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pitubea1910 · 4 years ago

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Cold feet

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Featuring: Steve Rogers and Pepper Potts

Words: 1k6

Warning: fluff, a tiny bit of angst, brief mention of domestic violence

Request: -

Tags: -

Notes: a little something that popped in my head today. Hope you like it! Feedback is truly appreaciated :)

Masterlist

To be honest, you never thought you would get married. Growing up and seeing your parents fight every single day, made you stop believing in such thing as ‘true love’, ‘the one’ and ‘forever’. Those remained in the fairy tales.

However, life has a way of proving you wrong. So, there you were, standing in front of the mirror in a white dress, with your hair half up in a beautiful messy but elegant bun. In just an hour you would walking down the aisle, holding onto Tony’s arm, towards the love of your life. James Buchanan Barnes.

It felt like it been a lifetime since you met instead of just a couple of years. You clicked since the beginning and became immediately inseparable. It sounded cliché, but you truly had never felt this way about anyone else. Of course you had ex boyfriends, but none of them had ever made you feel like you could reach the sky just with his touch.

You knew he was special when you first met him, but you never thought he would be so special. And yet, when he proposed a year ago, you were terrified. Memories of your childhood, of your parents fighting every minute of every day, of your dad hitting your mm and attempting to hit you flooded your mind. But you knew Bucky. You knew he wasn’t that person. He was kind, loving, funny and, most important, you loved him with every beat of your heart. You said yes.

“You look beautiful”, you looked at the door and smiled when Pepper walked in.

Tony and Pepper had welcomed you in into their home. Pepper had been really close to your mum so, when she passed, she immediately invited you to move in with them. She had been like a mother all these years and Tony, as unpredictable as he was, had been like a father. If it wasn’t for them, you probably would have never met your future husband.

“I think I’m going to throw up”, you admitted when she closed the door. She chuckled and shook her head.

“You will be fine. Everything will be fine”, she said.

“Everything is ready?” You asked.

“Everything is ready”, she nodded.

You took a deep breath and nodded before walking to one of the windows. From there, you would see the backyard of the manor that Tony had rented. It was in the middle of the woods, two hours away from the city.

At first, you and Bucky considered getting married in the city, but you decided that you wanted all the privacy you could get and you wanted quiet instead of the noise of the city, you wanted nature, you wanted peace. And that’s what you got.

There weren’t a lot of guests since you both wanted a private ceremony. It would be just the team and family. That was all you wanted and needed. You smiled a little when you saw Peter and Happy walking around the backyard while the staff finished getting everything ready. It was happening. You turned around to face Pepper and it surprised you to see tears in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” You asked suddenly worried, walking over her.

“Nothing”, she said shaking your head. “I was just thinking about your mum.”

You smiled a little and took her hands, squeezing them a little. You had been thinking about your mum for the past few days way more than usual. She had died five years ago and every single day there was something you would like to talk to her about. Today, all you wanted was for her to walk you down the aisle. However, you knew she was with you somehow.

“I miss her too”, you said in a whisper, not really trusting your own voice.

“She would be so proud of you, you know?” She said.

“Stop talking, please”, you chuckled as soon as you felt yourself tear up. “I really don’t want to go through make up again.”

Pepper laughed and nodded before pulling you in for a hug. You were so glad you had her. Just then, there was a knock on the door, so you pulled away.

“Come in!” You said while Pepper carefully rubbed her tears away.

Steve opened the door and walked in. He looked incredibly handsome in that black suit but, to be honest, it only made you think how Bucky would look.

“Hey there”, you smiled and walked over to give him a quick hug, carefully so you wouldn’t wrinkle your dress. “How’s Bucky?” You asked.

Instead of answering straight away, Steve looked at Pepper, which made you suspicious.

“What is it?” You asked.

“He is… a bit nervous”, he said. You narrowed your eyes.

“Define ‘a bit’”, you said.

Steve sighed and looked at you. Luckily, you knew him well enough so he didn’t have to say anything else. Bucky was terrified and getting cold feet. With a sigh, you walked over the door.

“Wait, where are you going?” Steve asked.

“To talk to him”, you said.

“You’re not supposed to see him before the wedding”, Pepper said.

“And what do you want me to do? Let him freak out?” You asked raising both eyebrows.

“I can talk to him”, Steve suggested.

“And what have you been doing until now?” You asked. He didn’t reply. “Exactly. Steve, I know you’re his best friend but we all know that I am the only one who truly can calm him down. So I don’t care about traditions or superstitions. Bucky needs me.”

Before any of them could say anything else, you opened the door and walked out of the room. You knew Bucky’s room was on the other side of the manor and you didn’t have much time. Your wedding was in 45 minutes.

Just a few moments later, you were knocking on Bucky’s door and looking around the corridor. You were surprised no one had seen you, but they were all probably finishing getting ready or already outside. Come in, you heard from the inside. Immediately, you opened the door and walked in.

You looked around the room –that looked a lot like yours- to find Bucky sitting next to the window, looking down at the floor, his leg bouncing up and down. He looked up and froze when he saw you, his leg stopped in a second and he got up, looking at you up and down, taking you in.

“You…” he mumbled.

He looked even hotter than what you expected. It had taken you a few weeks, but all the fighting had been completely worth it: Bucky in a tuxedo was breath taking.

In a couple of seconds, he came out of his trance and turned his back to you.

“What are you doing here? It’s bad luck to see each other before the wedding”, he said. You rolled your eyes and walked over to him, making him face you.

“You chose a bad time to become superstitious, Barnes”, you said. “Steve told me you were nervous so here I am.”

Bucky sighed and looked away, nibbling on his lower lip. It was a habit that always made you smile. Maybe because it made an enhanced super soldier looks more human than ever and it was one of the parts of him that you loved the most. Softly, you placed a hand on his cheek so he would look at you again.

“Talk to me”, you said. He took a deep breath and leaned against your hand.

“What if it doesn’t work?” He asked.

“Why wouldn’t it work?” You asked.

“I don’t know”, he shook his head. “But… what if I mess up? What if I do something terrible, unforgivable, what if you hate me? What if you regret this and you resent me for the rest of your life? What if I’m not cut out to be a husband or, more importantly, your husband? What if I’m-“

The only way you knew of shutting him up was kissing him and so you did. Bucky immediately closed his eyes and pulled you closer by your waist. When you pulled away, he let out a shaky breath while resting his forehead on yours.

“Take a deep breath”, you told him. It took him a few seconds, but he finally inhaled and exhaled slowly, still not letting you go. “Now look at me”, he opened his eyes and you smiled at him. “We are going to be okay, Bucks”, you said.

“How do you know it?” He asked.

“Because I know us”, you shrugged. “I know all the things you’ve done, I’ve seen you at your worst and you’ve seen me at my worst and here we are. Still loving each other beyond comprehension. I know we won’t regret this because every single day I wake up, I chose you, I chose to love you, I chose to spend my life with you and I wouldn’t want it any other way, because you are my life, Bucky. And about being a husband, well…” you shrugged. “Look at me, I’m not exactly wife material. But I say we work it out as it comes. What do you think?” You asked.

Bucky smiled and pulled you in for a tight hug. You hugged him back, slowly rubbing his back in a comforting way. Then, there was a knock on the door and you both looked at it to see Steve’s head peeking inside.

“Everything okay?” He asked.

You looked at Bucky, searching for an answer. His eyes met yours and he smiled again before nodding and pecking your lips softly.

“Everything okay”, Bucky affirmed.

“Then it’s time for you to go down, pal”, Steve said with a warm smile.

“Then I better go” you said, your heart suddenly beating faster.

“Hey”, Bucky said when you were almost at the door. You turned to look at him. This time, he had a huge smile on his face. “You look gorgeous”, he said with a wink.

“It was about time you said it”, you winked back and left the room.

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sestra-inestro · 5 years ago

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Part of the Team (1/?)

Miniseries for @mushyjellybeans writing challenge. Hope you enjoy it!

Prompt: “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you had just listened to me!”

Pairings: fem!reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Reader is part of a private investigation that is kept secret from the Avengers. Instead, they believe she took a bribe. Isolated for two years as the investigation comes to an end, reader is awarded a Medal of Honor and the team realises their mistake, but it might just be too late.

Warnings: Angst, violence, isolation and harsh treatment. Re-uploading because I don’t know what tumblr did to the original one.

Series Masterlist

You stood in the small room you had been moved to in your moment of exile. The team hadn’t shown up to the award ceremony, much expected. They had been bitter towards you for a whole two years now, you didn’t expect them to suddenly change their minds.

The empty shelves and the and the stripped bare bed showed no signs of you living inside anymore.

You clutched the medal you had been granted in your hand, the cold of the metal screaming at you that you had done the right thing and that they were wrong, but now you felt lonely as ever.

What had turned into you witnessing an event with an undercover agent, had looked to the team like you were accepting a bribe and turning a blind eye. Since then you were stuck in an investigation that had to stay secret from the team, so you had to take their nastiness in the chin. The worst was when Nat broke up with you. The disgust on her face when she saw you turn away from that agent in the middle of a fight had stained your memory.

Now that was the only look she gave you when she acknowledged you.

But your secrecy was to keep the team safe. It was for the best.

Fury had forced you to keep your mouth shut. Reading the file on the agent had given you some insight into what exactly was being investigated and now you were hyper-aware.

Walking into the common kitchen, eyes followed you.

“He didn’t kick you off?” Tony asked incredulously.

You looked to him and took in the looks you were being given.

“No, only a warning.” You said lowly as you opened the fridge.

Clint scoffed at your answer. “If I had my way, you’d be off and shipped right now.”

“But you don’t.” Steve butted in. He disapproved and was cold, but he didn’t act out like the rest. “So we just had to soldier on and make the best of the situation.”

You looked down at his words. Great, now you were a situation.

You snatched water from the fridge and quickly made your way out of the room, they watched you exit with shame.

You wanted to tell Natasha. You had to.

Making your way up to her room, you racked your brain of ways to deal with this whole situation. As soon as you got to her door, it swung open.

Her eyes looked at you with disgust and disbelief.

“What do you want?” Venom laced her voice.

“I need to talk to you.” You tried to sound like you weren’t begging.

“There’s nothing for us to talk about.”

“Yes, there is Natasha. Please just listen to me-“ You begged but she cut you off.

“No! I don’t want to listen to you.” She raised her voice to yell at you. “I can’t believe you would do something like that.”

“It’s not what you think Nat!”

“I watched you shake his hand and let him go, June! You can’t tell me that you didn’t let the enemy go and screwed up our whole mission.” You could, in fact, tell her that. But it was going to be hard.

