it by now!”

“I'm trying!” an unfamiliar voice hisses, and there's the sound of a hiccup from a third unfamiliar voice. Presumably something babylike. “Do you think it's hungry?”

“How the hell should I know? This was your moronic idea, Colin, don't you know anything about babies?”

“Maybe we should google it.”

“I'm going to kill you. Actually, when Father finds out we kidnapped a fucking baby, he'll kill us both. I can't believe I let you talk me into this mess.”

The crying starts again. Dick looks at Jason and mouths, one, two, three, before pushing the door open and revealing their presence.

It's quite a scene. Damian's in half his costume, mask, boots, and cape discarded on the floor, and he's grinding his teeth at another boy, a redhead kid in a dirty checkered sweatshirt who looks to be around his age. The redhead kid looks horrified to see them standing there, first going furiously red, then white as a sheet. But the thing that really grabs Jason's attention is the baby – yep, a flesh-and-blood human infant – cradled awkwardly in the redhead kid's arms, screaming its tiny head off.

Dick looks between them, his eyes enormous. “Damian? Colin? What is this?”

It's a question, not an accusation. Jason has to hand it to him; Bruce would've had them sizzling on the grill the second the word 'kidnapped' reached his ears.

Colin says, “It's not what it looks like!”

Dick glances sideways at Jason. “Okay, but. I'll be honest, I'm not even sure what it looks like.”

Jason shrugs. “You kids abduct any babies lately?”

“We didn't abduct it,” Damian snarls. “Colin found it. Abandoned. It was my mistake to bring it here.”

The baby cries louder. It's a miracle Alfred hasn't come running yet.

“Someone dropped it at St. Aden's,” Colin says quickly, between bouts of screaming. “I just – I couldn't just leave it there, you don't know what it's like, growing up that way.” He clutches the baby to him fiercely, bitterness etched all over his face. “You might as well hand him over to the gangs right now, because that's where he'll end up.”

Dick looks horribly conflicted. Jason laughs out loud.

“So, what was your plan?” he asks incredulously. “Two ten year olds, teaming up to raise a baby? Which one of you's the mom?”

Dick's arm blocks Damian's sharp kick to Jason's face. “Thank you, Jason, that was helpful,” he says. “But, uh, what was the plan, exactly?”

Everyone looks to Colin, who shrinks visibly under their combined gaze. “I don't know,” he says in a small voice, nearly indecipherable beneath the baby's cries. “I hadn't really thought that far ahead. I just – I thought Batman could save him.”

It takes everything in Jason's face-saving book not to respond to that, but he barely manages to keep his mouth shut. Dick shoots him a look of gratitude, and he rolls his eyes. Obviously there are more pressing issues at hand than his lingering manpain; Jason's not that self-involved.

“Okay,” Dick says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Here's how we solve this. He – she? – we'll figure it out, whatever, is probably hungry. And wet. Did you two change its diaper?”

Damian and Colin look at each other and shrug helplessly. “Right.” Dick points one hand behind him. “I'm going to go to the kitchen; I know Alfred keeps formula in there somewhere. And we should have diapers in one of the emergency supply closets. I'll get that stuff. Jason, take the baby for a minute, would you? Colin looks like he's about to drop.”

Jason backs against the wall, saying, “Oh no, I don't – that's not a – ” but then the screaming bundle is being precariously extended towards him, and instinct has him reaching out to take it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, feeling the fragile weight of the baby in his arms. Can't be much more than ten pounds. He has handguns with more substance than this thing. “Where're you keeping those lungs, little guy?”

Silence falls over the room, and it takes Jason a minute to realize that he didn't spontaneously go deaf, the baby stopped crying. Its tiny eyes – brown, dark and wet – are blinking up at him like he's the most interesting thing in the world.

Oh, no.

This is a disaster.

He doesn't hear Dick's intake of breath so much as he feels it, which might be because he's holding his breath too, because the baby is looking at him, and damnit, this is the last fucking thing he needs in his life. “Go,” he says to Dick, inserting as much venom into his voice as possible, wrenching his eyes away from the baby's. “It's probably just going into shock or something.”

The baby farts.

“Okay, or that.”

Dick bites his lip hard, and ten different emotions of various intensities flash through Jason's gut. Then he's gone, cartwheeling down the staircase, knowing him.

Colin says, “Wow, it really likes you.”

Damian smirks. “I guess we know who the mom is.”

“Don't think because I've got a ten pound handicap I won't kick your ass, kid,” Jason snaps. It's an empty threat, and they all know it. For now anyways. Once the baby situation's dealt with, all bets are off.

Dick's back within five minutes, armed to the teeth with things more frightening to Jason than any weapon he can imagine. Diapers, wipes, blankets, bottles, even a tiny blue hat that looks handmade. Jason's heart thuds unevenly in his chest, recognizing Alfred's handiwork in the stitching; indisputable evidence that Bruce Wayne, Batman, was once a baby just like this one. It'd be hilarious, if he could push a laugh past the lump in his throat.

“Here.” Dick hands him a diaper. It has Mickey Mouse on it.

Jason shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. I didn't sign up for this shit. And I mean that in the literal sense; I did not put 'clean up baby shit' in my day planner today.” He thrusts the diaper back at Dick.

“Fine,” Dick snaps, holding his arms out expectantly. “Give me the baby. Damian, shake up this formula, will you?”

Damian snatches the bottle out of his hand and shakes it with the aggression of a paint mixer. Well, hey, at least he's dedicated.

The baby starts to fuss as it's transferred from Jason's arms to Dick's, and the lump in Jason's throat gets bigger. “Hey, hey,” Dick croons, settling the baby down on the rug and starting to unwrap its blanket. “You're okay, little guy. We got you – oh, I'm sorry,” he grins, glancing up at Jason. “Little girl, I'm guessing.”

Jason peers over his shoulder and sees that under the blanket, the baby is wearing tiny pink pajamas with little white and green flowers. Like the blanket, the pajamas are dirty. He wonders when the baby last had a bath.

Not your problem. He needs to get the hell out of here.

“Ooh, someone's got a full diaper,” Dick goes on. Jason wants to kick him in the back of the head. “Let's fix that, huh? Oh, yeah. We'll get someone on that right away.”

Jason jumps backward when Dick extends the dirty diaper to him, and Dick rolls his eyes. “It's just pee. Get over yourself, honestly.”

“Fuck you,” Jason growls. “I'm not part of this.”

Colin walks over with dogged footsteps and takes the diaper from Dick, folding it over until it's a tight little pocket that fits in the palm of his hand. He turns to Damian. “Where's the garbage?”

Damian jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom, and Dick glares at Jason as he refastens the baby's pajamas.

The baby's fussing turns into loud wails again, and Dick picks her – no, it, can't think of it as a person, damnit – up, rocking his arms gently. The baby cries, rubs its face on Dick's chest, and then turns its head and look directly at Jason.

“Aw, Jay. Looks like she's got a crush.”

“Please.” Jason rolls his eyes and tries to ignore the vise that's squeezing in his chest. He really, really needs to leave. Like, yesterday.

But then Dick starts feeding the baby, and Jason finds himself utterly rooted to the spot.

It figures that parenting is something that would come naturally to Dick. It seems like most things come naturally to him, particularly the things that terrify normal people, like leaping off tall buildings, running into the line of fire, taking on twenty armed goons with nothing but his stupid fucking escrima sticks. Dick cradles the baby with arms that've put hundreds of criminals on their asses, arms that are scarred all over, just like Jason's. He gazes down at the baby as it eats, murmuring praise, shifting slowly from foot to foot, and that damn thing won't stop looking at Jason, even while it's sucking enthusiastically at the bottle.

Footfalls behind him; a distinct step he'd know anywhere. “I took the liberty of digging up some clothes for our young guest,” Alfred says, as though nothing is out of the ordinary. “They're a bit dated, but I believe they should still be suitable.”

“Can we all get out of my room now?” Damian asks. “I'd like to change, and I'd prefer to do it without the entire household watching.”

Alfred nods. “Certainly, Master Damian. Master Richard, perhaps it would be prudent to bring this matter to Master Bruce at this time.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dick says, heavily, shooting another look at Jason. Why does he keep doing that? “Let's just get her fed and changed really quick.”

“Of course.”

As soon as they're downstairs, the baby spits out the nipple and screws up its face like it's going to start howling again. Jason doesn't know what it is, some kind of long-buried impulse, a skill set he never thought he'd had to begin with, but he's stepping forward with his arms outstretched, palms open and flat, like he could do a damn thing to keep the baby quiet.

Dick pegs him with a curious look, and Jason freezes. “You wanna hold her?”

“What? No,” Jason says, shoving his arms down to his sides. “I just – I thought you were gonna drop it. Her.”

Dick doesn't say anything, and Jason feels a flush creeping up his neck. “You know what, it seems like you guys have this all handled. I'm just gonna...go.”

He turns, and the baby starts crying again.

Jesus Christ in a goddamn handbasket, this is bad.

“If you wouldn't mind,” Dick says, carefully, “We could use the help. Until we figure out what to do.”

“He can help,” Jason protests, pointing at Colin.

“I actually, um,” Colin looks vaguely terrified, glancing guiltily between them. “I have to go, my kids – there's kids at the orphanage, I have to be there. For them.”

Jason doesn't think about the time he spent on the streets, doesn't relive those fun childhood memories for any reason, but they're a scar on his psyche, forever etched in, and he can't exactly make them go away, either. He remembers the kids from the orphanages, how little and lost they were, better cared for but more unloved than any of the other street kids. He remembers standing up for them as much as he remembers knocking them over and stealing from them. No kids are worse equipped to protect themselves. Colin looks like he weighs eighty pounds soaking wet, but Jason reasons that he wouldn't be friends with Damian if he couldn't take a hit.

Colin probably takes a lot of hits on behalf of his kids. The thought turns Jason's stomach, and he knows he can't ask him to stay.

Dick frowns and starts to say, “I'm sure – ”

“Go,” Jason says quickly, giving Colin a short nod. “It's fine, whatever. My shit can wait a few hours.”

Everyone stares at him. The baby is still crying.

“Oh, for fuck's sake. Fine, give me the damn kid.” He sets his jaw and takes the baby from Dick, expressly avoiding Dick's eyes, or any part of his face, for that matter. The baby fusses for a minute, then seems to catch sight of Jason's face again, and settles down at once.

Shit, shit, shit.

***

“You're doing this completely wrong,” Jason tells the baby as they make their way down to the Batcave. “I'm sure as hell not taking you home with me, I'll tell you that much. No offense.”

The baby coughs, and Jason finds himself holding it a little tighter. It's all very unnerving, the way he's already used to the shape of its small form in his arms, the way its head fits snugly into the soft spot of flesh between his shoulder and his breastbone. Alfred threw out the ratty blanket it was wrapped in and gave them a new one, along with a pink cotton onesie with a stiff lace collar. Purchased forty odd years ago by Martha Wayne, on the off-chance that she was having a baby girl. A little piece of trivia that Jason is going to any lengths necessary not to think about.

“It fits with the intel I got last week,” Tim is saying, “Qurac is a big job; she wouldn't be doing it alone.”

“No,” Bruce agrees, hunched over in front of his massive screen. “Perhaps the League of Assassins isn't behind this at all.”

“So either someone's setting it up to look like they...” Tim trails off, catching sight of Jason, or more accurately, the wiggling bundle in his arms. “Is that a baby?”

Jason looks down and gasps. “Holy shit, how did that get there?”

Dick rolls his eyes. Tim says, “Wait, it's not – ”

“It's not mine, Replacement. Don't give yourself a stroke deducing over there.”

Bruce turns in his chair to face them, frowning deeply. His eyes take in Dick, Jason, and the baby. “Where's Damian?”

Dick steps forward. “He went with Alfred to take Colin ho – back to St. Aden's.”

“Ah.” Bruce nods. “So that's where he went this morning.” His gaze lands on the baby. “I take it the infant came from the orphanage as well.”

“She's really sweet, Bruce.” Dick adopts a pleading voice. “Colin thought he was doing the right thing.”

“Colin can look after her when she's returned to St. Aden's,” Bruce says firmly. “The Mansion is no place for a baby.” He stands and walks over to Jason. “May I?”

It takes Jason a moment to realize that Bruce is asking his permission to hold the baby. He doesn't know what's more surprising, the fact that Bruce is asking at all, or the fact that he wants to refuse, to take the baby and run as far away as possible, to an alternate universe where parents don't abandon their kids or sell them out, where they don't let psychopaths murder them, where they'd rather burn the world down than let any harm come to another child on their watch.

He thinks that Bruce can probably see his struggle painted on his face as he waits for his answer. And he is waiting, because the question wasn't a formality, it's a real uncertainty, and Bruce is asking Jason whether or not he trusts him to take this small life and protect it, even if it's just for a few moments.

Jason's reflexive answer is a harsh and unforgiving fuck no, but that's not the end of it. There's something deeper inside him, something that's been climbing toward the surface for a while now, no matter how hard he tries to bury it, that tells another story. A lot of other stories.

Rather than sift through them, he bites his tongue and hands the baby over. He tells himself he won't look at Bruce to see his reaction, but how often do you get to see Batman with a baby?

Jason will die again a hundred times before he ever admits it, but the vision of Bruce, half-suited up, broad and unyielding and Batman, folding his arms into a cradling position for the baby, is actually pretty fucking charming. He wouldn't've guessed that Bruce had a lot of experience with small children, but he doesn't look uncomfortable. The baby whines and stirs, little hands feebly reaching up to clutch at the bat symbol on his chest, and Jason thinks he actually sees Bruce's mouth quirk in a smile.

“I'm just going to scan her handprint,” he says, addressing Jason.

Jason shrugs. “Whatever.”

The whining stops as soon as he takes the baby over to the enormous computer screen, and Jason hopes that all the lights and flashing images don't fry the baby's brain. There are shots of crime scenes, bodies with blood spilled onto the street, rotating in the corner of the screen, and Jason hopes the baby's subconscious doesn't file those images away for night terrors down the road. Although, if it's going back to the orphanage, it'll see the real thing soon enough.

There's an uplifting thought.

“Danielle Leigh Torres,” Bruce says after a moment. “Born the sixteenth of January. Parents Linda Torres – deceased, and Mitchell Howard, also deceased.”

“Wait a minute.” Tim's gone still with his hand hovering over the keyboard. “Mitch Howard – that's Big Mouth Howard's real name.”

Big Mouth Howard. Jason's heard the name – some lowlife, maybe a bookie? He doesn't know why it'd be significant to any of them, but the way Tim and Bruce are looking at each other suggests that there's something fairly major he's missing. Jason glances at Dick, and is relieved to see that he looks just as out of the loop.

“You two wanna clue us in?” Jason demands, stepping closer to the screen. “Who the fuck is Big Mouth Howard?”

Bruce continues scowling unfathomably at the screen, and Tim lets out a long exhale. “There's been a lot of activity in the East End this past week,” he says. “You guys have probably noticed.”

“Yeah, bunch of dealers got capped,” Jason confirms, still not understanding why this should matter so much to Batman. “Turf wars. Big fucking deal.”

Tim shakes his head. “Not just dealers. Cy Reynolds was Intergang, they bought out the Dragons’ territory a few months ago and have been pulling in major product from Venezuela. His whole family was taken out, all his lieutenants, all their families.” He pulls up a mug shot of a sneering, overweight man with some serious dental issues. “Big Mouth was one of them.”

“So, you're thinking professional hits.”

“Reynolds had a lot of enemies. Guy dipped his pen in way too many wells. We thought Intergang might've taken him out themselves, because he was something of a liability, but why take out the lieutenants?”

“And the families,” Dick adds, frowning. “Someone wanted to send a message.”

“Exactly. He's gotten on the wrong side of the al Ghuls more than once, and this is their style,” Tim continues, pulling up more detailed shots of the bodies. “That one's Linda Torres. She wasn't even married to Big Mouth, but they still got her.”

“League's got bigger fish to fry,” Jason says dismissively. “They wouldn't bother.”

“Yeah, well, you would know,” Tim replies, raising an eyebrow. “Anyways, we're thinking it's a move against Intergang now, not just Reynolds. I have a couple hunches, but we need to examine the bodies more closely to know for sure.”

“Bruce,” Dick says, “if they're really sending a message, they're gonna be looking for Danielle.”

Tim opens his mouth and shuts it. No one speaks, and, as if on cue, the bundle in Bruce's arms starts wailing again.

Something is squeezing Jason's lungs, making it hard for him to breathe normally. Danielle. The baby has a name, it's a goddamn person and it's – she's – been in this world for three fucking months and she's already got a price on her head. God almighty, what a piece of shit world they live in.

Jason grinds his teeth. “No way she goes back to that orphanage.”

Everyone turns to look at him. He ignores them and steps forward, extending his arms towards Bruce, who slides Danielle over to him without protest.

“Jason – ”

“Forget it, Bruce. I don't know what paragraph of your moral code stipulates that you have to throw a fucking baby to the wolves instead of, oh, I don't know, protect her, but you can shove it up your ass. I'll fucking take her if it's that goddamn important to you. And if anyone comes for her, they die.”

“ – I was going to say, I think she should stay here. For the time being.”

Jason pauses. “Oh.”

“Provided, of course, that someone will be able to look after her. Other than Alfred.”

“I'll stay,” Dick volunteers. Of course he does. Fucking boy scout. “Jason?”

Jason looks down at Danielle, at watery brown eyes and tiny hands, fingers stretching out without knowing what they're reaching for. She yawns and makes a sucking noise, turning her head into his chest.

Damn it.

“We'll do shifts,” he says to Dick, making his tone as businesslike as possible. “I still have shit to do; I can't sit around playing house with you all day.”

Dick doesn't smile, but Jason can see that he wants to. “That sounds reasonable.”

“This is temporary. Just until we find the fuckers that want to take her out.”

“Sure it is.” Dick's all doe-eyed now, watching Danielle settle down to sleep. Idiot. “Welcome home, Jaybird.”

***

[ddaenggtan]

Backalley Brawl | myg | M

This is....just as unedited as 666 medici lmao, but! Here, have this! It takes place in the same universe as the 666 medici drive fic, so this is the same MC, just...with a different friend lol. I'm lowkey hype because the more people you meet in this verse, the more I get to play with them, and they're some of my favorite characters I've ever come up with. 

Also shoutout to @strawbxxymilk​ bc its her birthday!!! I was going to write a jungoo fic for it, bUT NO im not gonna, i decided to be benevolent and let the renkook agenda stay on hold for a single day :)))

Word Count | 3.5k, I think?

Warnings | This is pure pwp, I'm not kidding, absolute filth. Semi-public sex, deepthroating, facefucking, gagging, yoongi’s kind of a dom??, unprotected sex (ur not a vampire or a werewolf, wrap your johnsons), rough sex i think, breeding kink, f masturbation (kind of?), cumplay, mention of knots, yoongi got a phat ****, degradation, i think thats it?? Idk tbh my brains p fried from finishing this

The smell of wet dog has been following you all night; from when you got up and went to Joon’s shop to tease him a little while ordering an arrangement, to the store to order food for your pet, the club to handle some business and find a satisfying meal, and even now as you wander the sidestreets and backalleys in an attempt to either lose your apparent shadow or draw them out. You aren’t scared or even apprehensive - you’re just annoyed, because the scent lingers in your throat and there’s very little that’s worse than the smell of werewolf. 

You stop in a darkened alley, one hand on your hip as the other fishes your phone out of your dress pocket. There’s not a single soul nearby from what you can tell. Everyone that isn’t sequestered in their homes and beds is packed into the clubs and bars a few blocks away. The scent gets as closer than it’s dared to all night, probably only arm’s length away from you; the hints of woodsmoke and sap tell you everything you need to know. 

[You, sent: ] Is there a reason you’re hiding in the shadows, pup, or are you just going to be creepy all night?

Behind you, a text tone dings through the air followed by a muffled curse. You hear a sigh, and then footsteps. 

“Oh good, so you aren’t going to be creepy all night,” You tell him without turning around. 

“You could’ve just texted me hours ago if you knew I was following you.” His voice is muffled slightly, but there’s no mistaking the pout in it.

“And you could’ve just called like I told you to instead of being weird, but alas, we both chose different paths in life.” When you turn, your struck not for the first time at how soft the werewolf in front of you looks. 

He’s one of the smallest werewolves you know. They all tend to be rather large and imposing, but not him. No, he carries his power in the way he stands, relaxed and lazy no matter what’s in front of him because he knows it’s not a threat. The power he holds in the long fingers is but a millisecond away, and everything about him screams that he is all too aware of it. 

The thought makes your stomach flip and heat sink low between your thighs. 

His nostrils flare ever so slightly, and you have no doubts he can smell your train of thought. He adjusts ever so slightly, flipping the black wavy hair out of his eyes and adjusting the red plaid flannel he’s got tossed on over a nondescript black shirt. He’s more fidgety than usual today, and your eyes narrow.

“Why didn’t you just call, Yoongi?” You ask as you take a single step closer to him. His muscles tense ever so slightly. 

“You remember what happened last time,” He mutters. “Didn’t want a repeat.”

That’s fair , you think. It still doesn’t explain why he decided to stalk you through the night when he could easily have just approached you in one of the several secluded places you’d been. 

“I-” He cuts himself off before he can get more than a word out, and when he brings a hand up to fiddle with the choker around his neck, you notice that he’s shaking slightly. You take another step toward him, and he mirrors you by taking a step back. You look closer. 

His black shirt is slightly damp at the neck, and the sleeves of his flannel are in tatters from where he’s picked at them with his claws. There’s not much light in the alley where you stand, but with your enhanced vision you can see the way his pupils are shrinking and dilating rapidly. The barest hint of a fang worries at his lower lip. 

You’ve never seen him so out of control of his shift before, and it almost worries you. Not only because, against all odds, you care just a bit for this werewolf, but also because out of control werewolves are dangerous even to vampires. You’re confident in your abilities, but you know better than to think you can take down a fully trained, mature, crazed werewolf like Yoongi on your own. 

“Should I call someone for you?” You ask. You manage to keep your usual bored tone in your voice, but if he could pay attention, the tight grip on your phone would give you away in heartbeat. 

“Yes, I mean, no, it’s not-” He huffs. “No, that’s why I came to you. I didn’t get to Joon in time, y’know, it hit early, and now I’m, uh, I don’t have the-” He huffs again, running long fingers down his temple. 

“I’m in rut,” He eventually spits out. Heat floods you at the words; you’ve been with werewolves in rut before, you know what it’s like for them. The need to claim and breed, to ensure their line continues, constantly at war with the want most ‘wolves have to not hurt anyone around them. It’s why Namjoon created his signature potion, a concoction to stave off the need so long as it was taken before all of the symptoms set in. 

Yoongi has been precise about taking it ever since you met him, content to live his life without a mate until he met someone he loved enough to want children with. You’ve never seen him this out of his mind, and yet the fact that he can stand here and have a conversation with you while his instincts scream at him to do anything else is only another testament to his control. 

It only makes you wetter, and you can tell by the way he groans and his nostrils flare once again that he knows the effect. 

“So you thought you’d come to me?” You ask as you slip your phone back into your pocket. Yoongi’s gaze hardens slightly, the muscles in jaw working as he bites back whatever retort he had in mind. “Or, rather, you thought you’d come for me?”

Yoongi steps away again as you step forward, and you cock a brow at him. 

“I’m not going to force you to do anything, okay, Meds?” You stifle a laugh at the shortened form of your nickname; Medici was kind of a mouthful for the younger generations. It’s sweet that he’s so thoughtful, though. “I just...some of the others have mentioned that you’re good for this, what with all the…” His hand waves through the air, gesturing at all of you for a moment before he makes fangs with his fingers. 

“What with our uncooperative biology and my love of roughness,” You finish for him. 

“Yeah,” He responded lamely. “Yeah, that. I just don’t want you to think that you have to do this. Because you don’t. I just don’t know if I’m going to be able to stop if you say yes without you making me.”

His thoughtfulness brings a fresh wave of arousal, paired with the realization that he believes you could control him even in rut. You step forward again and he maintains his distance until his back hits the wall of the alley. You don’t stop, though, getting close enough that you feel his breath mix with yours when his lips part ever so slightly. 