“You disgust me.” Her words cut you deeply. The look in her eyes salted your wounds.

“Nat...” You tried.

“No. This,” She gestured between you and herself. “Whatever we had is over.”

Their resentment wasn’t the worst of it. They destroyed you in training, and eventually, you stopped training with them together. They had turned into a team of bullies, you thought it was childish, but you couldn’t blame them because of the unknown.

You had been trying to be nice to every member in the building. Going out of your way to getting stuff, smiling if they looked in your direction, helping them if they struggled or just trying to start a conversation. But nothing was working.

Walking down the corridor of the tower you had your nose buried into the StarkPad in your hands. Hearing another set of footsteps, you looked up to see a sweaty Bucky coming but from the gym. Making eye contact you pulled your lips into the sweetest smile you could muster, he was never one to be bluntly rude to someone since joining the team. But as you kept your smile and got closer to him, he passed you with a glare and a hard thump of the shoulder, causing you to grunt, stagger and drop the StarkPad. Steadying yourself, you looked down at the broken device. Great, another reason for Stark to hate you. You looked back at Bucky as he walked away from you, not a second glance in your direction. That was when you really started to feel unwanted and disconnected.

The training was the worst. They either excluded you altogether or targeted you. Each blow they gave, you took with pride. One day they would know the truth and everything would be okay.

“June, you’re up.” Steve’s voice picked your attention away from the exercise you were doing. Seeing Natasha on the sparring mat, sweaty and flustered gave you a wave of anxiety.

“June, let’s go!” Steve hurried you.

You left your stuff at that end of the room and you slowly made your way to where Nat was standing and waiting.

You were good at hand-to-hand combat, but you definitely weren’t the best. You did better with weapons and guns. There was no way you could beat anyone on the hand during a sparring session. Especially Nat.

You eyed her carefully as she watched your approach.

“What? Think you’re too good to train with the rest of us now?”

You didn’t answer her back. You stepped onto the mat and got into position. Hopefully, this would be quick.

“Go easy and be fair,” Steve warned both of you before stepping off the mat.

Nat gave no time for Steve to say go before she lunged at you. She was a blur before your eyes but you managed to dodge her. Stumbling back a bit, she took that chance to swipe your legs out from under you. You hit the mat with a grunt and a clap sounded through the gym.

Nat stepped back to her place at the mat and you groaned as you lifted yourself up. Steve watched you as you repositioned yourself.

You were starting to regret training with them, but you had to show them that you weren’t going to let them down anymore.

Nat huffed as she watched you get into a defensive stance and rolled her eyes. You had gotten used to that reaction from her, but it still hurt.

“Alright, go again.” Steve said.

He clapped again and this time, she didn’t lunge. She kept her glare trained on you as she shuffled towards you on her toes.

She took a jab at your face and you deflected but as you did, she went for your ribs, which you weren’t fast enough to dodge. While it caused you to struggle as you crunched forward and groaned, Nat kicked back one of your legs and wrapped her arm around yours. She pushed you to the mat face down her arm pulling yours back between your shoulder blades, you straining against her grip.

“Nat,” You struggled in the position she had you in. One sudden movement and your elbow was done for.

“Tap out.” She spat.

Fuck this, this was not worth it. You twisted your arm and flipped yourself up, causing her to roll backward. You felt a burn run up your arm as your muscles strained at the odd movement but you fought against it.

Expecting her to lunge at you, you lifted your arms in defense to suddenly feel a sharp piercing pain in your upper arm. Yelping out, you jumped back and away from her. Your yelp was followed by a silence throughout the gym as you looked down at your arm to see a tiny knife had been lodged into you.

Blood slowly started to seep through the wound and a tiny drop of blood trailed down your arm.

Shakily, your hand grasped the handle of the knife and you gently pull it out of your arm. You look back in at Nat with shaky breaths. She looked uncertain like she was deciding if she regretted throwing her knife at you, or if you were going to throw it back at her.

You understood now. They hated you. The hint was finally taken. She actually threw her knife at you, made you bleed.

You looked around the gym to see the same look on the rest of the teams’ faces.

“That’s enough.” Fury’s voice came from the entrance of the gym. “June.” He called to you.

Staring into Nat’s eyes, you dropped the knife to the floor where you stood. You turned, walking to where you had left your stuff, gathered it in your arms and headed out of the gym, Fury stepping aside to let you out before following you.

That was the last time you trained with them or spoke to them.

“You’re leaving?” Nat’s voice pulled you from your memories. You turned to the door, seeing her standing just inside the doorway.

“Yes.” Your reply was short.

Nat took a deep breath. She had only just received a notification of the award ceremony and missed it by an hour.

“You don’t have to go.” Her voice was small like she didn’t want to crack the calm exterior you were putting on.

“I handed in my resignation letter two weeks ago.” You say to her, turning back to the medal that sat in your hand. “I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

Nat sighed. “June, please.” She stepped forward to you. A couple of years ago, the roles were reversed. “We didn’t know.”

“But you would have.” You turned to completely face her. “I tried to tell you the minute Fury finished telling me. But you wouldn’t listen, you just slammed the door in my face.”

Nat looked at you with sad eyes. Her chest caved in with the heavy guilt as she watched you. “For years the whole team has treated me like shit. You had no lesser part in that. I tried my hardest. In fact, we wouldn’t be having this conversation if you had just listened.”

“I’m sorry.” Nat’s voice was almost a whisper.

“Yeah,” You tossed the metal onto the bed. “I’m sorry too.”

You reached for your bag and pushed passed her. She watched as you walked away from her, all the harsh memories of the past two years flooding her brain and the pain in her chest expanded with every step you took.

You packed up your stuff into your car and made a rest stop at the bar. Sitting solemnly at the bar all by yourself with a bourbon in your hand.

This is where you were meant to celebrate with people after the ceremony. But you chose to come later when you expected no one to be there and you were right. No one you knew had shown their face and you were glad in a way. Though, you had never felt more lonely.

“Congratulations.” Fury’s voice came from beside you as he took a seat.

Without looking at him, you have a quick upturn of your lips before it was gone again. “Thanks.” You said, looking down at your drink.

“I know that this doesn’t feel like a whole lot, but you save a lot of people and helped in a major investigation that you weren’t even meant to be a part of.” He nudged your shoulder with his. “You did good. You deserve that medal.”

You didn’t know how to respond to him. You knew that this how the situation would turn the team against you. You just didn’t count on them being as mean as they were. You couldn’t blame them, but you would never feel truly a part of the team again. And the medal didn’t make it feel worth it.

“I’m not forcing you to stay, I could never. All I am saying is that they will understand now, and you will always be welcome back.” He finished his talk and got up from his seat, fishing through his pocket for some cash and placing it in front of you. “Free drinks for the hero.” Fury patter your shoulder before leaving you to your thoughts.

Tears sprang to your eyes as the emotions swirled in your chest. Hero. If you were a hero now, then why didn’t you feel like one? After two whole years, you now felt the bitterness. Bitterness towards the team, towards the investigation, towards that stupid undercover agent who was dumb enough to get himself caught and forced to reveal himself, and towards the medal that burned in your hand the first time you touched it and you were glad you’d left it behind.

“Fuck this.” You mumbled. You downed the rest of your drink and set the glass down. Getting up from your seat at the bar you made your way and fished in your pocket for your keys. You were done with this place and wanted to move on.

As if more things could hold you back, when you pushed open the bar door, you came face-to-face with the rest of the team. They were making their way into the bar to congratulate you. Steve and Bucky held bouquets of flowers and Tony and Wanda held what seemed to be gift bags.

You took their image in, a lump in your throat forming again and tears made their way to your eyes.

“We heard that you were leaving?” Tony asked you.

“You heard right.” You cleared your throat. “Please don’t try to convince me otherwise, this is already hard enough.”

“We’re sorry.” Steve said, his eyes sad.

“I know.” You looked down to the ground. “But it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Of course it matters, June.” Clint said sternly. “We didn’t know anything but-“

“So let it be then! It’s not your guys’ fault that you didn’t know.” You cut him off and raised your voice. “This was all just a big misunderstanding and nothing can change that.”

The team fell silent. You didn’t want their apologies, you hated the fact that they had to give them to you. You knew it was cowardly but you just wanted to run away.

A crack of thunder rose in the sky and lightning beamed down, signally Thor’s arrival.

Great, you inwardly rolled your eyes.

“June!” The God bellowed cheerfully. “I’ve heard of your success and have come to celebrate in a feast and drinks!” He patted you on the back.

He had been gone for the last two years, of course he wouldn’t know anything about what went down.

Thor’s words were met with silence and tension, which confused him. “I’ve missed something...” He said in a soft voice.

You finally turned to face him and sighed. “Yeah, a bit.”

You glanced back at the team and then back to Thor and gave him the best smile you could. “Thank you, so much. But I’m leaving, I’m being transferred to another agency.”

Thor’s frown deepened as you patted his shoulder and pushed passed him.

You looked over your shoulder to them. “See you around.”

They watched as you climbed into your car and drove out of the bar parking lot. Thor turned to the team and saw the stuff they were holding.

“What has happened?”

#fem!reader x natasha #reader x natasha #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romaoff angst #natasha romanoff smut #tony stark #avengers angst #steve rogers angst #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x reader #avengers x reader #mushyjellybeans 250 writing challenge #fem!reader #ems250challenge

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pi-cat000 · 4 years ago

Text

BNHA: something sad (Anger)

Summary: The last time Katsuki sees Izuku alive the other boy is rushing to save him. A ‘the Sludge Villain incident gone wrong’ AU.

Katsuki gets the worst sort of wake up call, takes a look at himself, and doesn’t like what he sees.

Characters: Katsuki Bakugo

Fandom: My Hero Academia

WARNINGS: Major Character death (mentioned but not described). Swearing. heavy angst. destructive behaviour.

(Follow up part here)

...

(Anger- In which Katsuki does not handle tragedy well and implodes)

“Katsuki, son, you should come inside.”

Katsuki barely feels the soft touch of a hand on his shoulders as his father attempts to guide him over the threshold. He remains in place, glaring at the older man, unwilling to move. His father sighs and gives up on trying to move him, instead talking over his head, addressing the police officer behind him.

“Where did you find him this time?”

“The park down the road. We had reports of a kid setting off explosives with multiple noise complaints from the nearby apartments...” The sound of the conversation washes over him, muffled in his growing irritation. He feels that familiar burning anger ignite, fuelling his resentment. “...repeated unlicensed quirk use can lead to time in a juvenile quirk correction facility.”