He stifles a soft moan, no doubt able to taste your arousal on the air with how enhanced his senses must be at this point. You run a finger down his sweat-soaked chest; the hitch in his breath only cements your decision. 

“Who said I would want you to stop?”

Yoongi groans, low and deep in his throat, and you smile at the sound.

"Only if you're sure," He mutters. You don't dignify his words with a response. Instead, you slide a hand under his flannel and along the edge of his black shirt, teasing at the hem with your fingers. They ghost along the thin strip of skin you can see, and his eyes flutter closed.

"I'm sure, pup," You whisper. The growl he gives in response isn't something you hear; it's just felt. In the tips of your fingers as they hook under his joggers, in the flip of your stomach, and in the way you can feel the damp cloth of your underwear sticking to you.

"I am not," He growls, one hand moving to tangle in your hair and push you to your knees. "A pup." Your tongue darts out to wet your lips as you tug lightly on his waistband, and you stifle a moan when you realize he's not wearing anything underneath. The hand in your hair tightens and pulls you closer to the hard length hidden behind the soft material of his joggers.

"Fuck, Yoongi," You whisper, already mouthing along the outline of his cock.

"Get to work." His words ring in your ears as you pull firmly down and reveal his shaft in all its glory. You've had longer - Taehyung and Namjoon are both exceptionally gifted there - but you doubt anyone could match the girth Yoongi sports.

You wrap a hand around him and slide slowly upwards, committing the relieved sigh he releases to memory. There's a wide gap between your thumb and the rest of your fingers, further proof that he has the girth to make up for any lack of length, and you give it a soft kitten lick.

Yoongi cuts his groan off before it can even start, but his hips buck into you. You grin and look up at him before licking a stripe all the way to his head. His jaw tenses and the hand not tangled in your hair grips the wall behind him hard enough that some of the brick crumbles. 

He sucks in a harried breath when you wrap your lips around him; your jaw already aches from the stretch, but you can’t find it in yourself to care because when you look up at him again, his fangs are digging into his bottom lip and his eyes are clenched shut. You tease him for just long enough that he looks down at you, a demand written in the way his lip curls upwards. With no further warning, you slide down him, taking his entire length into your mouth. 

He chokes on a moan and stuffs the side of his hand between his teeth in an attempt to stay quiet. His hips are moving the barest amount against you, and you can’t help but be impressed that he’s still so in control. 

You want to see him lose it. 

You lick your way off of his cock before sliding back down, letting the flat of your tongue run along the vein as you do. You repeat the motion, letting the very tip of his cock hit your throat before you hum around him and bring one hand up to grip his balls. His hand tugs lightly on your hair and you resist for a single second before you let him pull you off. 

“Fuck, if you keep doing that-”

“You’ll cum?” False sweetness coats your voice, and it makes his expression twist in a snarl. “And here I thought you’d last longer than the others.”

“You want me stuff that mouth of yours so full you can’t talk? Because I will,” He tells you. You cock a brow and grin. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Yoongi.” 

You’re turned before you know it, back against the brick wall while Yoongi’s free hand moves to stroke lightly along your jaw. It’s everything you can do not to nuzzle into the calloused pads of his fingers and you’re glad you resist when his grip hardens and he pulls your jaw down. 

You let him slide his cock between your lips, precum smearing along your lips as he does. He’s heavy on your tongue. It’s intoxicating.

“Your mouth is so good like this, baby,” He says as he begins to thrust in and out of your mouth. “So wet and perfect, you know that? Can’t talk back with your mouth stuffed full of cock, can you?” You hum around him and his thrusts start coming faster and deeper. He’s just long enough that tip of his cock hits the back of your throat each time. 

You can taste him on your tongue and his pre-cum drips down your throat with every thrust. One hand stays buried in your hair, keeping your head in place against the wall as he fucks your face, and the other moves to support his weight. A quick glance tells you his eyes are focused on where his cock disappears between your lips, mouth hanging open just barely as he pants and groans. 

“God, you take it so well,” He pants. “Like it was just made for me.” You clench around nothing at his words; it’s not the first time you’ve heard them, by far, but fuck if you don’t love it every single time. A smile plays out over his lips, highlighting the sharp canines that you love. You can feel a growl building in his throat and you can’t resist the temptation to make him verbalize it.

You tighten your lips around his shaft and hollow your cheeks at the same time that you swallow around him. His rhythm stutters and he pulls out of your mouth in a rush, free hand darting down to wrap around the base. 

“You’re such a little bitch,” He hisses. His vice grip on his dick doesn’t lessen even as he pulls you up to your feet and spins you around. His hand disappears from your hair, both of them running up your thighs to push your dress up so he can squeeze the meat of your ass. He slaps it once before a tearing sound fills the air and your underwear falls to the ground. "Gonna teach you to have some respect, baby." 

His cock slides into you easily and you can't stop the moan that tears from your throat. The stretch burns in the most delicious way; there's little resistance as he pulls out, and the way he sinks back into your heat has your nails scraping against the brick wall. 

"Fuck, Yoongi," You whimper. He chuckles at that and snaps his hips into you again and again. Your moans echo off the alley walls, and only seem to spur him on. He's completely unforgiving, ramming into you quicker and harder with each passing second. 

"Yeah, that's it," He mutters, fingers digging to your hips. "Fucking take this cock, baby, you're so good for me, yeah? Sucked my cock so good I almost came, and now your sweet little pussy's gonna milk me dry. You want that?"

 You whimper, rolling your hips back to meet his bruising pace. He doesn't hold back and you have no doubts that were you a regular human, you'd be bruised beyond belief at the way he fucks you. 

You aren't a normal human, though, and you're thriving with how hard he fucks you into the wall. 

You clench around him and draw the first real moan you've heard from him. He runs a hand up the curve of your back, making you shiver slightly, and a particularly hard thrust has your walls fluttering around him. 

"Can't fucking wait," He moans. "Gonna flood you full of my cum, coat you with it. Everyone you see is gonna smell it on you, they're all gonna know just how good you've been fucked."

"Yes," You moan, "Yoongi, please, do it, please." 

He grips your thighs tight and spins you around, barely pulling out for a second before he's picking you up. Your ankles cross behind him as your back hits the wall and he slams into you once more. 

"Fuck yes, baby," He moans, leaning forward to mouth at your neck. "Gonna breed you so good, fill you so full of my cubs, like a good little bitch." He doesn't miss the way you moan and his teeth dig sharply into your skin. "You like that, don't you? You want everyone to know how good you are, how you take me like a bitch in heat. Fuck, you're so wet, you know that? Wet and hot and fucking perfect for me, the best fuck of my life."

"Yes, Yoongi, please, I'm good, I want it," You pant. 

"Say it," He demands. "Tell me what you want from me."

"I want you to cum," You moan, clenching around him again. You've been with enough werewolves in rut to know what he wants to hear, and you're so cock-drunk that you don't even have the fochs to tease him about it. "I want you to breed me, fill me with your cubs, wanna be yours." 

Yoongi curses and his thrusts shorten until he's just grinding his hips against yours. The pressure against your g-spot is just enough that you're starting to tip over the edge, but you hold it back. You want to cum after him. 

"Shit, you're such a perfect little bitch for me," Yoongi groans. "So perfect and sweet, can't wait to see you dripping in my cum." 

You chance a glance at him and nearly cum on the spot at the sight of red ringing his irises. You're instantly reminded of the power behind his grip, the way he could tear you apart right now if he really wanted to, if he wasn't distracted by the feeling of your warmth surrounding him. 

Your hands dig into his hair and pull him into a hard kiss. Your mouth hits his in a clash of teeth and tongue, both of you too fucked out to care as he grinds and swells inside of you. Your hands move down, pushing at him until he slides out. The sudden emptiness makes you ache but you're on a mission. You also don't want to be stuck against a wall in an alley for however long it takes his knot to deflate. 

"What-" Yoongi whimpers, doing his best to claw you back to him. You grin and drop to your knees again, sliding him into your mouth once more. It's more of a stretch now that his knot is swelling but it's worth it for the way he slides himself to the very back of your throat before pulling out. 

"I want to taste you," You tell him as you wrap your hand around him and start to slowly stroke. "I want to watch you cum down my throat and watch me swallow it all." His breathing turns ragged and there's a high-pitched whine in the air that you aren't sure he knows he's making. You look up at him, wide eyed and pouty. "Please?"

Yoongi curses briefly before he thrusts his cock into your mouth again. You can feel the pressure building and you set to work, bouncing your head on his shaft and letting your tongue flick into the seam and lap up pre-cum before swirling back down around him to the base. His arms are braced on the wall behind you and he doesn't move at all. 

His knot swells even bigger and catches briefly on your teeth, and the noise he makes sends you over the edge. You slide your fingers down to rub circles into your clit, hips rolling into the touch. Yoongi must smell it, or maybe he looks up and sees it, you aren't sure - your nose is buried in the patch of hair between his thighs as you gag around him - but he moans. It's loud and vibrates through his body and into yours, and it makes your orgasm wash over you in a wave of white. Yoongi chokes on another moan and he nearly explodes in your mouth. 

It seems never ending; his cum shoots down your throat, and it just keeps coming as he thrusts shallowly into your mouth. It collects on your tongue, and with his next thrust, you can feel it drip down your lips and chin to land neatly on your chest. You're glad he wasn't deep enough to get truly stuck in your mouth - though that could've been fun. 

Eventually, Yoongi settles. His chest heaves with the force of his orgasm, and his eyes haven't changed from the deep red. 

"You...fuck," He whimpers as he tucks himself back into joggers. He winces a little at the friction against his still decreasing knot and helps you to your feet, straightening your dress as best he can. "C'mon."

You raise an eyebrow and look down at where he's laced his fingers with yours. The red in his eyes brightens ever so slightly as he tugs you forward, free hand wrapping around your waist to hold you close to him. 

"Just where are we going?" You ask quietly, nose brushing lightly against his. 

"My place," He responds easily. "Gonna eat you out until you cum as much as I did, and then I'm gonna fuck you as hard as you know I can." 

The appeal of his secluded cabin must be clear on your face, because he's whisking you out onto the street and towards his home before you can even respond. A quick glance shows no sign the two of you were even there, save for your ruined panties on the ground and deep gouges in the brick. 

[vannahfanfics]

Ashes and Daisies

Category: General Fluff, Slight Angst

Fandom: Legend of Zelda- Breath of the Wild

Characters: Link

The wind whistled as it blustered through the tall fronds of the pale green grass that framed the paved roads beneath Link’s feet. His eyes traced the meandering paths weaving through the shells of destroyed buildings and crumbling walls. Sharp corners hugged by fresh green, concentric circles looping around canals that had long since run dry, grimy stone that hadn’t seen the spines of a street broom for well on a century— they were painfully nostalgic to Link as he silently tracked their course towards the heart of the town. In this desolate place, only his footfalls and the songbirds’ twitters sounded in the ash-choked air. 

Even after a century, life was still hesitant to encroach this close to Calamity Ganon’s lair. 

Link coughed quietly as the gray-black flecks invaded his nose and throat. Even after all this time, it clouded in dense mists around the burned remnants of barracks and houses. The clouds of darkness remained as a testament to the sheer malice that had invaded this once peaceful community. Link felt a bitter sorrow creep up from his belly as if summoned by the ash flakes. After awakening from his century-long slumber, he had resigned himself to the fact that his world had changed.

Still, seeing Castle Town reduced to cinders and ashes, a lifeless husk of its former glory, was painfully sobering. 

He came to the ruins of the fountain at the heart of the settlement. Its hand-carved cistern had crumbled in several places, large chunks of rock and cracked foundation making for an ugly silhouette against the clouded sky. The sparse sunlight filtered down to gleam against the shattered statue in the middle. One wing of the Triforce emblem stoically extended into the air, like a fist raised in defiance and solidarity. 

Link’s eyes were lidded as he gazed upon the sorry sight. He summoned forth the memory of crystal-clear water cascading from the emblem and splashing down into the pool— of bronze and silver and gold coins glittering at the bottom, relics whispering townspeople’s wishes. The image brought a smile to his lips, though it was tainted with regret. 