“We’re sorry for the disruption officer,” his father dips his head, “We’ll keep a better eye on him from now on.”

“See that you do. Next time, he’ll be taking a trip to the station. I would hate to see a kid with so much potential...”

“What fucking potential!” Katsuki snarls, whipping around to glare at the officer behind him. Bitterness curdles in his stomach, exasperated by the expression of disappointment directed his way. What right did this stranger have to look at him like that! He looked at Katsuki like he wasn’t living up to expectations!

“You don’t know a thing about me!”

“Katsuki,” His father tries to interrupt.

“Why the fuck….

“Katsuki.” This time the interruption is louder, hash, “That’s enough.”

He scowls, shoving past his father, shrugging away from the comforting hand as he goes, “I’ll be in my room, don’t come in.”

He stomps through the living room and down the hallway, sparks running up and down his arms. If his mum were home she might have yelled at loud his entrance, telling him to stop with the racket. She would probably have had some choice words to say about the police escort as well. She wasn’t home. She wouldn’t be home till later, having spent most of her afternoon with Aunt Inko.

Before he can get to his room, he catches his father’s tired voice as he continues his conversation with the officer.

“…still processing the death of a friend. He’s going through a rough patch...thank you for your leniency.”

He slams the door with enough force that it rattles the wall. With his back against the frame, he clenches and unclenches his fist, breathing hard.

Friend? FRIEND! HA!

Deku had never been his friend. Or rather, he had never been Deku’s friend. Deku had probably seen him as a friend, always following him around, whinging when he got too rough with other kids. The quirkless idiot had always been trying to help when Katsuki didn’t need help! He had never needed Deku!

He smashes a fist into his desk and the wood creeks, splintering but holding together. There are more sparks and the pop, pop, pop of tiny explosions. The computer barely escapes his next attack which sees the desk cracking, his books and pens crashing to the floor.

“Damnit.”

If he wasn’t Deku’s friend, then why was he so angry! He couldn’t think. He couldn’t sleep. All he could do was feel angry. Burning directionless anger that ate at him, leaving him hollow. It followed him through his every waking moment. Inescapable and all-consuming.

“DAMNIT!”

…

School is a chore. It’s boring. Long. Tiresome. Pointless. The other kids were either idiots, dragging out simple lessons into weeklong ordeals, or so pathetic they never grasped the concepts at all. This is nothing new. School had always been boring and full of pathetic extras. For the longest time, school to Katsuki had been nothing more than a stepping stone on his way to greatness. Now it wasn’t even that.

He taps a single, impatient finger against his desk, glaring at the clock as it slowly ate away at the seconds left in the day.

“Bakugo.”

He deliberately ignores the teacher’s attempt to get his attention. It wasn’t like he was going to get in trouble for the behaviour. She would simply shake her head, humouring his poor attitude like it wasn’t a huge fucking problem. Sometimes Katsuki wondered if he didn’t have some second quirk that projected an invisible bullshit shield, preventing others from seeing what a failure he was.

Today, the call is followed up by another, more insistent one.

“Bakugo.”

He tears his eyes from the clock.

“You’re being called to the principal’s office.”

“Huh?” he drawls.

“You must not have heard the announcement,” his teacher explains, her expression apologetic, “It was over the intercom so you better hurry.” By now, every eye in the class is on him, waiting for his reaction. The pathetic extras on either side of him are even leaning ever so slightly to the side like they expect him to blow his top any moment.

“Whatever.” He stands, ignoring the wave of whispers that run through the class in hissed voices. When he steps through the door the voices get a bit louder, so loud that the teacher needs to call them to order, “Settle down. Now if you would turn your attention to this next question.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets and stalks down the hall to his destination. When he arrives at the door he lifts a leg and kicks so it jumps open and smacks into the wall with a loud CRACK. The sudden action has both his principal, Mr Fukuhara, and that woman representing the district’s Careers Board-he can’t remember her name- startling.

“You called?”

They are both seated on the low couches placed at the front of the room adjacent to the principal’s desk. The only times he has been allowed to sit on these couches were during parent/teacher meetings.

“Ah, yes Bakugo,” Mr Fukuhara straightens his tie, recovering first, “Please take a seat.”

Katsuki slouches onto the closet couch opposite them, listening to the principal ramble his way through a greeting, “Now, we tried to have your parents come in but they were both unfortunately busy. Nevertheless, this is an important conversation to be hand and we want you to understand that the school is dedicated to….”

He exhales, cutting off the diatribe, “Am I in trouble.”

“No. No trouble. Though this does involve your recent behaviour.”

Of course, he wasn’t in trouble. He curls one hand into a fist, familiar anger beginning to bubble up, increasing in intensity.

“We received your revised high school submission forms,” Ms Career Advice starts, “and we think there has been a mistake. We want to clear it up as quickly as possible.”

So that is what this meeting was about.

“What mistake?” He grunts even when he knows precisely what they’re talking about.

“It says here that you're applying to Aldera Senior High.”

“Yeah, 80% of the losers in this shit hole are going Aldera Senior High. What’s the problem?”

The two adults exchange a meaningful glance. For a brief second, he thinks he might get told off for swearing. No such luck. Mr Fukuhara simply sighs and continues like Katsuki hadn’t said anything.

“We were under the impression that you would be applying to U.A.? You have it written on your original submission forms.”

“So what. I’m not allowed to change my mind? U.A. is a selective school…I’m just being realistic.” The words feel like ash in his mouth. Hadn’t he said something similar to Deku not too long ago?

“Your academic performance is more than high enough to qualify and with your quirk…”

He slams his clenched fist into the arm of the couch, cutting the woman off. There is an audible pop, pop around his hands, made loud in the sudden silence. God, would people shut up about is quirk for one second! Both adults pause, expressions a mix of worried and concerned. He hates it. He hates them.

“I got a zero on my last test,” he snaps, “My average sucks now. I’m just like the rest of the extras here.”

“Yes, well, there were extenuating circumstances in that case. When looking at your academic history overall you’re dedication is obvious,” another pause, “even in the unlikely event that you did not get into U.A. there are plenty of other, top-rate schools that you can apply to as backups.”

Katsuki doesn’t bother responding, opting instead to stand. They weren’t going to listen so there was no point in him being here.

“Bakugo please sit back down.” Fukuhara stands as well, voice now stern, “This is an important conversation. You can’t just walk away.”

“Watch me.” He turns towards the door but before he can move there is the lighter touch of a hand at his elbow.

“I understand that you have taken recent…events…rather hard,” says Ms Career Advice and her voice is softer, more sympathetic, addressing him like he is some startled child, “but you need to think about your future. Don’t throw away this opportunity out of some misplaced guilt…”

“I’m not fucking going to U.A.!”

He jerks his arm away, glaring over his shoulder, trying to force some of the fire burning in his chest into his eyes. It must have worked because the woman immediately stops talking, drawing away.

“How much shit do I have to pull for you morons to get that through your thick skulls,” he growls as he stalks out of the room, the two adults rushing to follow.

“…see… councillor…talk …. your parents. This sort of self-destructive…” The words wash over him as he continues down the hall.

Katsuki doesn’t bother returning to class, opting to ditch and leave the idiots and their bullshit behind. He is too angry to concentrate anyway. Until now he has had a perfect attendance record, always meticulous in his show of dedication.

And that’s all it really was wasn’t it…a show. None of that shit mattered now.

Hands in his pockets, Katsuki wonders aimlessly down the sidewalk, through side streets, jacket to his uniform thrown over his shoulder so he doesn’t overheat under the hot summer sun. At least out here, he is free to be as angry as he liked without people nagging him. He could glare all he wanted at the cracked pavement and it wouldn’t burst into tears. Maybe, he will go blow up some trees in a local park and the police would finally come through on their threat to take him in to the station. It’s tempting…very tempting.

It would have to be somewhere without people-harder to find on such a nice day- because as much as he wanted, needed, to blow shit up, he didn’t want to injure anyone…

Now you grow conscious… too little too late....the treacherous part of his mind hisses. The thought feeds his anger like gasoline on an open flame.

(Follow up part here)

#bnha #bnha fanfic #katsuki bakugō #heavy angst #coarse language #swearing #major character death #bakugo suffers #bakugo his sad and angry #that's it that's the fic #fanfiction #my hero academia #something sad au

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goulets · 4 years ago

Text

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.”

***

#jaydick #reposting this initial chapter from 8 years ago bc the other one's formatting got all screwed up #we are back at it again though #my fics #heartlandverse #forgot to put this in the description but the word count for this chapter is 6000

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tiny-maus-boots · 4 years ago

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Queen of Hearts pt 10

10. Stacked Deck

“You’re really alright?”

Stacie smiled and dipped her head in a slight nod. The last few hours of her life had been a rollercoaster of unexpected emotions and events but by far the most unexpected was this. Helene gave her daughter’s arm a gentle squeeze before hesitatingly pulling her into an awkward but heartfelt embrace. It was the first in a long time that actually felt…unscripted.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Really.” It wasn’t the ideal introduction to her life that she’d wanted for her mother but it was what it was. Stacie shook her head a little and pulled back so she could look her mother in the eye. “We’re going to be fine.”

“I wasn’t asking about Aubrey.” There was a decidedly crisp tone there, shattering the tender hope that maybe things might be okay and Stacie felt the muscles in her back tighten in anticipation of what was coming. Her arms dropped away in from the short-lived hug. “Aubrey is not my child. You are.”

“No but she’s a part of my life and she’s going to be my wife, mom.” Stacie sighed and shook her head realizing that to continue would only bring a fight she didn’t have the energy for. Especially when all she wanted to do was go home with Aubrey and find out what happened. “You know what…never mind. Thank you for your concern but you don’t need to worry about it.”

She started to turn back to get in the car when Helene pulled her back with a desperate grasp. “Wait…”

“For what? I know how you feel already.”

“No, you do not. That has always been your problem Anastacia, you are so brilliant and observant that you think you know everything! Admittedly, you’re correct an irritating amount of the time but you do not know everything. Don’t presume to know what even I do not.”

Helene took a breath and settled her posture in a camera-ready pose. It was a habit so deeply ingrained that she doubted her mother was aware of it. She gave a nod of apology and Helene let the rigidity of her spine relax.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re worried about me but…”

“I don’t have to be. Yes. You’ve said.” The older woman took a step forward and sighed softly. “I came looking for insight into your life. That old adage of be careful what you wish for suddenly rings truer than ever before.”

Stacie chuckled and nodded her head. “Yeah. Today was a lot. Thank you for coming with me to the station. It meant a lot to me that you were there. Maybe I don’t know how you feel about things but I know what all this looks like.”