His eyebrows cinched as a rather distinct memory bubbled forth from the recesses of his mind. 

~One Hundred Years Ago~

The water trickled pleasantly in the fountain. Its arcing streams glistened silver in the bright sunlight streaming down from the azure sky above. The congenial tinkling accented the hum of polite conversation reverberating in the circular plaza. The sunlight refracting off the liquid painted shifting, kaleidoscopic patterns over the silver plating of his armor; the lights danced over the sigil of Hyrule adorning the metal, crowning it in ephemeral light. Link stood resolutely beside the fountain as Zelda perched on its edge, dipping her slim fingers into the rippling water. 

A tiny smile tugged at his lips as the princess hummed a tune under her breath. She had a beautiful voice, his princess. 

Link could not allow himself to be distracted. Even Castle Town had its dark alleys and seedy underbelly. He craned his neck to peer over the heads of the people meandering through the plaza. Most were civilians, busily going about their daily comings and goings, though a few Hyrule soldiers lounged under the awnings ringing the plaza. A handful of them was absorbed in a card game in the corner. Another two were inspecting a blacksmith’s wares instead of attending to their guard duties. 

Link glowered, having half a mind to have them scolded. 

“Link,” Zelda laughed beside him. When he glanced at her, she was smiling amusedly. “It’s all right. There’s no need to be so tense, you know.” 

Link’s scowl deepened slightly. Sometimes, Zelda could be so naïve. Even now, the Yiga could be lurking in the town, disguised as an everyday citizen. The thought made Link’s eyes sweep once more across the plaza; all he saw were pleasant smiles and content expressions— no hints of malice or ill intent. 

Begrudgingly, he allowed the tension to ease from his muscles, just a bit. 

“See? Doesn’t it feel good to relax?” Zelda hummed with a raised eyebrow. 

Link just screwed up his face at her in a clear look of distaste. Zelda laughed again, filling the air with a sound like the castle’s ringing bells calling the soldiers home. A sweet sound. A beautiful sound. A sound of home. 

Link tensed again at the pitter-patter of rapid footsteps approaching. His hand flew to the hilt of his Master Sword, the metal scraping against the scabbard as he began to pull it out, but Zelda hurriedly jumped up and slapped her palm against his breastplate with a loud “No!” Link looked at her in shock, then followed her gaze to where a little girl weaved through the crowd.

The child’s breaths came in little pants as she skittered to a stop in front of the knight and his charge. She gazed up at Zelda with gleaming emerald eyes flooded with admiration. Clumsily, she extended her hand, which grasped a ragged daisy she’d likely plucked from the patches of wildflowers blooming in the grasses nearby. 

“For you, Princess!” 

“Oh, why, thank you,” Zelda smiled graciously as she kneeled before the little girl. She gently took the flower and turned it between her thumb and forefinger, acclaiming it as if it were a gorgeous rose instead of a bedraggled daisy. After humming approvingly, Zelda swept her tresses of golden hair behind her shoulder so that she could tuck the daisy behind her ear. “How do I look?” 

“You the most beautifulest princess ever!” the little girl giggled and clapped her hands. When she noticed Link standing beside the kneeling Zelda, she gasped. “Wait! I’ll be right back, okay?” she said before dashing off between a pair of elderly women conversing about the fruit prices for the day. They both exclaimed as the child charged past them, then chortled joyously at her seemingly boundless energy. 

Zelda tossed Link a teasing grin. 

“One heck of a Yiga spy, huh?” 

Link made another face at her. 

They both turned as the little girl’s footsteps echoed through the plaza once more. She sprinted right up to Link, beaming ecstatically. Her smile outshone the burning sun above as she presented Link another daisy, this one more pathetic than the last— flopping over with a bent stem, with several petals missing. 

Link couldn’t help but smirk in amusement. 

Following Zelda’s suit, he knelt down before the child and went to take the flower from her. His eyes widened when she shook her head and retracted the bloom. 

“Please, allow me, Mr. Knight!” she insisted. Link could only stare blankly as the child tottered up to loop the stem of the flower around his ear. Its sweet scent wafted up his nose as she brought it past his face. The blossom bobbed against the locks of his golden-brown hair, the petals weaving into the fine strands. “There. A good-luck charm!” 

Link raised a hand to brush his fingertips across the white petals of the daisy. They were soft, like silk, so delicate against his calloused hands. He dropped his hand with a smile at the little girl and an acknowledging nod for good measure. The child grinned with a self-satisfied hum. 

A woman’s voice cut across the plaza. 

“Oops. My mom is calling me. Bye, Princess! Bye, Mr. Knight!” 

Zelda and Link both watched fondly as the little girl disappeared into the crowd and into a bright future. 

~Present Day~

Link’s hand slowly ascended to brush his fingers over the shell of his ear. He could imagine it, the stem tucked against his skin, the soft petals nestled against his hair. He stared forlornly into the plaza. There were no happy civilians, now old ladies contentedly conversing underneath the warm sun, no little girls bounding around their mothers’ legs begging for a treat. 

No, there was just ash, and dust, and desolation. 

Link stared hollowly toward the edge of the plaza, where the girl had once disappeared with her kindly mother. Did they survive, he wondered? Did they escape the fires and flames and destruction? Did that little girl get to grow up, and have her own little girl, and watch her grow, and die peacefully in her bed as she deserved to? 

Link clenched his fist so tightly that his knuckles glared white in the gloom. That was the worst part… Not knowing. 

He forced his gaze away from the ash and dilapidated buildings, upward to the castle shelled with pulsating black magic. He set his jaw and gripped his Master Sword tight, steeling his nerve and preparing himself for the trial ahead. Then, he started walking, up the path that was so familiar to him but was so foreign too now that it had been disfigured by evil. 

Link didn’t know what happened to the little girl. He doubted that he ever would. She was just a figment of a forgotten past, an unknown in a great sea of unknowns. Yet he did know this— he was going to climb that castle and smote Calamity Ganon upon the wreckage of this once great kingdom. He was going to reclaim the future for the country he’d sworn to protect, to the people he’d sworn to protect— 

To the princess that he’d sworn to protect, so she could smile among her people in peace once more. 

As he walked his lonely road up to the castle, he spotted daisies blooming in the grasses lining the pathway. 

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[fogsrollingin]

Title: not even duct tape & safety pins  Author: fogsrollingin  Fandom: Supernatural Story details: Sam & Dean, rated PG-13, 2.7k words, chapter 1/?  Summary: The minute Sam's ravaged soul slipped back into his body by Death, mind and spirit combined to manifest as something barely human. Feral. Death vanished, Dean struggled to hold a screaming, newly re-souled Sam down on the cot, and ever since he's been praying for his little brother to come back to him. A/N: my next entry for @whumptober2020! Prompts filled are No 24. "You’re not making any sense" 😵 and No 18. "Paranoia" 👀. This chapter is the first of many that will continue to be updated after Whumptober.  Tumblr link to Chapter 2 || Available on AO3

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ not even duct tape & safety pins, ch 1 ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Sam used to know how easy it was to break zip-ties.

Not now.

Dean discovered this fact while gently experimenting with Sam; he was long past the sentimental aspects of reuniting with his brother.

He focused on the here and now a lot more, if not for practicality than for the sake of his sanity. He studied Sam now, carefully tested him sometimes as he dwelt in the basement panic room.

It had been six weeks since Sam's ravaged soul slipped back into his body by Death, his mind and spirit combining to manifest as something barely human. Feral. Six weeks. Bobby and Dean had been diligently tracking Sam's "recovery" trying to convince themselves it wasn't devastating to witness their graphed plateau lasting longer and longer.

Today Dean figured he might as well see if some hunter's tricks could jog Sam's memories. So, a harmless experiment, the zip-ties.

Sam was always naked, unable or unwilling to clothe himself. He was always warm though. Dean made sure of that. He and Bobby monitored the thermostat religiously. It was harder to keep him clean. Sam gnashed his teeth and growled threateningly but at least he never attacked when Dean cornered him with warm wet towels to wipe off the sweat, grit and grime Sam managed to get on his skin rolling around the floors, stalking along the walls, toppling old furniture. Sure, Sam might fritz into a panic as Dean approached, screaming and terrified, but he never hit or kicked and Dean would rub him down, his ears ringing by the end of it.

Dean tried to outlast his brother's screams whenever he came near so many times. Tried to stay there through it until Sam's throat would go dry, until his vocal chords would seize up, his muscles would relax and his eyes might dull with lassitude. Dean would still be there, soft words and gentle touches and maybe it'd cut a revelation through Sam's mind that he could trust Dean when his guard was down.

But it never happened.

Sammy’s unholy shrieks never stopped until Dean would back away, shaky, the sound echoing in his head. Each time he tried, Dean would last longer than he had before but never longer than Sam could hold out, his little brother's tireless yowls a relentless barrage of mindless alarm and panic. And then every time without fail, when Dean retreated, Sam would instantly go quiet and prowl, wary unblinking eyes staying fixed on him.

It was a tactic, Dean had realized.

Depending on his mood, this knowledge made Dean either furious or on the brink of despair. It was a tactic that worked so well on him. Every time. The desperate, piercing vocals of fear and terror from Sam were never going to be something Dean could ignore.

Today Sam had screeched and shook as predicted while Dean cornered him and put the zip-tie around his bony wrists. When he stepped away, Sam calmed. Dean felt guilty for the dark amusement he felt watching Sam's exaggerated movements looking down, squinting, an aggressive wriggling of his hands trying to part them at the wrist, then the full realization dawning that he was bound; Dean had bound him.

Dean wasn't so amused when Sam looked back up at him, his face ugly with hatred and fury.

Dean never seen his little brother with that look. It was pure and unhinged, a demon's mien, and it stole his breath away.

The look vanished then though, enraged roaring and screaming took its place. Sam ran around and knocked things over and clearly had no recollection how to simply swing his arms down with his elbows tucked to split the stupid thing. He was behaving like an animal caught and trapped and trying to escape with unthinking panic.

Dean didn't remove the ties. He couldn't; he wouldn't bring the sharp pliers near Sam until he calmed down.

Dean and Bobby were worried about Sam near sharp utensils and wouldn't allow it even when they were around and watchful. They just didn't want to risk hurting Sam (or Sam hurting himself) in any way. They knew if he did, Sam wouldn't understand; he might see blood and feel pain and think it was torture, and whatever trust gained between the three of them (and Dean and Bobby had to believe there was some) could be lost.

Sharp objects certainly included razors, and Sam's modest beard stood testament to their concerns. And now, regrettably, so was a zip-tie that Sam couldn't break on his own.

Dean had to leave the room as Sam was really getting underway. His body was a wrecking ball in a tornado when he got like this, crashing through nearly everything in the panic room. Dean swung the heavy door shut, closing watery eyes and sniffing as he slotted the metal viewer open. He opened his eyes to watch, make sure Sammy didn't hurt himself. He also grabbed the pliers off a shelf to the side of the door outside and pocketed them.

Sam raged on, wrists still bound.

Six weeks. In all that time neither Bobby nor Dean had been able to find it in their hearts to bind Sam down - to the cot, for instance, or in a straitjacket. They'd been loathe to even keep him locked in the panic room but they quickly realized leaving him free to the whole house served as a kind of sensory overload for him. He'd freak out over nothing they could discern and there were too many exits to the house - including windows - where a naked Sammy could bolt. And one afternoon just days after the re-souling, that's exactly what happened. Sam had been found shivering, naked on a stack of pallets in the alley behind a Sioux Falls post office. Bobby and Dean had driven like lightning to get there as soon as they heard the dispatch chatter but two deputies were already near the post office and made it to the scene first. Sam snapped and snarled at them when they came too close.  They were at a loss of what to do about him when the Impala swerved into the alley, the two gruff men launching out to take over. Bobby had handled the two deputies as Dean had thrown a blanket over Sam, coaxed him into the Impala.

Shaken and reeling, they had taken Sam down to the panic room and spent hours with him there, patching up his cuts from the window glass he'd shattered when he'd jumped through it, guilty they had to keep him down there but knowing it was the only way to make sure this incident wouldn't be repeated. They did the room up as nice as possible. Power-washed it, got a big box mattress. Soft white sheets. A thick, cushy pillow. Plastic water bottles littered the area too. Dean and Bobby were on a constant cycle of bringing full ones down and the empties up.

Sam seemed completely indifferent about the relocation. Then they noticed a few improvements in his habits which simmered hope. He was using the bed, for example, and where before if Dean forgot to take him into the bathroom he wouldn't be able to make it in time but now Sam got up and used the toilet on his own. That was a big, big win.

So maybe the boundaries of the panic room were a good thing. But bindings had been out of the question. No cuffs, no straitjacket. They couldn't do that to him after what he'd suffered in the cage for eons, after having had his very soul shredded to ribbons by the literal devil. And they noticed that Sam never hurt them and didn't really hurt himself during his tirades so it wasn't actually necessary safety-wise.

They also never drugged him, although Bobby was starting to come around to the idea and Dean wouldn't be too difficult to persuade if things kept going the way they were. Sam needed to calm down sometimes.

But maybe these flimsy zip-ties, the first form of restraint Dean had used on his traumatized brother - but only because he thought Sam would handle them better, get out of them quick - would tucker him out. Maybe he'd shriek and snarl and jump, run, somersault and whatever other acrobatics he could try to reach an exhaustion point that'd get his guard down. Maybe far enough down Dean could catch a glimpse of... him, of Sammy. If he was still in there.

Dean's eyes pricked, his nose ran. It was this grief mingled with paralyzing terror that Sam was gone forever, his immortal soul so permanently scarred and altered there was nothing left of what Dean knew of it.

Dean blinked away tears, steadied his breath, and watched his brother wear himself out. He ended up in a heaving, sweaty heap lying in the corner, whimpering and writhing around, eyes fixed on the white plastic around his wrists in front of him. Despite the giant overhead propellers that served as ventilation, the air down there was still musty, stale, dry. Sam gulped, his breath hitching painfully. He continued to stare at his bindings, twitching and rocking his body on the floor in a mix between anxiety and what Dean figured to be self-soothing repetition.

Dean opened the door then, immediately going to the floor once he stepped inside. Sam didn't growl as much when Dean would do that.

He army-crawled to his brother. Sam shook and pressed deeper into the cement wall where it met the floor. His eyes were alert slits of suspicion as Dean closed the distance.

Sweat broke out over Dean's brow as he crept closer without much of a reaction from Sam. This was a huge first right now. The only other times Dean had made it this close to his brother, Sam was always wild and panicked and Dean was usually trying to restrain him. Sam hadn't been this calm near him since the re-souling.

Dean blanked out his mind, loosened the grip of fear that held him. But he knew any moment, this quiet between them could break apart, fly away off the rails before Dean could even think to do something with it. This was progress. This was magic.

Don't let go, Sam.

Dean reminded himself to breathe.

Sam's hands were bound by flimsy plastic in front of him as he lay on his side, huffing petulantly, his damp-from-sweat hair tangled and splayed out everywhere, beard straggly, lips chapped, but he was maintaining eye contact. His eyes were so clear, so much his little brother that it hurt deep in Dean's chest. Murky green, turquoise, patches of hazel, flecks of gold in brown, all fixed on him as though he were a stranger. Dean yearned to reach out and press the pads of his fingers to the side of Sam's face, smooth his hair, and just keep at it until Sam closed his eyes. Dean was so desperate for just that tiniest, simplest lesson of trust they might be able to experience.

Without taking his eyes off him and before he even knew what he was doing, Dean lifted a hand. Sam jerked back, shaking, looking between Dean and his hand like they were separate entities, one unpredictable and the other a snake uncoiling, rising to strike. Dean could see the countdown to panic so quickly he just went for the closest contact point between them and ended up petting Sam's arm.

It was awkward, maybe even comical if this wasn't such a desperate bid to build trust with a little brother who felt like the embodiment of the word 'trauma' right now. There was no equivalent in the human experience to the time Sam spent in hell with Lucifer. Dean knew this and in his darkest musings he wondered if trying to coax out any semblance of his Sammy was just added trauma. Hadn't he been through enough? Shouldn't Dean just let him rest, give him the necessities of life and otherwise leave the poor man to his own devices?

Dean's gut and heart always rebelled at that direction of thought. So he kept dragging his fingers gently along Sam's skin. Below the elbow, little strokes, barely there, and Sam had let out a yelp of shock and fear at first but he quieted into low breathy whimpers when he realized there was no pain. He stared at Dean's hand, eyes laser focused. He kept his whole body tense, strung like a bow and Dean realized he was doing the same.

Dean forced himself to relax. He gradually turned on his stomach, he let his legs stretch out, all while keeping a gentle watchful gaze on his brother, keeping his two fingers petting Sam's arm in an unbroken, slow rhythm.

After an interminable amount of time doing nothing else, Dean inwardly celebrated when he saw Sam start to take after him in relaxing. The steady strokes were calming, every sweet touch reinforcing Dean's presence as calm, as harmless.

---

There was a demon. It was lying down in front of Sam, petting him after having bound his wrists, and Sam didn't know its name but it was pathetic. It was always coming to him in this new hell, this round metal tube full of garbage. The demon seemed to be his keeper for the moment. Where had Lucifer gone? And what was this thing trying to do, crawling on the floor to him - trick him? Did it think he was that stupid?

The face was nice though, Sam thought detachedly. It was the first unmarred face he'd seen in ages. Another trick, no doubt, but a pleasant one to enjoy for just a moment. Same thing when the creature started touching him, stroking his arm with feather-light pressure, its fingers gentle, eyes wide open, hellish murky pits of... feelings that Sam couldn't place right now but he knew they existed out there somewhere, somewhere he was sure he couldn't touch, somewhere impossible. His heart twinged, his breath got shallow at the feeling of it, the feeling he couldn’t touch.

Sam discovered then that the demon was fast. It moved, cut the cord that bound his wrists so quickly Sam that barely saw the flash of the sharp metal that did it.

Sam made to launch up and scream this demon away again but then the touch came back, quick as anything on his arms and then down to his hands. Sam watched, eyes wide and following every moment of the demon's gentle, simple caresses as though any moment a knife would materialize and slice pain down him just as soft and pretty and elegant.

When it never came, when the demon finally just got up and left, Sam was starting to think the demon must be sick or infirm. There was something deeply wrong with it.

Looking at the door after it, Sam didn't understand the salty water on his cheeks. He rubbed the wet off until his skin was dry but his face still hurt. His body was numb as always. The demon's touches burned though. They haunted him.

---

"Sounds like progress," Bobby concluded after Dean had filled him in. He was leaning against one of his bookshelves. "So what're you being sulky for?"

Dean bit his lip, staring at nothing as he perched on a stack of books against the wall. He clicked his tongue. "Think something might be wrong with his eyes, maybe."

"Why's that?"

Dean shrugged. "He still doesn't recognize me."

Bobby sighed. After a healthy silence honoring Dean's disappointment, he finally spoke.  "People think we see with our eyes. And sure, if we lose our eyeballs, we won't see. But there's another way to disrupt eyesight and every other sense God gave ya."

Dean thought a moment before nodding with understanding. Bobby continued. "Psychological trauma can mess with what you see, hear, smell, taste..."

Dean clenched his jaw and wiped his face with his hands. "Yeah."

“Makes you wonder how much of reality Sam’s actually perceiving right now.”

"And what he remembers," Bobby added significantly. That Sam might not, might never remember Dean went unsaid but they were both thinking it.

Dean shook his head clear. "No. Doesn't matter. He can make new memories of me," he said confidently. But his eyes glistened. Bobby broke out a second bottle of whiskey.

To Be Continued...

Tumblr link to Chapter 2 || Available on AO3 A/N: 😢 Thank you so much for reading! Please like, comment, reblog if you can spare the time 💛🤗 ~ Alex

[in-tua-deep]

Idk if I’m late to the daemon!au train, but going to the realm of the dead separates a daemon from their humans in the books. So when Klaus dies and meets Reginald and God, would that separate them?

NEVER too late i love the daemon au

(one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, art)

my first instinctual reaction was to say yes but actually?? i think the answer is no - that as a result of their weird dead/ghost powers, Rowan is fully capable of crossing the barrier to the realm of the unliving

Instead of dissolving into dust when Klaus dies, Rowan just sort of. Vanishes. Gives Tamaya a fucking heart attack that she gives them both a chewing out over later, wringing her tail between her paws as she does so. Ben matches the chewing out word for word as well

“Next time you can visit God on your own time.” Rowan tells Klaus, looking disgruntled in a way only a cat can quite pull off. 

“Admit it, you found it hilarious how freaked out dear old dad was when he saw you,” Klaus crows, laughter in the corners of his mouth a little strained because they’d thought they would see Dave and they hadn’t. 

Rowan gives Klaus a look. “Well duh,” They deadpan, rolling their eyes, “But it was weird. Daemons aren’t supposed to go to that place, I could tell. My dust felt all weird. Besides, what happens next time if you die and I actually do turn into dust.”

Rowan gives a dramatic flick of their tail, chin up haughtily looking down on Klaus despite the large height difference. A cat talent, to be sure. “Who would look after you then? Tamaya? She doesn’t deserve to be saddled with you.”

“I’m technically you, you know!” Klaus gasps, hand held daintily to his chest in mock offense. “And I would totally have Ben as well!”

“Fat lot of good that would be.” Ben mutters, making the duo turn their heads. They might have forgotten their little audience, just a tad. “Not like you listen to me anyway.”

Rowan crows in victory, Klaus sputters, and Ben just sighs. Deep and world weary.

Tamaya climbs up Rowan’s leg to sit between his shoulderblades, concern written on her little expressive rat face. She gives a deep full body sigh. “Just - just don’t do that again, please.”

“Aw, Tamaya.” Klaus croon, squatting down in the alley they decided to have this discussion. They’d fled to it pretty quickly after waking up on the dancefloor. But Klaus doesn’t actually say anything more, doesn’t promise anything more. Him and Rowan have been walking on the knife blade of death for a long time now. 

“Next time,” Tamaya says, sudden and fierce and furious, “Next time just fucking leave Luther to his own devices. If he wants to fuck up his life, let him. Andromeda is the one responsible for that idiot.”

“Tamaya!” Klaus sways back, shock painted on his face. Rowan tries to twist their head around to get a look at the face of his smaller passenger. 

“Luther and ‘Drom can choke.” Ben deadpans, also looking furious. Which actually makes Klaus choke, on aborted laughter that is. 

“They’re our siblings.” Rowan says, softer than their usual sharp edges. Softer than the quickfire words they had exchanged just a moment before.

“And you’re theirs.” Tamaya almost growls, which sounds odd on a rat. “Didn’t see them stopping to scrape you off the dancefloor. Fucking cowards, you’d think they would have realized Dad is shit when he killed Ben.”

And oh, that’s a sensitive topic. They don’t usually talk about the fact that when Ben died, he didn’t take Tamaya with him. None of them know why the rat hadn’t burst into dust.

“I could have lost you.” Tamaya whispers, and oh. Oh those are tears. Do rats even have tear ducts? Well apparently that doesn’t matter because Tamaya is a daemon not a rat.  “I can’t lose you guys as well.”

Tamaya and Ben’s power has nothing to do with the dead, unless it involves making them. If Klaus and Rowan died, they would not be able to see them, still tethered to the world by Tamaya’s stubborn dust. 

“Let’s go back to the manor.” Rowan says finally into the silence that had settled. He doesn’t say let’s go home, even though it would have rolled off the tongue better. 

“I think I’m going to tell Pancha I’m alive.” Tamaya whispers, and it’s a testament to how fucking weird their night has been that no one even comments on that. Tamaya has stayed hidden to all of their siblings since the day Ben died - but Tamaya and Pancha had been close when they were younger, before Five left.

No one looks at Ben’s face. Ben, who doesn’t have the option to reveal himself to his siblings at all, because he’s dead and Klaus is the only one with that power. Ben, who used to curl up with Five during quiet moments where Five and Pancha would soften in a way they rarely did any other time. 