Silence swallowed them up as her mom considered her next words. “It looks to me that you care about Aubrey very much.”

“I do.”

“It also looks like she cares very deeply for your happiness.” Her head came up quickly in question but Helene gave no further explanation as she went on. “Politically speaking this could ruin your father’s career and standing within the party.”

“Spoken like the wife of a Senator.”

A small smile graced Helene’s face making her eyes soften. “Speaking as a mother…I worry that this life will put you in physical danger.” Stacie’s brows came up and she opened her mouth to speak but Helene raised a hand to stop her from saying what they both already knew. “I know. Perhaps too little, too late. What I am saying is that…I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. I failed you in many ways Anastacia, I don’t want to fail you again.”

Oh. It was hard to hear that, perhaps because she’d always wanted to hear some kind of acknowledgment that her mother ever cared about her at all. She’d been holding on to a resentment knowing this moment would never come, so sure that her mother had given up all real maternal feelings for her the moment the umbilical cord had been cut. And now she didn’t know what to do with the feelings she never thought she’d have to let go. It was going to take her some time to unpack all of that and process it.

“Can you be happy for me?”

It was the only question that actually mattered at the moment. What she needed from her mom wasn’t a protector. Not anymore anyway. What she needed was support. Some kind of affirmation that no matter what her mom would be a part of her life even if some aspects of it caused her to worry.

“Will it undo our tentative truce if I say I’m trying?”

Stacie smiled and wrapped her arms around her mom in a tight hug. It wasn’t a rousing yes, and she didn’t expect it to be. But it was honest and real and that was enough for her. Helene stiffened for a second then retuned the hug with a gentle squeeze. It wasn’t totally okay and they both knew that. Life wasn’t a sitcom where differences were resolved with a heartwarming hug and a cued laugh track. But there was a new understanding between them. Maybe now they could start rebuilding the bridge they burnt down so many years before.

An hour and a half later she was still replaying the conversation in her head. Aubrey unlocked the door and pushed it open before glancing inside and stepping in. Stacie was right on her heels, lost in thought and unprepared for the arm that shot out across her chest to keep her from walking in further. Keen green eyes searched the interior of the entry as she reached to the small of her back and pulled her gun from its holster.

“Stay close.”

Stacie nodded and placed a hand on Aubrey’s back, following her in past the stairs and into the living room. The blonde stopped abruptly with a growl and put her gun away before stepping into the entrance of the large room. Stacie edged behind her fiancée and poked her head around the other woman’s shoulder only to see Detective Mitchell in all her smirky glory lounging on Aubrey’s white leather couch with her motorcycle boots propped up on the glass topped coffee table.

“Hey, Daddy. How was the pokey?”

“I swear to Christ, Mitchell…one of these days I’m going to shoot you. Get your damn feet off my table.”

Detective Mitchell grinned widely and lowered her feet to the ground. “Sorry. You’ll be happy to know that your lawyer filed a restraining order against our department but I don’t know if that will stop the Feds.” Aubrey nodded and moved to the mini bar to pour them all a drink. “Water for me, thanks.”

Stacie and Aubrey looked at each other in surprise then glanced at the small brunette. Aubrey shrugged and grabbed three bottles of water from the mini fridge. Had it been anyone else neither of them would have batted an eye at the request but it was Beca. She never turned down a drink.

“How did Agent Esposito take the news that LAPD is backing off?”

Beca took the water bottle and shrugged. “Well I’m pretty sure she’s possessed cause her head almost started spinning.” She took a sip of her water still smiling at the memory. “But I don’t know, Posen, we’re missing a beat somewhere. I talked to my guy at the Bureau and he seemed to think you’re just some low-level capo. I don’t think they were looking at you seriously.”

While she appreciated the visual, Stacie didn’t think Alice’s tantrum meant anything but more trouble despite Beca’s assessment of the FBI’s interest. Aubrey seemed to think so too because she nodded and settled herself on the couch next to the detective. “She’s like a dog with a bone. She’s not going to let this go if the Feds can really pull together a case.”

Stacie frowned at that as she settled into a chair. “How can they have a case, no one knows anything and Weston is dead.”

Aubrey sighed deeply and leaned forward so her elbows rested on her knees. “They have images of me boarding Whitman’s boat. It’s not enough but it gives them wiggle room to try and find something else.”

She knew there had to be something; they wouldn’t have pulled Aubrey in if there wasn’t. But Stacie hadn’t been prepared for actual hard evidence. It left her struggling to figure out how that fit in with their life and future plans. Detective Mitchell gave a low whistle and shook her head.

“It’s bad yeah, but not the worst. Circumstantial at best and I’ve seen street thugs get out with more on them than that.” There was a bitter edge to Mitchell’s voice as she stood and headed for the door. “I’ll see if I can find out exactly what they have on you. Not that I can do anything about it but at least it gives you a place to start cleaning up.”

“Something bigger is going on, it feels like a stacked deck. Watch your ass, Bec.”

“See, Daddy? I knew you liked me.”

“Gun is still loaded, Mitchell. Call me Daddy one more time and see what happens.”

Stacie watched the detective smirk and make her way to the door in the kitchen to sneak off the property. The second the door shut she turned her gaze on Aubrey. The other woman had a faraway look as she pondered everything she had learned that day. The brunette moved from the chair to straddle her fiancée’s lap.

“You weren’t kidding about what our life could be like.”

Aubrey searched her face for a long time and Stacie suspected she was looking for any sign that this was going to break them. Stacie smiled gently and smoothed the wrinkle of worry in the blonde’s brow. This was new and a little bit scary but it wasn’t even close to changing how she felt about the other woman or any of her plans to get married.

“Ready to run away yet?”

“Only if we’re running away together.”

The thread of tension that had been just under the surface released and Stacie slid her hands under Aubrey’s jacket and over her shoulders to slip it off. Running anywhere wasn’t on her list of things to do, and especially not running away from the only person that she truly felt safe with. There were a lot of unknowns in their life right now but what she did know what an immutable truth. She loved Aubrey Posen with every bit of her being and nothing was ever going to come between them. Not their exes or families, or even the FBI.

“You know you’re quite the woman, Ms. Conrad. Thanks for coming to my rescue today. How’d you know?”

“A tiny birdy with a big mouth.” The corners of Aubrey’s lips quirked in a grin and Stacie couldn’t help but kiss each corner. “You should give her a bonus.”

“Oh yeah? Got any other business ideas?”

“Tons.” Stacie smiled into the kiss Aubrey pulled her into. Warm hands trailed down her back in a promising caress. “We should have the wedding catered by Flo. The food is amazing and the price will be right. It’ll strengthen our business relationship by giving her a foothold to a new client base. And what makes her money, makes you money. Besides my mother loved her food.”

“You know I love it when you have ideas.” Aubrey nipped at her lip playfully, hands gripping her hips to pull Stacie in closer. “Speaking of your mom…that was surprising. How much does she hate me over this?”

“She dropped by the shelter and was there when Beca called. She’s not thrilled, Bree. But. I dunno. I need space from it for a bit. It was a lot.”

Her shoulder came up in a shrug and she leaned forward into Aubrey’s body. There was no pressure to talk about anything, just reassuring acceptance and it meant the world to Stacie. She wasn’t ready yet to sift through her feelings on Helene’s visit. The arms around her tightened comfortingly and she smiled against the soft skin of Aubrey’s neck.

“I think we both need a little space from this whole scene. Maybe we should take a trip back east.”

Stacie sat up and raised a brow in question. Aubrey never did anything without a good reason. “Why back east?”

Aubrey gave a half shrug, trying not to look as nervous as Stacie knew she suddenly was. “I was thinking it was time you met The Family.”

“Wow. Did not see that one coming.”

“I figured I got to meet yours…”

“Is this business family or…”

“A little of both. You’re not just gonna be one of the wives in the family, you’re my partner. I think it’s better they know from the start how it’s going to be from now on. And I have a feeling we’ll find the answers to some of our questions there.”

The confidence was exhilarating, and Stacie found herself inhaling deeply against the rise of arousal. Aubrey wasn’t asking anyone’s permission to include her in the business side of things. Either old school mafiosos had gotten a lot more progressive in their thinking or Aubrey didn’t expect to be challenged in any serious way. Stacie’s eyes narrowed slightly. Everyone had a boss they answered to and she didn’t think for one second that she would be accepted just because Aubrey said so. Unless.

“You’re not just ‘some low-level capo’ like Detective Mitchell’s Bureau buddy thinks, are you?”

Amused pale green eyes rose to meet hers as Aubrey gave her a sinfully cocky smirk. Whatever flimsy control she had over her arousal was battered away by the tidal wave of raw lust that slammed through her. Stacie slid her hand down over the blonde’s chest and pulled the silk tie free from the vest. She stood on legs already shaky with anticipation and tugged lightly to urge Aubrey up.

“I think you should take me to bed now, don’t you?”

Aubrey gave a soft grunt of agreement as she let herself be led by the tie. “Like I said, I love it when you have ideas.”

Later they could figure out everything from wedding plans to avoiding prison, right now however Stacie had more pressing needs.

#staubrey au #stacie conrad #aubrey posen #pitch perfect fic #tdc series

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nukyster-blog · 5 years ago

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Changing course, chapter 1:

I started writing this story because I love Ivar, but disliked what he became. I loved him up to where Ragnar died, after that he became more of a villain than an anti-hero. For that, I wanted to give him a good hit of karma and figured making him a slave for Christians would be his worst nightmare. Before you continue reading, I’d like to address that the story will be graphic in the blood/guts/death/violence sense. I’m also aiming to get things as historically accurate as I can, but this is my hobby so if I make horrible mistakes, bear with me.

Chapter 1) Changing Course .-.-.

Ivar had always been plagued by pain. Since the day he left his mother’s womb and drew his first breath, life had been an endless road of physical suffering. As a nursling, those insufferable muscle aches and stiff joints made him cry relentlessly. Endlessly. It would drive his brother’s up the walls; send their father overseas. He’d weep in his mother’s arms, only silenced by the warmth of her breast; his pain absorbing strength which turned him hungry. He’d endured remarkably, survived the first crucial years and eventually managed to tolerate the pain as part of his life. He learnt to see the inevitable suffering not as foe, but as an unwelcome acquaintance that needed to be ignored in order to get through the day. That mindset, combined with his stubbornness and willpower made it possible for him to keep his chin up and get through the day. It did not lessen his self loathing and envy towards his brothers. Blessed with strong and healthy bodies, their mere existence were three thorns in Ivar’s eye; the youngest son of Ragnar Lothbrok. The black sheep, the boneless; deformed from the waist down.