(Pancha was a hare now, and Tamaya felt a sort of kinship with her over their teeth at the very least. It was nice - Tamaya had always thought that Pancha would settle as a predator like all of their siblings, but a hare suits her well.

Tamaya can’t help but miss the days after she settled though, when Pancha would shift into another rat and drape herself playfully over Tamaya and tug on her tail and tickle her face with whiskers. But those days were long gone.)

No one says anything else the whole way back.

[writerbyaccident]

Code of Honor (Yandere SpinnerxReader)

Request: Can you do a Yandere Spinner from BNHA who becomes obsessed with a civilian he saved during one of the LOV attacks. It was instinct and he protected her because of course he believes in stain’s ideology and wanted to save an innocent life. But it was love in first sight for him when she kindly thanked him for rescuing her and wasn’t repulsed by him. So he stalks her and at first she doesn’t notice it but when she does she tries to be nice but her anxiety became increased.

Sorry for posting this kinda late, I just couldn’t stop writing!

           The fire was spreading quickly. In a manner of minutes it had gone from burning solely in one corner of the hero agency building to devouring several of the upper floors. As Spinner stood guarding one of the exits on the ground floor, he could hear the crackle and roar of Dabi’s flames. The plan was a fairly simple one for this attack: Dabi had been ordered to set his flames in the top floors of one of the city’s most well-renowned hero agencies, sending all of the remaining heroes down towards the exits on the first floor where the rest of the league would be waiting. Spinner had been anxious to get the mission started ever since Shigaraki told them the plan, utterly determined to make Stain proud. Already the bodies of several so-called heroes were lying at his feet, their deaths a testament of just how unworthy they all had been.

           Still, despite the temptation to revel fully in his work, Spinner forced himself to stay focused, ears and eyes peeled for any signs of someone approaching. All he could hear though was the fire and the sound of distant screams, most of them coming from outside of the building. Clenching his sword tightly, Spinner briefly debated whether he ought to leave his post to try and find some of the false heroes he was sure were still in the building. But no, if he left his position he would be giving them a way to avoid justice, a fact he couldn’t dismiss. Besides, they would have to come to the various exits eventually, he just needed to be patient. Spinner’s musings were abruptly cut short though, when a resounding crash and subsequent scream reached him from the other side of the door. Reasoning that he should check to make sure that some supposed hero hadn’t slipped through the league’s perimeter, Spinner opened up the exit door.

           There, in the cramped alleyway laid you, trapped under the fallen debris of the failing building. Even through the dust and smoke that had mixed in the air, Spinner could tell that you were merely a civilian. That much was clear from your ordinary clothes and the fruitless way you were trying to lift one of the heavy wooden beams off of your legs. Swearing through the pain, you made the attempt several times before admitting that it was useless, instead deciding to use your remaining energy to call out for help. Although even then your cries for help were punctuated by several screams of anguish. As time continued to pass without a hero in sight, you felt yourself becoming more and more lightheaded from both your injury and the smoke pouring out in the alleyway. Realizing that you were going to pass out, you called out one last time for someone to help you.

           The only person to hear your cries though, or at least the only person to care, was Spinner. When he had first spotted you, he had simply watched, arguing that some patrolling hero would help you. After all, he didn’t want to leave his position if help was just around the corner. But as he waited with you, he realized that no one was coming, and he was left with a choice. He could leave his post, potentially missing the opportunity to cleanse the world of more false heroes, or he could ignore you, and let an innocent person die on his watch. Two sides of Stain’s ideology warring in his mind, Spinner tried to determine what he ought to do. When he saw the back of your head beginning to sway though, he made his decision. Putting his sword down, Spinner ran up to where you were trapped. He grasped the beam that had you pinned, and, lifting with all of his strength, he threw it off of you.

           While you could feel that the weight that had been crushing you leaving, the mixture of dust and smoke swirling in the air kept you from clearly seeing who it was that saved you. As your hero drew you into his arms, you could only make out an outline. Spinner, meanwhile, couldn’t make out many of your details either, though he could feel how small and fragile you felt as you trembled in his arms. Leaving the alley behind, he took you somewhere safer, though it was still an alleyway, as he had no desire to be spotted by law enforcement. Once he had brought you to safety though, laying you down gently against the alley wall, he could finally see you fully. Though covered in dust and ash, Spinner knew that he had never seen anyone as beautiful as you before. His heart pounding excitedly, he reminded himself not to get his hopes up. After all, Spinner knew from experience that if you did end up regaining full consciousness, you would simply react to him with fear and disgust. But still, even that reminder couldn’t keep him from running his hand through your hair. Reaching behind him for the small bag of supplies that he had brought with him for the league’s mission, he fumbled through it for a minute until he found what he had been looking for. He pulled out the water bottle, thanking whoever was up there that he had thought to bring it, and poured some of the water out into his cupped hands.

           With supreme gentleness, Spinner began to wipe your face clean, taking care to make sure you didn’t have any head injuries that he failed to see earlier. You stirred a bit at the feeling of water and flesh brushing over your skin, still barely conscious, not knowing exactly what was going on but enjoying the sensation nonetheless. As Spinner cleaned you, he couldn’t help but notice just how soft your skin felt beneath his scaled hands, it felt positively addictive. But, pointing out that he still needed to help you, Spinner retracted his hands and instead picked up the water bottle again, this time bringing it to your lips. Tipping it slowly, he watched as you subconsciously gulped down the cool water, licking your lips to get every last drop. Groaning, you fidgeted a bit and began to regain full consciousness.  With each minor sound and movement that you made, Spinner grew only more hypnotized, finding it utterly unbelievable that he almost didn’t save you.

           “What—what happened?” you moaned, eyes still closed.

           “A building was collapsing,” he answered softly, “I guess you were walking by, and you got pinned under some debris.” Nodding vaguely at Spinner’s description, you began to open your eyes, and Spinner began to brace himself for what would inevitably come next. But as your eyes took in his reptilian appearance, you made no sound or look of disgust. Even when Spinner stared in your eyes, he found not even the slightest hint of repulsion. This alone was a shock to him, but when you suddenly threw your arms around him, he was shocked into speechlessness.

           “Thank you,” you murmured quietly, your voice undoubtedly the sweetest thing Spinner had ever heard. He shivered at your words, amazed by their simple kindness, and cautiously moved to put his arms around you. You allowed him to do so, and he took a moment to savor the feeling of your breaths before squeezing you reassuringly.

           “How do you feel?” he asked you. “Do you think you’re going to be alright?”

           “I think so, I don’t think any of the debris hit my head or anything, it’s really just my leg that hurts.” Nodding slightly at your words, Spinner took the opportunity to glance down at your leg, laid bare as it was by the skirt you wore. There was a sizeable gash there, and already your skin was beginning to bruise. Spinner swallowed, both due to the sight of your flesh laid out so prettily before him and due to the sight of your flesh bloody and bruised. The vision of you hurt and vulnerable crushed his heart, someone so sweet should never have to experience something like this, he thought to himself. After pouring some of the left over water over your wound, Spinner took out some of the gauze from his bag and wrapped it tightly around your injury. Biting the inside of his cheek nervously, Spinner prepared himself to say something more, but was then interrupted by the sound of police officers about to turn the corner and enter the alleyway where the two of you laid. Before they could see him, Spinner fled, tucking himself so deeply into the shadows that you had no idea where he went.

           The next hour passed quickly for you, a blur of police asking what had happened and medics fluttering around you. You told them the whole story as well as you could remember it, how you had been taking a shortcut to get home only to become trapped by a fallen beam. Once you had finished your recollection though, you were shocked to discover that your savior had been none other than a member of the League of Villains, the very group whose attack had put you in such danger in the first place. After determining that you were telling the truth, the police let you be, leaving you to finish healing in the hospital. For a while you found yourself unable to sleep, too confused and agitated by the knowledge you now held. Why on earth would a villain go out his way to help some random civilian, you wondered. Eventually though, the day’s strenuous events caught up with you, leading you to fall asleep.

           As you slept though, a shadowy form had climbed up to your window, now silently sliding it open so that he could enter. Spinner slipping into the room he took a quick look through the door to make sure that no doctors or nurses were approaching. When he saw no one in the darkened hospital hallway, he turned back to where you were sleeping soundly. He was glad to see that you were being taken care of, though a part of him was bitter that it was no longer him acting as your caretaker. After all, what did you or him know about the people who worked at this hospital? How was he supposed to know if they were any good at their jobs? What if they didn’t care about their patients? That last question worried him especially. If the staff here didn’t care about you, they might make some sort of stupid mistake, only making things worse. And he was sure that they wouldn’t see just how special you were either, which might lead them to neglecting you in favor of others. Spinner longed to take you back home with him, where he could watch over you, but the still-rational part of his mind admitted that he didn’t have the tools or the training that the doctors here did. It seemed that if he wanted to keep you safe, he would have to let you stay here for now.

           Spinner’s fear seemed to be unfounded though, as you soon made a full recovery and, after a few days, were ready to go home. In fact, it was only the hospital’s abundance of caution that had kept you there that long in the first place, wanting to make sure that there was no chance of you getting an infection from your injury. As glad as you were that the hospital staff was so dedicated to helping you heal though, you were happy to finally be going home. No matter how nice the nurses were, you would much rather be at home, eating your own food and sleeping in your own bed. Thankfully, you didn’t live far from the hospital that you had been taken to, and with the sign-off from your doctor and with the warmth of the day beckoning you, you decided to walk home. Even though you had just been in the hospital for a few days, it felt like you hadn’t been outside in ages, making a walk all the more tempting.

           Spinner, however, was split on your decision. On the one hand, he could appreciate that you felt as though you needed some fresh air and exercise. Plus, you walking home meant that he could watch you more easily. But on the other hand, he couldn’t help but fear that you might exacerbate your injury by walking. Or what if someone decided to take advantage of a pretty, young girl walking through the streets by herself? All the more reason for him to make sure you got home safely, Spinner argued. Really, he thought to himself as he followed you, you needed his protection. Someone so kind, so innocent was easy prey in this world, to both villains and “heroes” alike. He just loved you so much, he couldn’t bear to see anything happen to you.

           As he walked behind you, Spinner soaked in how joyfully you observed the world around you. You were simply so happy to be out of the hospital and back in the fresh air, it felt as though nothing could ruin your mood. But as you continued your journey home, your contentedness was slowly poisoned by a growing paranoia. You couldn’t help but feel as though someone was watching you, but each time you looked back, you saw no one. It didn’t take long for Spinner to pick up on your change in mood, and abhorred by the thought that he might be scaring you, he decided that approaching you was worth the risk. So when you turned a corner into an empty side street, Spinner ensured that he was standing there in front of you.

           Upon his sudden appearance, you stumbled backwards in shock, looking around for someone to help you. The street was abandoned though, and as Spinner grasped your wrist, you had no choice but to let him. Seeing your nervous reaction to him, Spinner scowled internally. He didn’t blame you of course, he knew that it wasn’t your fault. It was those police officers and those false heroes’ fault, they had told you nothing but lies to try and make you scared of him. But you had not reason to fear him, and he would prove it to you.

           “Hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, wrapping his free arm around your waist. “You know that I won’t hurt you.”

           “Do I?” you muttered. “Do I know that? You’ve hurt plenty of other people.”

           “Only those who have proven themselves traitors to the name of hero,” he explained, desperate for you to understand. “You’re not one of them, you’re not.” You huffed out a breath but didn’t argue.

           “What do you want with me then?”

           “I just wanted you to know, that whatever they told you about me isn’t true. I’m not evil, I’m just working to make this world a better one. You don’t need to be scared of me, I’m not here to hurt you, I’m here to protect you.”

           “Protect me?”

           “Yes,” Spinner said, nodding eagerly. “You’re something rare in this world, something precious. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.” Tensing at his dark tone, you gazed into Spinner’s eyes, trying to see what he was thinking. What you found there only frightened you more though. In his gaze there laid a fierce, almost sickening adoration, paired with some sort of desperate plea. It threatened to consume you, to swallow you in its wake until there was no escape from him. Deciding that you wouldn’t wait for that to happen, you suddenly stomped your foot with all of your strength on Spinner’s toes, causing him to loosen his grip reflexively. Without hesitating, you turned and ran back towards the busy streets, refusing to look back. Spinner, though, just stood there sighing and shaking his head in disappointment. He had really hoped that this would have gone better, but he wasn’t about to give up that easily. It was a good thing that he had thought to learn your address beforehand.

[deniigi]

How about a prompt where Matt is approached by a model agency for teeth modeling cuz he has perfectly pearly white teeth.

This is complete nonsense anon, but I love the idea of Matt being pursued by professional dentists instead of evil doctors for once so have this:

–

Matt ran toward the screaming, thinking that it was, in fact, screaming. By the time he dropped down to street level, it was pretty clear that it wasn’t screaming, though. It was shrieking.

A young man and two women were standing in a circle with their hands cupped around their mouths.

Matt knew their type.

He slunk further back into the alley and then spun around to go back to the other side before hopping up again. But then another group of these same people fuckin’ ambushed him.

He must have left a shadow in a streetlamp or something because as soon as he got a hand up onto the dumpster below his chosen wall to scramble up, there were three whole new sets of hands grabbing him and yanking him down.

It was a testament to his self-control that he did not murder them all right there, right then.

“Mr. Daredevil!” one of his assailants panted once he’d removed himself from their touch (only mildly violently). “Do you have a minute? We just wanted to talk to you about an opportunity—”

Man, you really knew that capitalism had hit its peak when advertising found you before you found it.

“Fuck off,” Matt snarled at the group before that spiel could reach its conclusion.

A gasp rang out, but not in the right tone.

“You’re perfect,” one of the guys said.

Matt felt his grimace fade.

“You’re wasting my time,” he spat, “There are people in this city that actually need help and you’re—”

“Mr. Daredevil, our company would love to partner with you.”

–sorry, what bullshit had just spewed forth from this woman’s mouth?

“I said, our company would like to partner with you. We’d be willing to pay, of course. But—”

“I need you to stop right there and listen to what you are saying to my face,” Matt said.

There was a pause while these folks presumably made eyes of various shapes and sizes at each other.

“Sir,” the second of the men said, “We are completely aware of what we’re doing and—”

“Perfect,” Matt said. “So you’ll know exactly why I’m telling you to get fucked or I’ll dump your asses into the nearest sewer.”

“—We are seeking to improve both your reputation and our company’s.”

Horseshit.

“And what, praytell, could your company possibly have to offer me?” Matt said.

“Well, we’d like to feature you on our Youtube ads, if I’m honest.”

Matt’s ears were broken or something.

This guy could not have said that shit out loud.

“Doing what?” Matt blurted out incredulously before he could stop himself.

There was a pause.

“Modelling?” the first man in the trio said.

“Modelling,” Matt repeated. He jabbed a finger to at the bruise which he could feel swelling on his face. “Mo-del-ing,” he sounded out slowly for them.

“Oh, no. Well. Some make up’ll fix that right up. No, we’re talking about your teeth, sir,” this bold-ass human being said without a care in the goddamn world.

Matt felt a little like he was being had. He double checked the area for someone with a bulky, camera-like device.

“Are you serious right now?” he finally asked.

“Yes, we are!” the gal of the group said cheerfully. “We work on behalf of Dente-form; our company specializes in orthodontics and cosmetic dental procedures to help people achieve their perfect smiles.”

Matt—

Matt—

Matt kind of wanted to sit down.

“You have some beautiful teeth, Mr. Daredevil,” the woman continued. “If you were willing to be interviewed—don’t worry, we’d give you some lines—and maybe do some action stunts for the camera, our company would be happy to pay you a reasonable sum.”

Dentists??? He was being targeted by dentists now?

Well, fuck man.

“I hate dentists,” he said.

“That’s okay, you wouldn’t need to sit with one of ours,” the guy with the deeper voice said.

Dude.

“Isn’t that false advertising, then?” Matt tried just a smidge desperately.

“Well, maybe. Not really, though. Our dentists could certainly help someone achieve a smile like yours.”

Matt wasn’t smiling, though. He hadn’t been. For any of this interaction.

“Here, why don’t we do this; here’s my card. Think about it and if you change your mind, give me a call and we’ll get you booked right away,” the tall man said, probably grinning away.

Matt didn’t know what else to do. He took the card. The people thanked him. They left.

He then shook the shit out of the card and shouted “What the fuck did I do to deserve this?” at it.

–

[inkblotsonmyhands]

A Second Chance

This idea came to me in a dream and I thought, why not post it to tumblr. Really more so I don’t lose the story, having all my work nearly organised in a blog seems like a good idea. If anyone actually reads this-I apologize for all the clichés  .

Wordcount: 2.6k 

Here we go.

A Second Chance

 When you step outside close to midnight for an angsty stroll, you don’t expect the primary source of said angst to appear right in front of you.  

Yet there she is. Carrie Miller is walking down the road, accompanied by Sam Bennett. Towards me. I can already predict this isn’t going to go well. Every time I even attempt to talk to her, I end up stumbling over all my words and sounding like a complete loser. Sam’s presence is only going to make things worse.

“Ash!”

Sam knows my name? Wow. Who knew. I guess it’s too late to hide now. I make my way towards them.

Sam slaps my arm in greeting. I will never truly understand this element of bro-culture. “Didn’t expect to see you again today. How’s it hangin’, man?”

Again? I guess we saw each other at school, but is it really called ‘seeing’ someone if you pass them in the hallway while they keep their head down and avoid eye contact?

Oh, crap, I’m supposed to be replying to him. “I’m alri—“

A thud sounds somewhere. We all turn to stare at the hedge next to us. It seemed to have come from there.

Sam looks at both of us. “I’m not the only one who heard that, am I?”

We shake our heads. He shivers, rather exaggeratedly. “I’m just real spooked tonight. Everything feels creepy. Anyway,” he turns to Carrie, “Do you know Ash here?”

“You sit next to me in Geography, don’t you?”

The amount of joy I get at my crush knowing I exist is testament to how terrible I am at interacting with her on a daily basis.

“Uh, yeah, I do.”

There we go, that wasn’t completely horrible.

She smiles. Maybe she can tell how nervous I am. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

Sam looks between me and Carrie before suddenly lighting up with a huge grin. Oh no. I’m not that obvious, he can’t possibly know, oh god, what’s he gonna do?

“Well, my curfew’s at midnight and my dad would kill me if I was even a second late, sooo… I gotta get going.” He smirks at me. “See ya later, kids.” He gives a friendly wave before heading off. I weakly wave back. I didn’t expect the school jock to be that… nice. Huh.

Carrie has started walking again, back the way I came. I hasten to join her. A loud rustling noise comes from that hedge near us, and we exchange a vaguely concerned glance.

“So, how do you know Sam Bennett?” Make casual conversation, Ash. You can do this.

“I don’t really know him at all, to be honest.” She fiddles with the bracelets on her wrists. “I just ran into him a while ago, and we were going in the same direction so we started walking together. How do you know him? You don’t seem like the type to know Sam.”

I frown. Not the type to know Sam? So she knows I’m a massive loser. Well. Isn’t that nice to hear.

“I actually-“

She cuts me off, talking rapidly. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, that didn’t come out right. It’s not that you’re boring or anything, just,” she lets out an exasperated sigh, shaking her head and chuckling derisively. “You know, Sam is popular and all and, oh god, I’m making this worse for myself. I’m sorry. I’ll just stop talking.”

I can’t help but smile a little.

“I get it, I’m not the most popular guy,” biggest understatement of the year, “You wouldn’t expect me to know the ‘cool kids’.” I do finger quotes around the words.

“No!” She exclaims. “I didn’t mean it like that, I just-“

“Oh, come off it.” I grin, with a burst of confidence. “You totally meant it like that.”

She shoves my arm. “Shut up!”

This must be the best conversation I’ve ever had with her. I might have even actually managed to flirt a little. And, was I dreaming, or did she flirt back?

There’s something magical about this night. Crickets are chirping, the full moon is shining in the sky. The atmosphere is rather romantic. I glance at her. We’ve descended into a companionable silence as we walk. Maybe now is when I can finally tell her how I feel. It feels easier here, at night, with no one around to see me and judge me for all my failures.

“Carrie,” I gently touch her arm. I can do this. “I wanted to tell you something.”

She looks up at me, expectant.

Distantly, a clock starts chiming somewhere. It’s midnight.

“Oh!” Her head snaps away suddenly. “I didn’t realize how late it was!” She looks apologetic. “Tell me tomorrow, in geography, yeah?” And then she’s crossing the street and walking away, before I can really register what happened. She rounds a corner and that’s it. She’s gone.

And I’m alone in the middle of the street.

So much for romantic.

I kick a rock on the ground and watch it roll away. “Good job there, Ash.” I mutter. I turn around and start walking away from my house again. So much for releasing any of that angst, now I’m feeling almost worse than when I started. Why didn’t I stop her there? If only, when she turned, I had said no, stop, wait. I need to say this, now.

“But I didn’t, did I?” I whisper under my breath. “Ash Cornell, failure extraordinaire. Always needs more time. Always needs a second chance.” I look up at the moon and stars. They’re very bright tonight. “I just need a second chance.”

  A wave of nausea hits me. I stumble, halting in my tracks. I feel dizzy. Everything seems to be spinning. My ears are ringing. What’s happening? The world is spinning so fast that the only thing I can really see is the moon above me. The ringing is getting louder. What the hell? I’m losing it. That must be it. I’m completely losing it.

  And then, as suddenly as that burst of dizziness hit, it’s gone, and I’m standing on the same empty street. It seems almost... noisier than it was before though. Maybe the ringing in my ears hasn’t completely faded away. I feel disoriented.

A car comes zooming down the road, and I hastily jump out of the way, stumbling onto the sidewalk.

“Watch it, kid!” the driver yells.

I shake my head, snapping back to reality. Boy, was that a wakeup call. Okay. I had stepped out for a walk, and I intend to finish that walk. I stride briskly down the road, doing my best to just forget what happened so far tonight. It’s alright. Just take a turn around the Center and then head back home. You didn’t meet Carrie at all. That was just a bad dream.

Up ahead is what we call ‘The Center’, basically a mall and a cinema. I actually live quite close to it, which would be useful if I had any social life at all.

I keep my head down as I walk. I don’t want to run into anyone else tonight. One awkward conversation is enough, thank you very much.

Of course the instant I think that, I slam into someone and nearly fall over.

An arm grabs me and pulls me up before I butt-plant into the concrete.

“Whoa, you okay there, dude? Sorry ‘bout that.” Sam Bennett is looking down at me.

“Uh, it’s okay, no worries.” I manage to stammer out.

“Hey, you go to Pioneer High, don’t you?” he asks. “Austin, is it?”

Didn’t he know my name like twenty minutes ago? This is weird.

“Ashton, actually. Or just Ash.”

“Ah, got ya. You going to see the new Dr. Sleep movie, bro?” he pushes his blonde curls off his forehead. “Man, it was terrifying. I was real pissed at my dad for not letting me go to the midnight show with my basketball team, but man,” he chuckles. “It’s probably better they weren’t there with me, I screamed like a girl at some parts.”

I laugh along with him, because it seems like the polite thing to do, but something in his story throws me off.

“Didn’t let you see the midnight show? Isn’t it like, past midnight?”

“Woah, I would hope not!” He pulls out his phone, glances at the screen, and shows it to me. 11:17 pm. “My dad woulda whooped me if it were past midnight, that’s my curfew.”

His phone says it’s 11:17, and there’s no reason for that to be wrong. But… I’m pretty certain I left home around 11:30, and the clock chimed 12 not too long ago, and didn’t Sam say he had to run because it was nearly midnight when I last met him?

My confusion must be showing on my face. Sam lightly slaps my arm to get my attention.

“You seem to have messed up the time there, pal. How could you think it’s past midnight? You’re like an hour off.”

I shrug, still rather puzzled. He laughs again.

“I’d better get going, then. You said you’re headed to see the movie?”

Oh, I just realized I never really answered his question.

“No, just taking a walk.”

“Ah, enjoy your walk, then. That movie fucked me up, I’m almost afraid to walk home in the dark now.” He chuckles, and I join him, again, because it feels polite. He raises an arm in farewell before walking away.