His handicap planted a seed deep inside his chest and it spread all throughout his ribcage like poison ivy. It was blinding hate towards the world, to all who were capable to roam free and looked down upon him. Burdened by his physical limits his rage would at times rise high above his handicap, withstanding the pain to solemnly focus on destruction.

Not a single soul forgot Ivar’s first victim. How he’d embedded his axe into the skull of another child. He remembered vividly how his tiny fist had trembled around the handle, how his mother pulled him tightly against her chest and rushed him inside. Hush dyrbare, she’d soothed him, her voice soft and warm, it’s not your fault, don’t feel regret, you are the son of Ragnar Lofthbrok, it’s only right for people to fear you. Her response was the only validation he needed. Ivar took the reassuring words of his mother to heart and smothered all forms of empathy. He was entitled to lash out to others and from that very young age Ivar found a coping mechanism; hurting the less fortunate. It wasn’t physically torture per se; his mother’s smothering grip enabled him to actually torture their thralls and peasants. He might be a useless prince, but he was a prince. His royal blood burdened him to keep their name up to certain standards, so purposely torturing their slaves was inexcusable.

That did not mean Ivar would let any change go by to destroy the little belongings their thralls valued, pinch his nursemaid up to the point it left bruises, sink his teeth into ankles and throw a fit over the littlest of things. It was interesting to see that over time, he became quit infamous to the poor and powerless population of Kattegat. They saw him as a monster and that was much better than to be perceived as a crippled. So Ivar willingly took on the role of something dark and disgusting, he embraced being a monster.

His second act of bloodthirst happened during his pre pubescent years. The Seer had condemned a Christian to death by starvation.

Curiosity made him crawl to their city centre in the middle of the night where he first observed the haggard form of a man, fiercely praying to it’s false God.

It was an offense, openly performing such devotion for it’s Christian God. Although the slave never laid an eye on him, Ivar resented the man with every fiber of his being. It wasn’t the poor man per say, that set him off, the poor thing simply represented defiance; praying to it’s Christian God in the centre of their town. What he later claimed as hate for the Christian, had simply been an excuse to unleash his rage. The wrath towards the entire world had been sprouting all throughout his chest and some of the roots must have reached his brain. Because what he did with his bare hands was inhuman. He destroyed the Christian, with his bare hands, knuckles and teeth. Like a meek lamb the man, awaited his death and did not fight when he was being slaughtered. It had been Ivar’s first intentional murder and it was hypnotic, addictive. Without empathy, it was easy to perceive the human body as a gigantic canvas; with endless possibilities. Destruction and pain was the purest form of art, of life itself. By ending it. Ivar loved every moment, every hair, teeth, every fiber of it. The iron taste of warm blood, the warmth of it running down his hands, chin and chest. He welcomed it, all of it and bathed in it. All for glory, all for Odin. All to make the world forget the crippled boy that wept for his mother’s warmth and see him for what he wanted to be. A monster, because he failed to perceive himself as a man, as an equal to his brothers. No, his weak legs would never place him in the same line as his brother’s. So, a monster then, was the second best choice.

Ivar showed Kattegat another form of Boneless. At the first lights of dawn, the centre filled itself with exclamations of horrors and awe. The cobblestones were painted crimson and a flock of chickens were pecking at the intestines of the Christian. They lay spread throughout the centre, attracting flies and more bystanders. Ivar had just ripped out the tibia bones, leaving the muscles and skin lay wobbly and in a strange angle now that it’s inner skeleton had been removed. Ivar had been scraping the last bits of flesh from the bones with his fingernails when his mother appeared from the crowd and cried out in horror, falling down on her knees.

From that day, his brothers looked at him differently. With disgust, yes, because he mauled the body of the Christian like a starved wolf. Which wasn’t far from the truth, honestly, he’d been hungry. Hungry for blood. And validation.

From that day on, there was a hush whenever Ivar entered the Great hall, or any other place. Folks turned their head, acknowledged his presence. It was enough clarification for Ivar that being ruthless and malevolent paid off. Instead of being the handicapped son of Ragnar Lothbrok, he was the Christian slaughterer. Ivar the Boneless, now he was able to wear that byname with pride.

He’d carved pawns from the Christian’s bones and used them for his tafle game. During a game, he jokingly commented that he should’ve taken a knee bone too, it would have made an excellent king. Hvitserk chuckled uncomfortably, Sigurt’s eyes widened and Ubbe walked out. He’d loved it, pressing everyone’s buttons, making them uncomfortable and on edge. But eventually, his prepubescent act of monstrosity faded.

That was why he felt blessed when their father asked him to join his raid in Wessex. Him, only him; Ivar the Boneless, joining their father on a raid. The Gods never favoured him and instead of glory, Ivar found despair. Their father, Ragnar Lothbrok willingly walked into the belly of the beast, with his hands raised high, unarmed and broken. Like a loyal dog, he’d crawled after his father, knowing full heartily in the castle of Wessex lay nothing but doom. Still, he’d rather die by his father’s side then end up dead in a ditch, from hunger and thirst. His father broke his promise, or rather King Egbert’s son did. The safe passage back home, which had been arranged turned out to be a lie. When he was dragged away from his father’s cell, a blunt object collided to the back of his head and pain temporarily blinded him. Quite helplessly, he’d been listening to Prince Aethelwulf arranging his deposit. The pain in the back of his head was severe. Pain throbbed so violently around in his skull that he wondered why it didn’t just crack open.

For the first day, the nausea was overwhelming, he could not keep anything down. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he lost track of time and place. Curled up, cradling his damaged skull he wished for his mother. Any form of light ravaged his brain, pounding, throbbing, like a rotting tooth right between the eyes. It took his sanity away, his coordination. The few altercation he had with Saxxons made him whimper and plead for salvation. But no relief came to his pain. Without power to fight back, Ivar found himself tossed into a ship hold, as if he were a sack of potatoes; nothing more than damaged cargo. The circumstances below deck were horrendous; human cattle packed up and wedged together as tightly as the overseers could cramp in. Ivar, half aware of his surroundings and halfway sliding into a deep pool of endless nothingness, flinched when fingers reached for his oath ring. A fist formed itself around his wrist like a bear trap and with that, the last bits of his hereditary was ripped off of him. The leather protecting his fragile lower limbs, gone, taken too. His necklace, also gone. Even his shoes and tunic were worth taking. The overseers sniggered at the sight of Ivar’s weak attempt to intervene and shoved him aside, like a thing. Like a nothing.

Their journey overseas started although Ivar wasn’t aware, which in his case was a good thing. The onerous space was filled up to the max, with minimal resources. There was barely any light, no personal space. Water was scarce and so was food. Hygiene became a problem after the ship set it’s sails and some of the unlucky ones got seasick. It did not take long for the cramped out area to turn into a sewage; the stench and heat insufferable.

Ivar withstood the trials in silence, cradling his head in a fetal position. The pain in his head was all consuming. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the pain to go away. Over and over, until in the end, the rest of the world became detached.

He could barely hear the people around him. Some prayed in foreign tongues, others whimpered. Somewhere afar, a young child cried.

Eventually, he drifted into sleep, waking up by a sudden toss aside. Cries were lost beneath the thunder that rolled overhead. Their cage of wood and sails was mercilessly thrown into a storm. The waves resolutely grew in size. Their vessel rode the mighty swelling sea like a child’s toy, no longer controlled by the hands of men.

The inhabitants below deck were violently thrown from the far end of the hold to the other. Bodies were being trampled, panic spread like the plague, festering into each and everyone’s head. Violence roamed among the poor souls in captivity in order to breathe.

At one point, Ivar found himself suffocating. Never had he wished more for land, to feel the sweet green grass of his home against the palms of his hands. The sea, it felt like his rage from within. Like punishment, ready to tear itself through the wooden construction to claim their souls. His mother’s prophecy would come true. He would drown and never enter Valhalla, because there was no honour in this poor death. To be dragged down to the bottom of the sea with countless slaves. There was nothing heroic nor royal about this death. This was not the end of a Prince, yet it seemed inevitable. And although he fought the feeling with every last bit of strength he could muster, Ivar was petrified. For the cold water to seize his body, for his lungs to fill up with water, to feel his life slowly ebb away.

In between the lightning, darkness prevailed. In between the darkness there were flashes of his fellow unfortunate souls, their faces overcome with terror.

‘Is it Odin’, Ivar thought, ‘fighting with the Christian God?’ Was this his fault, for it was him who’d coldly, bloodily mauled a defenseless Christian?

‘Please Odin, the All-father, do not allow a Viking prince to die such an unworthy death,’ Ivar pleaded, ‘if I survive this storm I promise you, I will make it worth your while.’

As sudden as the storm erupted, it disappeared. Along the dawn of morning, the ship anchored ashore.

Sunlight burned his eyes, blinding Ivar momentarily as the portholes were pulled open by the overseers. Orders were being shouted in unfamiliar tongues, for those who weren’t familiar with the language, there was the beating of a whip. The human cargo was expected to exit the ship, rather sooner than later.

Few bodies remained lifeless, passed away due to suffocation. One by one they were removed by the overseers; by simply being thrown off the ship. There was no honor, nor time to bury a slave.

When one of the overseers took hold of Ivar’s curled up body, he was surprised to find the slave to be alive. Surprise was rapidly replaced by irritation. Lashing his whip he struck Ivar across the face, making the poor young man hiss and hide his face.

The overseer signaled another member of his crew to lend out a helping hand. Both grabbed Ivar underneath his armpits and dragged him up his feet.

Both men grunted in annoyance when their slave immediately dropped back on the floor. One chuckled and nudged against Ivar’s deformed legs. The other one let out a long impatient sigh and kicked Ivar’s arms right from under him.

Ivar’s chin merely had time to hit the wooden floor, before a familiar boot planted itself onto Ivar’s spinal cord, taking his breath away.

The other overseer sank down on his knees, a knife playing between his fingers. Though rust had set on the handle and blade, it was strong and jagged, enough to cut a throat.

The tip of the knife pressing against Ivar’s Adam’s apple prevailed the pain in his head, the stiffness of his limbs and the heavy weight on top of him.

“I can crawl you croaked-nosed bastard,” Ivar snarled, his hands bracing to carry his upper body. The overseers must have found it amusing, seeing him squirm on the floor like a spider being squished. To exaggerate Ivar’s deride, the boot placed on his back moved up to in between his shoulder blades, pressing him down firmly.

The boiling rage inside of him, swept through his system, like an old favoured friend patting him on the back.

In effort to remain silent Ivar gritted his teeth, his knuckles turned white from clenching his fists too hard. His eyes squeezed closed as his face contorted and he placed his palms down onto the splintery floor. Arching his back, the pain rushed through his body like an igniting fire, but he would withstand it, even if it was the last thing he’d do. Inch by inch, he pressed himself up while another man’s weight pressed him down. With every inch, his demolished resilience sparked back up and inwardly he roared when the overseer took the boot off his back, allowing him to carry his crippled arse out of this hellhole.

Crawling like a worm from a bird, he climbed up the steps, one by one, while sweat trickled down his face and his right eye twitched from the explosive pain inside his damaged skull.

On the upper deck, he briefly sank against a barrel, allowing his lungs to fill up with the salty fresh breeze. Grey clouds roamed freely above – hindering the sun and its warmth.

Once Ivar caught his breath and expelled the headache to the far end of his brain, he risked a peek over the railing.

Dejection curled around his chest with the grip of an iron straight jacket. The ship had anchored at a small harbour, bedded near a murky dirt road. A long line of future slaves were staggering towards carts pulled by mules. One man’s sanity must have drowned during the storm, the poor bastard broke the line and made a run for it.

He did not get far, an armed horse rider strode after him, stabbing a spear through his neck. There was no escape, at least not now.

And so Ivar the Boneless, son of King Ragnar Lothbrok, found himself obeying the commands of Christians, lost in a faraway land while his father was at the mercy of a mendacious king. His mother presumed him to be dead, lifeless at the bottom of the sea. So there wouldn’t be a soul looking for him.

He came to Essex as a Prince, for fame and glory; yet resurrected as a nameless, crippled slave. Oh, the Gods played him the most lousy cards of all.

.-.-.

A/N: So this was chapter one of my Ivar fanfiction, I’m thrilled to hear what you think of it so far. As I’m still very much on Ivar’s side, I’d like to point out that yes he murdered a person in a gruesome way, but he basically did it for validation. Ok, yes that fact might make it even worse, but the way I see it is that Ivar desperately wants to become ‘something’, that he’d rather be a monster than be the person he is.

And now he’s not even a monster anymore, now he’s just a slave, that’s karma baby.

Xoxox Nukyster

#ivar fanfic #ivar the boneless #viking fanfic #ivar as a slave #karma

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wistfulcynic · 4 years ago

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For the end of year asks. You’ve answered 10, 8, and 3, so I want 1, 2, 4-7, and 9... don’t shoot me please... 😘

Of course, if you’ve already answered some of the others, you can skip those too...

😲. I’m... not sure that's how you play the game?? But okay, buckle in.

1. What’s your personal favourite thing you wrote this year?

I’ve written a lot of things I liked this year. Unlike previous years I don’t think there’s anything I don’t feel good about. I think for favourite I’d have to go with ...and held her in my arms, because it turned out pretty much exactly as I envisioned it and I like the intensity of the pining, and The Bend of the Arc, because it was such a stretch for me and I really like the end result. That and the comments on it were just so lovely.

2. What’s your least favourite thing you wrote this year?

As I said above I’m happy with everything from this year, but I guess the one I'm least happy with is where none intrudes. I kind of feel like my head wasn’t quite in the right place and I wrote it too quickly. It could have been better if I'd taken more time. Ironically, it is my most popular Tumblr post ever.

4. Which of your fics this year was most successful?

On Tumblr, it was where none intrudes which still continues to get random notes. On AO3 (and I'm discounting Moonlight here because that started last year) it currently stands at Error 404 by a single kudo over the stars through our souls.

5. Which of your fics do you wish was more successful?

I guess that depends on what successful means? I wouldn’t have minded more people reading A Uniquely Portable Magic because I think it’s some of the best descriptive writing I've ever done, but the ones who did read it gave such amazing feedback I consider it a success. The Fire of the Frost had the worst reception I’ve ever experienced on Tumblr, which I kind of expected because sequels are always less popular than the original and Moonlight was also a dud on Tumblr. But I’m still disappointed, I had thought it would do a bit better than it did. Like I thought it would flop but maybe not leave behind an actual indent in the ground.

6. What’s your favourite piece of dialogue you wrote this year?

Oof. I’m sure I'm overlooking something, but one scene I really like is this one from The Bend of the Arc. There are a couple of good exchanges in that fic I think but this one is where we really see the connection between them. Putting it below a cut as it’s long!

Emma popped the last bite of soufflé into her mouth and resisted the urge to lick her fingers. Instead she sipped her champagne and looked around for another tray. One passed by bearing what looked like tiny donuts and she almost dove to grab one. Biting into it, she found that it was savoury and filled with a feather-light truffled chicken mousse. She closed her eyes on a moan of delight, and when she opened them again Killian Jones was standing in front of her, watching her with an expression she found deeply objectionable.

“Well, darling, I do hope you’re not here for me this time,” he said.

Emma sneered. “I’m not.”

“Learnt our lesson, have we?” he replied with a smirk.

She ground her teeth. “I’ve simply got bigger fish to hook,” she said.

“Indeed. Considering that I am an entirely innocent man.”

She snorted.

“That infuriates you, doesn’t it,” he observed, smirk deepening. “That I walked free.”

Nearly a year’s worth of frustration and righteous fury bubbled up inside Emma, bursting forth before she could stop it. “It’s not right!” she exclaimed. “It’s not justice!”

“No, it’s just not perfect justice. Though one certainly could argue that a decade spent under the thumb of a madman is more than enough punishment for whatever crimes I committed.”

Something in his voice troubled her, a pained sincerity that niggled at her conscience. She ignored it. “Rationalise it all you like, if it helps you sleep at night,” she retorted.

“Oh, I have no trouble sleeping,” he said, stepping closer and leaning into her space, hips first. “Though occasionally I do forgo it voluntarily, in favour of more… enjoyable activities.”

“You’re filthy.”

“I certainly can be,” he purred. “If that’s what you want.”

“I want nothing from you.”

“Well love, we both know that’s not true.”

“Oh do we?”

“We do. You’re something of an open book, you see.”

She rolled her eyes. “I am the opposite of that.”

“You’d like to be. But for those who know how to look, your tells are obvious.”

“Bullshit.”

He shifted, standing straighter and observing her with blue eyes that went, between one blink and the next, from flirtatious to coolly assessing, sharply analytical. She felt a flare of alarm in her chest, and the worrying suspicion that she may have underestimated him.

“The relaxed posture,” he said. “That’s one. You’re a woman of action, rarely still. If you stop moving you start thinking, and you, Emma Swan, hate nothing more than being in your own head. You’re tense all the time unless you’re pretending not to be, as you are now. Playing the role of carefree society girl, perfectly at home in these glittering surroundings where you are in actual fact deeply uncomfortable.”

She attempted a laugh. “Maybe I’m just having a good time.”

“You’re holding that glass so tightly you’re in danger of snapping the stem, and you’re digging the heel of your shoe into the floor. It takes a lot of effort to maintain that outward calm, which is why you don’t normally bother. You hate artifice, bullshit as you would call it, and your plan tonight is to get in, get your mark and get out. After you’ve eaten your fill of the food, that is.” The corner of his mouth curled into a half-smile. “Do correct me if any of this is wrong.”

“It’s all wrong,” she snapped.

“Now, love, don’t you start to bullshit.”

Emma’s fingers clenched tighter on the champagne glass and she deliberately forced them to relax. “Why don’t you just leave me alone,” she hissed.

His eyes softened, and heated with an expression that made her belly clench. “Because you intrigue me,” he murmured.

“Well you disgust me.”

He laughed. “Liar.”

“How dare you—”

He brushed a lock of hair off her shoulder, his fingers close enough that she could feel the heat of them but not their touch, and when he spoke again his voice was rough. “You’ve a delightful pale pink flush all across your skin, your pupils are dilated, your breathing shallow. And your pulse—” His hand glided down her arm and wrapped around her wrist, fingertips pressing gently onto her pulse point. “It’s racing, love. I don’t require any special skills to pick up on these tells.” He caught her gaze, his own heated and intense. “Would it help if I confessed that the attraction is entirely mutual?”

“No!”

“Pity.”

She tried to pull her arm from his grip but he held fast, leaning closer still to murmur in her ear. “He’s over by the fountain.”

She wouldn’t look, thought Emma. She wouldn’t. She closed her eyes as Killian released her and the heat and intoxicating scent of him moved away. She didn’t want his help, didn’t need it. Resented it. But she couldn’t stop herself from looking and of course there he was. Her mark, standing in front of the fountain at the centre of the room.

“How the hell did you know—” she spun around but Killian was gone.

7. What’s your favourite piece of description or narration?

Unquestionably the beginning of Portable Magic.

He’s not sure what draws him through the door. The look of it, perhaps, the twisted grain and the knotholes, polished to a patina by centuries of wind and rain and hands upon it. Some hands much like his own and others very different. He finds comfort in that, as he places his hand on the door. His hand.

His only hand.

On the other side of the door is a bookshop. He knew that of course, from the sign in the window, another thing tempting him inside. It’s far too long since he read a good book, too long since he let himself get lost in stories other than his own. He’s not quite ready for what he sees.

The shelves are made of the same wood as the door. Carved from it, it seems. Hewn might be the word. The knobbly, knothole-y wood that even his limited carpentry knowledge tells him could not form straight shelves. It doesn’t, yet they hold the books. Row upon row of them, dizzying rows. His head spins when he tries to look at them, like a kaleidoscope or a funhouse mirror, too many things, too many angles, too little space.

He blinks, and everything is fine again. It’s just a bookstore.

“It’s just a bookstore,” he tells the cat in the window, a huge grey tabby with long, silky fur and pale blue, unblinking eyes.

“Of course it is,” the cat replies. “What were you expecting?”

“I—what?”

“Meow,” says the cat.

...and this paragraph

He sits at the table and opens the book at the top of the pile, glances into it, and is absorbed. It’s the tale of a lonely man, a wanderer without a home who finds his place in the hearts of those he meets along his travels. It grips him so entirely that he fails to notice Ruby as she sets a pot of tea before him, with a mismatched cup and saucer and a plate bearing a thick slice of cake, fragrant with lemon and dotted with plump blueberries. Absently he prepares his tea—a splash of milk, no sugar—and sips it as he reads. It has a bright, floral aroma but a rich flavour that reminds him of the Earl Grey his brother favoured, and he has to pause for a moment to allow the ache to pass. It does, faster than it once did, and so he risks another sip and sighs this time in pleasure. It’s delicious. He settles deeper into the chair and the book, sips the tea and nibbles the cake and doesn’t notice either one disappearing or the afternoon sunshine fading into twilight beyond the windows until Ruby comes to clear the table with a clatter of silver on porcelain.