My mind is reeling though. I was thinking it was a little past midnight, but it’s actually a little past 11 pm. And what had Sam said? ‘You’re like an hour off.’

An hour off.

Did I- no, that isn’t possible.

But then… what was that strange nausea I felt earlier? Something isn’t right. It seems preposterous, but it feels like…like I…

Went back in time?

No. No way.

But… maybe?

I turn around. I can still see Sam’s retreating figure.

Well. Only one way to find out.

I follow him.

   Following someone isn’t as exciting or stealthy as I expected it to be. Really, I’m just… trailing after him while maintaining a decent distance so he won’t hear my footsteps. He puts in some earphones, which only makes my job easier. I’ve gotten quite relaxed when Carrie emerges out of an alley between me and Sam.

Naturally my instinctual reaction to seeing her is diving behind a trash can, making it rattle loudly. Sam jumps and turns abruptly. I desperately hope I’m well hidden else this is going to be very embarrassing.

I can hear their voices. They’re talking to each other. I seize the opportunity to risk peeking out from my hiding place. They’re not facing me anymore. I need to be closer to hear them.

I begin to inch forward, pushing the bin in front of me. I briefly pause to reflect on the fact that I am literally crouched behind a trash can, attempting to sneakily spy on a conversation. Well Ash, there’s the exciting stealth you were hoping for.

“…walking with me, if you’re going this way?” I can make out Sam’s voice. “I feel like this night is noisier than usual and I am fucking terrified.”

Carrie laughs. She has a nice laugh. “Sure, no problem. My parents would probably feel better about me being out so late if they know someone walked me home.”

I can hear their footsteps now, getting fainter as they walk away. I wait until I think they’re far enough, before slowly getting up and beginning to follow them again.

Alright, Ash. This is where all those hours of Assassin’s Creed pay off.

I follow them carefully, pressing up against walls as far as possible. I move a little closer so I can vaguely hear them. They seem to be chatting about school.

It’s been a weird enough night. I’m not entirely sure whether or not I actually went back in time though, or if this was just some crazy flight of imagination. I wouldn’t put it past myself. I do do weird things in an attempt to make my life more interesting. Exhibit A, sneaking behind two of my classmates when I could probably just go over and talk to them.

That’s when I see what’s undoubtedly the strangest thing I’ve seen tonight. Scratch that, this is the strangest thing I’ve seen ever.  

It’s me.

Walking towards Carrie and Sam.

I dive behind the elaborate hedge along the front of somebody’s house. Hopefully the homeowners aren’t awake to see the teenaged guy jumping behind their hedge to hide from two other teenagers... and himself.

This move, however, places me almost right next to Carrie, Sam, and… me. We’re just separated by a hedge. God, this is weird. I can hear us quite clearly.

“…not the only one that heard that, am I?” That’s Sam’s voice. Oh, right, the mysterious thud we heard. What the hell, that thud was me, diving behind a hedge? Looks like I definitely time travelled then, somehow. I give up trying to figure out what is actually happening here.

Sam’s speaking again. “I’m just real spooked tonight. Everything feels creepy. Anyway, do you know Ash here?”

Right, he asked that to Carrie.

“You sit next to me in Geography, don’t you?”

“Uh, yeah, I do.”

And there’s me. Wow, I couldn’t possibly sound any more insecure.

I mostly tune out the rest of their conversation and try my best to remain quiet. At one point I lean too heavily on and nearly fall through the hedge. I know how this goes. Sam leaves after saying he has to get home before curfew. Carrie and I make awkward small talk. I attempt to confess how I feel, and fail completely. She walks away. I wish for a second chance.

A second chance.

My eyes widen. That’s what all this is, isn’t it? A second chance.

I can’t hear us very clearly anymore. Carrie and I have walked some distance away. We’re still talking. I peek above the bushes to watch. I can see myself lightly touch Carrie’s arm. This is it. I’m going to attempt to do it.

The clock strikes midnight. Carrie apologizes before turning to leave and crossing the road. I watch carefully as the other me slowly fades away, until there’s no one there.

Now is my moment. You can do this, Ashton Cornell.

I spring up from behind the bushes and rush onto the street.

“Carrie!”

She turns around, looking at me with a puzzled expression. I walk up to her and take her hands in mine. I look at my feet and take a deep breath.

“This can’t really wait till geography class,” I glance at her. She has an encouraging smile on her face. I breathe in again.

“Carrie, I-I like you. I have for a while now.”

I risk a glance at her again. She’s smiling even wider.

“I know.”

“You know?!”

She laughs. “You aren’t the most subtle, Ash.”

Wow. I guess it’s time to go die of embarrassment, then.

She prods my foot with her toe, making me look at her again.

“Don’t you want to ask me something, then?”

Ask her something? What would I want to ask her? I already told her how I feel; the only thing left to ask is-oh. Oh.

I look at her with wide eyes. She nods gently.

“Uhm, Carrie,” I stand up straighter, squeezing her hands. “Would you like to go out with me sometime?”

She reaches up and kisses my cheek. I just stare at her in shock.

“I’d love to.”

I smile widely, and I can’t help but laugh, and then she’s laughing too, and then we’re just a boy and a girl, holding hands and laughing under a full moon.

I look up at the sky, still grinning. The stars seem to wink down at me. I wink back. I don’t really know what happened, but I’ll keep their secret.

[makeyourownmyth]

best heard in 2019.

As usual, same caveats apply as for other categories, and as in past years, but less so with music, because it’s the only thing that I’m still decently up with. That being said, there are some oldies here, and I reserve that right. 

Songs

Honorable Mentions: Lil Nas X - “Old Town Road,” Pop Smoke - “Welcome to the Party,” and Drake (ft. Rick Ross) “Money in the Grave.” 

They were both huge, and I listened to them plenty, I just don’t happen to think they’re very GOOD.

Anti: I try not to shit on any music that’s put out too much, but the second (?) single from Taylor Swift’s album (which is overall quite good!) “Me!” is terrible.

6. Taylor Swift - “Lover” - I love a lot of this album, but this song can get me feeling terribly emotional.

5. Yola - “Ride Out In the Country” - I forget where I even found this song, but it’s such a jam, such a vibe. 

4. Rocket Summer - “Shatter Us” - A band that I got from a middle school kid almost a decade ago comes back with a “mature” album that had some decent cuts, but none that hit as hard as this. It’s true, and powerful, and something that I never would have appreciated at the time when I loved the band way more than I do now. 

3. Grimes - “We Appreciate Power” - She’s crazy, but this is her at her best. 

2. Local Natives - “When Am I Gonna Lose You” - Loved the album, loved this song the most. Put it on a mix. 

1. Tyler and ASAP Rocky - “Potato Salad” - My favorite song of the year, and also, I think, the best song of the year. These guys are 2 of the best right now, and this found them just having fun. We could use more rap like this. 

Albums

Anti: Again, not trying to talk shit on albums that people loved, taste is subjective, yadda yadda yadda, but these were not for me. Thom Yorke’s Anima, Slowthai’s Nothing Great About Britain, Weyes Blood Titanic Rising, and Bon Iver’s i, i. Nothing more to say about them for me, they just weren’t to my taste. I don’t wanna talk about anything Ye-related.

Honorable Mentions

Helado Negro - This Is How You Smile - This is an incredibly fun time. It’s not on your list and I think it’s right up your alley. 

Cautious Clay - Blood Type - The type of album I’d like to listen to more and more. The type of album I think you’ll really like. A weird mish-mash of styles that we never would have thought worked when we were young, but that tends to dominate my lists nowadays. (Steve Lacy-esque?)

Local Natives - Violet Street - Like I said above, I quite like the album, but I didn’t find myself going back to it. 

Harry Styles - Fine Line - Just came out, has one of my favorite songs of the year on it, but I’m not ready to commit to it yet. 

Freddie Gibbs and Madlib - Bandana - Not as good as their last album, but very good example of older person rap done very well. 

J. Robbins - Unbecoming - More people need to listen to this album. It’s awesome, and small, and deserves more pub. 

Solange - When I Get Home - Almost made the cut to the real list, but that’s just due to peer pressure. I liked it a lot, but I didn’t find myself thinking about it incessantly like some of the albums that I place above it. 

Steve Lacy - Apollo XXI - Really, really, really good. I wish more music like this existed and that it was more popular. It feels exceptionally well crafted, like someone who really knows what they��re doing took a lot of time, and did it well. That being said, very little of it STANDS OUT. 

Marvin Gaye - You’re The Man - I actually think this is where my best of list starts, but I feel like I’d be too much of a poser if I put this on there. I listened to this non-stop and I feel like it’s a really good album that not enough people knew even came out, much less listened to. The backstory of it surely plays into that for me, too, but it stands on its own. 

The National - I Am Easy to Find - Genuinely one of my favorite albums of the year from one of my bands of the decade. I’m aghast that it’s not in my top ten, but I had to limit it to ten to make it some sort of real exercise, otherwise it would have just been a random number, which I’ve definitely done in the past, but hate to do when it’s MORE than ten. Less is fine, but more feels like a cheat. I love this album, though. 

Best of the Year

10. Taylor Swift - Lover - Half of it feels like a pure repudiation of Kanye, but half of it is me knowing that I put 1989 on a list in genuine taste, and knowing that this album is full of pop goodness. It’s fun. There are some significant missteps, like “London Boy” and the “Me!” single that sounds even MORE out of place on the album, but overall, it’s really a sign that she knows what she’s doing. 

9. Danny Brown - U Know What I’m Sayin? - He’s done with his childish stuff, he’s making incredible music, and he’s still one of our greatest rappers. Danny Brown feels like the coolest secret that I somehow know a small bit about, but then I’ll see some mainstream pub on him, too, and I’m like, oh, dope, this guy is SUPER well known, like he should be.  

8. Lana Del Rey - Norman Fucking Rockwell! It’s a solid album. I’m shocked at the number of people who are saying it’s the album of the year, but I’ll honestly say, too, that somewhere around the 3 minute mark on “Venice Beach,” when I was first listening, it gets so fucking good that my jaw literally dropped and I was like, oh, I guess LDR is a real musician now. And from that point on, the album continued in a way that pleased and surprised me. 

7. Clairo - Immunity - This was another one that I thought was AOTY material, but stuff just edged it out, so when I said I thought this was a weak year musically, I guess I was wrong. If I’d had a physical copy of this album, I would have WORN IT OUT. It’s probably my most-listened to album of the year, and I love it the way I loved Alex Lahey’s last album, which means I’ll be slavishly following Clairo for years and years now. No regrets. I think she’s got a HELL of a career ahead of her. Just hearing the first chords of “Alewife” gets me hella choked up. 

6. Jenny Lewis - On the Line - I really think if you kick back with this album you’ll find so much to love. The single was really really bad, but it’s the opposite of Taylor Swift: when it arrives on the album, the sequencing honestly makes it seem as though it fits quite well. 

5. Alex Lahey - The Best of Luck Club - This is my token placement, but also a genuine love letter to how huge I think she’s going to be.  (Or maybe how huge I think she should be, but never will be?) I mean, the songs are heartfelt, and it’s that’s so much of what I want nowadays that I had to put her in the Top 5. 

4. Tyler the Creator - Igor - I actually thought this was my AOTY, so making this list it surprised me how far down it fell, but I think that’s a testament to the others as opposed to a knock on this one? I mean, it’s clearly the best album Tyler’s ever made, and the production on it is even better than could have been expected. The fact that he’s changed so much, but is still operating in the wheelhouse that he created for himself (while it’s still evolving!) is proof of the early genius we saw. 

3. Jamila Woods - Legacy! Legacy! This is a killer album. I think it’s the best one, that you’re most likely to enjoy, that you’re least likely to have listened to. 

2. DJ Shadow - Our Pathetic Age - I disagree with all the critics who call it overlong and a slog to get through the first half to get to the better second half. I think the second half is clearly superior, but I quite like the instrumental side.

1. Billie Eilish - When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go? I knew it’d be my favorite when it dropped and that hasn’t changed as the year has progressed. It’s a weird, weird, weird album, especially when I listen to her old stuff and try to reconcile who she is with who she was and who she will be. But I’m cool with that. I mean, shit, she’s 17 and she’s making great art. Keep it coming!