9. If you could go back and change something about one of the fics you wrote this year, what would it be?

I have a difficult relationship with all the perfect things (that I doubt) because part of me loves it and part thinks maybe I should have made some different choices. I guess it’s just that there are so many options for that scenario and I kind of want to write all of them (but also there is NO TIME, so don't get any ideas, woman!).

um, I would say send me an end of year ask, but Krystal has ASKED THEM ALL

#end of year asks #all of them #like every last one #kmomof4 #asked and answered #profdanglaisstuff

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bigskydreaming · 6 years ago

Text

In my ideal world where Dick and Jason have the strong brotherly bond I want them to have, the Ric Grayson thing happened like in canon, and Bruce and Babs came back to the rest of the family and reported Ric wants to be left alone and they should all respect his wishes.

But two seconds later Jason’s halfway out the window and Bruce is like, “Jason, are you listening?”

And Jason calls back over his shoulder: “Totally, it was a really neat story B, I just remembered I left the stove on, gotta go, bye!”

Then he drives straight to Titans Tower where he abducts/sorta-politely-requests-the-assistance-of Lilith. “I need your help with something, c’mon you owe me.”

And Lilith’s like: “....you’ve never done done a damn thing for me in my life, why the fuck would I owe you anything?”

And Jason’s all: “Ugh, damn. I was sorta hoping if I just led with that and put enough conviction in it you’d just roll with it, I hate doing this next part if I can avoid it.”

To which he adds, through gritted teeth, with actual beads of blood rolling down his forehead where normally there would merely be beads of sweat as proof of exertion, but everything’s just a Little Bit Extra when Jason does it: “I need your help with something, c’mon, I’ll owe you.”

And then Lilith’s eyes glow and in a thunderous voice that rattles the heavens in their windowpanes, Lilith says, "The bargain has been struck, so shall it be!”

And Jason’s like: ”...what the fuck was that.”

Lil just shrugs and says, “I’m not really sure. I’m maybe a little bit of a demigoddess or something? Hard to say, nobody ever spends enough time on me as a character or actually finishes my plotlines enough for me to actually know what my whole deal even is. Its kinda like Donna, but my story arcs are more just ‘All the confusion, but none of the denoument’.”

“Huh. Hey are we breaking the fourth wall right now?”

“Oh, totally. But I’m pretty sure we’re allowed because gay rights.”

“Sweet.”

And then they go together to Bludhaven and break into Ric’s apartment and Ric’s like who the fuck are you, and Jason’s all: “I’m the brother of the guy who’s you but faster and this is Lilith, she’s maybe a demigoddess, we’re not sure.”

And Ric’s just: “I have no idea wtf any of that means, and the way just the sound of it makes my head hurt is why I’m pretty sure I told Desperately In Need Of Therapy Man and the redhead who made a point to tell me a hundred different times in under five minutes that she and I definitely never dated, when literally all I asked was if she knew where the bathroom was: I. Don’t. Want. None. Of. Your. Drama.”

Jason just smirks. “Oh no, I got your message loud and clear with the rest of the family. Its just that I’m better at loopholes than the rest of them. Also logic. And I mean, pretty much everything. Definitely the best at not staying dead, and having flair, like at least I actually know how to stage a comeback...”

Lilith interrupts him gently. “Jason? Think you’re getting off topic, maybe?”

“Oh. Right. Point is, so yeah, I heard what you wanted but then I thought to myself, Self, why should I give a fuck what THIS dude wants, when as he pointed out, he’s not even my brother? Like, he’s totally legit for not wanting shit to do with our hot mess of a family. I can kinda even respect him for that and for just spitting it out there rather than succumbing to the existence-sucking vortex that is our dad’s Eternal Depression Spiral and Ensuing Drama which then takes over our entire lives as well and creeps ever onward in its quest to eventually swallow the entire universe. I mean like Darkseid could never, he’s amateur hour compared to the endless Night of Brooding that B would darken the whole universe with if he didn’t have us to gut-check his ego and be all “get over yourself dude, you and your issues are not the most important thing in existence” every once in awhile...”

Ric: “I think your friend mentioned something about a point.”

Jason glares at him. “I was getting to it! I think. Eventually. Okay here’s the deal, Understudy That Nobody Asked For, you’re absolutely valid for saying you don’t owe us jack shit, but turn around is fair play and turns out, that just means I don’t owe you jack shit either. You’re not my brother, and so instead of giving a fuck what you want, I asked my self, Self, what would my actual brother want here? Would he want to just...not exist, while his family is currently in the midst of being the hottest of all hot messes to ever mess hotly? Or would he want somebody to go grab one of the most powerful psychics in existence, who also happens to be a close personal friend of his, and get her to just exorcise the Existential Crisis That Just Didn’t Know When To Quit so I could have my brother back and we could all just get back to normal? I mean, except for you, I guess that would probably suck from your perspective, its just - as established, I don’t have to give a fuck, soooooo.....I’ve decided not to....I know, awkward, huh....”

And Ric blinks. “Fuck. Your logic is sound. The parts of it I understood at least. Umm...I’m not thrilled, obviously, but it doesn’t sound like I could do anything to stop it and its not like I’m exactly living it up and having just an awesome, enviable existence or anything, so....what even happens now?”

Jason checks his watch. “Oh I think now we just wait another ten seconds for Lilith to finish what she’s been doing since we got here while I vamped like a motherfucker and kept you too distracted to try and keep her from messing with your head. Which the ironic thing is you probably coulda done a pretty decent job of if you’d known to try, since one of the many things you didn’t want to know about my brother is that he has freakishly obnoxious willpower he uses in all sorts of other ways besides just being a stubborn asshole, and since you’re basically him no matter what you pretend or want to believe, that probably applies to you too, and so....”

And then Dick blinks and stumbles before catching himself gracefully because he’s Dick Grayson (again) and that’s just what he does, be smooth and graceful like a stubborn asshole even when he’s drugged or sleep deprived or just awakening from several months locked inside his own subconscious because amnesia or whatthefuckever.

Ugh, Jason thinks to himself grumpily. His brother is just the absolute worst.

And Dick’s like: “Jason? Lil? What are you two doing here? Together? And wait, where is here? What the fuck happened?”

And Jason’s all: “So much, Dickiebird, but almost none of it is interesting or anything I care about. So catch the Cliff Notes later from somebody who was actually paying attention and just head back to Gotham with me so I can reclaim my apartment from the Turdlings who have started dropping by it whenever the fuck they feel like. Because apparently, they’ve decided in your absence all Oldest Brother Privileges and Responsibilities are automatically ceded to me, and I absolutely fucking object. Especially since it turns out the ‘privileges’ are misnamed at best and totally not fucking worth it. In fact, I object so fucking much, our next stop is Zatanna or some other big name magic wunderkind so they can whammy you with some kind of immortality ritual, I don’t care how hard it is, I will pay literally any price and take it out of Bruce’s bank accounts because I’ve decided you’re just not allowed to die now, ever, I fucking refuse to have to put up with any of this bullshit again, the next time you try and fuck off to the Great Trapeze in the Sky.”

And Dick blinks, like; “What?”

Jason just whines like the big baby he really is underneath all the bluster and bloodshed. “Look its been a very long year and I’m tired and stressed and can we just go home already, this place sucks and I hate it. Like damn, you really live like this? Amnesia You apparently decided to rebel against good taste along with everything else.”

Dick softens. “Sure Little Wing, lets go home and see if someone else can catch me up to speed. You do tend to leave out a lot of pertinent information on the basis of not caring about things other people consider relevant. Like....laws.”

“Fuck you, I can’t believe you’re coming for me and my amorality like this when I just saved your overrated ass from a lifetime of not existing but also making terrible life choices.”

“And I’m sure I’ll be very grateful once I understand what exactly it is you saved me from, I can’t properly appreciate you if I don’t know what the stakes were, can I?” Dick says. Before Jason can appear too mollified though, he continues. “Although from what I have put together so far, it sounds like Lilith probably did most of the heavy lifting, so isn’t it really her who saved me?”

“This is why I never do nice things for you!”

“I’m joking, jeez, lighten up, Little Wing. Just because your frame is load-bearing now doesn’t mean you gotta act like everything’s so heavy...”

“Hah! I knew you resented me for being bigger than you ever since I came back!”

“Well I’m sorry, its just not natural. I’m the oldest brother, I’m supposed to be bigger than you, that’s just the rule....”

“Oh, well excuuuuuuuuse me, Mr. I Make the Rules, I’m so sorry for getting murdered and then coming back from the dead and being thrown into a Lazarus Pit that just happened to have the side effect of making my remaining growth spurts get me all the way to my optimal size...”

“Aha! So you admit that your being bigger than me isn’t a natural phenomenon!”

“Oh please, I would have ended up bigger than you even without the Lazarus Pit. You’re a shrimp! You’re a shrimp that flies, its that whole acrobat/gymnast thing, you’re a tiny little man and you just need to get over the fact that everyone else who is over eighteen and not Tim is always going to be bigger than you and always was!”

“Aaaaand, they’re back,” Lilith sighs to herself, rolling her eyes fondly as she follows them and the dumbest argument ever out the door. Admittedly, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

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trademarkblue · 6 years ago

Note

Hi! May I request #66 from the kissing prompt list? Please and thank you!

Here it is! I hope you enjoy it! x

It’s a bit of an AU, mid-DH thing, forewarning.

#66: Staring At The Other’s Lips, Trying Not To Kiss Them, Before Giving In

“Oh my God, I hate you, I hate you-“

Her shouting faded to muttering as she paced furiously between brittle trees, hands clenched into fists at her sides. He watched almost blankly, too tired to argue anymore - he hated himself, too - and already too accustomed to her resentment and too exhausted to feel more than glancing sorrow at how deep this was, how impossible it felt to go back to even friendship, now.

Two nights previous, when he’d returned, her rage had been much harsher than he’d hoped… yet somehow he reckoned he should have expected it. He felt like an arse now for how he’d held out his arms to her then, as if she might gladly welcome him back, as if she might have missed him… as if the words Harry had spoken about how she’d cried when he’d gone had proven it.

He didn’t want to look too closely now, to see the hurt he’d caused so clearly, but her tears were running freely down her flushed face, a disconcerting mixture of fury and devastation, and he hated that he knew that look so well. Maybe this was the worst of it, maybe he’d never have to see this again, to make her feel so strongly against him that even the icy cold out here in the wilderness couldn’t send her back inside the tent til she was done. If he could do nothing else, he could do that, at least. He could stop being the reason, starting right then. No, starting weeks ago, really, when he’d been alone in his room at Bill and Fleur’s, nearly unable to breathe from regret.

I’m sorry felt like an entirely pitiful thing to say again. So, he said nothing else for too long, their softly bickering row about the foraging they were doing fading to the distant background. Why had he thought it might work, to gently debate with her and regain familiar ground? Familiar wasn’t what she wanted, anymore.

His eyes prickled and watered, and he tried not to blink.

”Why don’t you go back inside and warm up, and I’ll finish this.” It was feeble, but he’d tried. She glared at him, and he felt his shoulders sag with defeat. He half-rolled his neck to escape the tension, and a whimpery sort of cry flowed from her.

“Why don’t you go?”

“I could. I… maybe I should. But I don’t want to leave you out here-“

Wrong. The wrong fucking words to say. He winced painfully.

“You don’t want to…” The squeaking high pitch of her voice made her unable to finish the sentence. Or perhaps the next word was as stuck in her throat as he’d thought it had been in his, before he’d accidentally let it go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, in that pathetic way he’d avoided before. He was instantly sorry he’d said it, ironically.

But something changed. His heart beat faster, and he could never have explained why.

“Everything’s ruined,” she said, in an eerily weak voice. “You ruined it.”

His lips parted to answer with words he hadn’t yet chosen. And he would swear the blood was rushing in his ears before she’d completely changed her tone again and said what came next.

”I love you.” She cried it out, as sharply as she’d been shouting the opposite, moments before.

He couldn’t speak. His feet were sinking into the earth, surely. The vast forest around them was closing in, and they would suffocate in ringing silence.

“Don’t you know that?” she added in a shaking whisper.

Of course he hadn’t known. He’d longed. He’d dreamt. He’d suffered wondering, agonising, running from hope when he couldn’t bear to know the truth. He shook his head in shock, a tiny motion he knew she saw.

He wanted to scream how he felt for her now, for all the barren wasteland of the world around them to know.

But she hated him. She loved him? And he’d ruined everything. He couldn’t say it back.

He had to say it back, even if she didn’t want him to, anymore.

Damn him for being unable to control his eyes for that one brief second when his gaze flicked down to her parted lips.

“You know I love you, too.” The words were dry and rough, and her eyes widened as she moved closer.

She stared at his lips now too, trembling, for twice as long as he’d looked at hers. The brief shake of her head was so much more impactful than he’d expected it had been when he’d done it, seconds earlier. They’d loved each other and hadn’t known.

And he’d ruined it.

She stepped closer, close enough that he had to tilt his neck down to look at her.

He didn’t stop himself that time when his gaze slipped down her beautiful, flushed face to her lips again. He didn’t notice her shallow breathing until he was doing it, too. But he couldn’t.

She loved him. He couldn’t.

Desperate, numb in the cold, he’d left her.

She wasn’t even trying not to stare. Her eyes were glassy, tired and scared and yet somehow frighteningly alert.

He couldn’t. But she would. Or they would. Or something muddled up and twisted, in between.

She held onto his jumper before it happened, a tight fist in thick wool, a tiny cry one fraction of a second before her parted lips met his.

He melted into her, one hand in her hair and the other spreading across her back, and there was nothing, nothing that could measure… The world was gone and there was only this. He would have probably cried if he hadn’t been so sharply focused on the way she felt. She slid up his body, pushing onto her toes as she looped her arms tight around his neck. Almost too tight, but oh, he didn’t care. He couldn’t tell if he’d lifted her off the ground when his own arms circled her strongly or if she just felt that light to him, so easy that it hardly seemed to take any effort.

He felt the tension in his forehead as he struggled with comprehension. Her voice echoed in his mind, telling him she’d loved him. No. No past tense. Love. Her tongue met his; she tasted like bitter tea and Hermione. And bloody hell, how could he know, how could he think such a thing when they’d never done this before?

She made a sound in the back of her throat, a strangled sort of cry, and he almost broke away until her nails raked up into his hair. He moaned deeply in response, only half-aware.

Finally, finally, she pulled her lips away with a dragging motion that sent a jolt of pleasure flying through his frozen body. She was shivering, trying to breathe, feet back firmly on the ground and staring up at him.

What now? Oh God, what now?

Everything.

“I’ve wanted to do that for… so long,” he half confessed in a heavily raspy voice that hardly sounded familiar.

“You should have done it, then,” she whispered back. A twitching, lopsided grin broke across his face, and she was still looking so longingly up at him…

The world returned in waves, a rustling wind, the chill of her fingers on his neck, Harry roughly clearing his throat up the hill by the tent behind him.

She let go.

“Don’t…” she started, and a hint of fear passed through her features as if she wasn’t sure she should say it. But then, as quickly as it had fled, her resolve returned, and she licked her lips. “Don’t leave me again.”

“Never,” he said firmly, no part of him afraid anymore, not caring how it sounded, all the depth of meaning in one little word. He meant it all. And now she finally knew.

#fanfiction #kiss prompts #rhr #myfic #tmblue #pitp

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icarus-imagines · 6 years ago

Text

Draco Malfoy X Male!Reader

Word Count: 1,904

Category: Harry Potter

~Scars~

"It's pretty."

"W-what?"

A smile makes its way to your (Pale/Tan/White/etc) face as you scoot closer, both your legs, under the black satin blankets covering you both, touching. The thick sheet acting as a protective barrier though it is nothing but mere fabric laid upon your bodies.

"It's pretty," you repeat staring down at his arm that had its black sleeve rolled up to his elbow.

Your fingers dancing along his left forearm that held the Dark Mark. A tattoo displaying that of a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth. A sign of/from the one and only Lord Voldemort that was given to only his loyal circle of Death Eaters.

"How could something like this ever be considered pretty?" he asked, confusion clouding his mind. He wondered what made you think such a thing.

"I guess...," you started, raising your (E/c) eyes to gaze into his own gray eyes, that you knew even though they were a sort of a dull color, hid thousands of emotions waiting to break through the seams and be unleashed. "It's simply the color."

He tilted his head, making his cute white blonde hair fall in front of his eyes a bit, possibly obscuring his sight of vision. "The color? I see nothing special about the color black. Does everyone else not have the same color?"

"It's not that simple," you quietly giggle at his reluctance to accept the fact this horrid symbol was anything but a constant reminder of his wrongdoings and previous failures.

Taking your right hand you began to lightly trace the black lines sharply etched into his skin. Skin that was almost impossibly pale. Like black against white. Pencil against a blank paper. You found that beautiful. His skin made something so cruel a wonderful work of art.

You watched carefully as his body shivered from your light caresses upon his skin. Giggling you brought his palm to cup your cheek. Nuzzling it affectionately with your eyes closed in pure bliss.

Being with him brought out your cuddly side. Behind closed doors, Draco was the same way. How you loved unexpected kisses on your forehead when walking down rarely used hallways. Holding hands under the desks when sitting together during class.

Despite the fact your relationship was hush, even from both of your parents, you didn't resent him one bit for not wanting to be open about it. In reality, you were grateful. Grateful that you didn't have to flaunt your loyalty in front of others. You didn't have to prove day in and day out that you were worthy of the silent Slytherin Prince known as Draco Malfoy. Because deep down you knew that Draco didn't care about who you appeared to be in front of peers. He ignored whatever bloodline you held and whatever Hogwarts house you presented. Even what gender you possessed.

All he cared about was you.

Snapping back to reality from your deep thoughts you remembered you were in the Room of Requirement, cuddling with your beloved boyfriend.

Slowly opening your eyes you blushed noticing Draco had been staring at you the whole time with a whimsical expression. Embarrassed you cuddled his arm, holding it a bit tighter so his hand cupped your cheek so you could rest it in his palm as he brought himself closer to you, wrapping his right arm around your waist.

"You're quite adorable," he said absentmindedly, burying his face in your soft (H/c) locks.

This made your mind go suddenly crazy with questions about your secret relationship. The most important of these making your brain pound painfully.

Why had he chosen you?

You had yet to discover the single reason why he had started to pursue a romantic, maybe even a sexual, relationship with you. Not only that fact but the fact you are a boy. A male. Out of all the beautiful girls and handsome boys residing at this magical school he had chosen you. To become your one and only partner.

You pondered this for a few minutes of silence. Gathering courage until you realized you had to voice your question before you popped unexpectedly like a balloon at a birthday party. So that's exactly what you did.

"Draco..," you started, softly massaging the skin that contained the dark tattoo slowly.

"Yes?"

You took a few calming breaths before talking once more. "Why...Why did you choose me?"

Your question must have caught him completely by surprise, evident in the way he hugged you closer and lead you to lie on the bed with him. You listened to his soft breathing until he finally explained his reasoning behind his precise actions.

"I don't know," he said simply. This made your heart start to crack ever so slowly from the nonchalant response, but it was quickly mended with his next choice of words that explained his reason. "Though it is cliche, I must say you're different."

"Different?" You ask tangling your legs with his, wondering what he could mean. "How so?"

He hummed, making you giggle for the third time that night, as you felt him vibrate in your own body. "The others that attend this school, not many acts like you do," he began saying, thinking deeply about the complex question. He hoped not to displease you and make you disappointed. "You are like a little ball of sunshine, really you are. Not at all sullen and saddened by the events these past few years have brought upon all of us. You manage to keep a bright smile on your handsome face even in the darkest of times. This may have been one of the many reasons I began to dangerously fall in love with you. This is also the first reason why I had ever begun to truly notice you. To notice you as something more than just another Hogwarts student not worthy of my time."

Your bright (E/c) eyes began to prickle with tiny gleaming tears at his heartfelt speech. You hadn't realized just how much you meant to him. How much he truly cared about you. How naive of you to think you were unimportant to him. You opened your mouth to speak up on your own thoughts, but he beat you to it.

"Another would be you simply do not care," he said, but quickly fixed himself realizing that he must have made it sound like you didn't care for him. "Not that you don't care for me-I mean you do-It's's just..."

You quickly shushed him for a second with your left pointer finger placed lightly on his lips, before he became a blushing mess. "Go slow, no need to rush Draco," you soothed lovingly.

He simply nodded at your kind gesture, taking a calming breath before starting again, this time not as flustered.

"You...you do not care about who I am. That I am the Malfoy heir, a long line of Purebloods. You push aside the fact that at times I can be rude, callous, and worst of all quite hurtful when I want to be," he said, his eyes moving to look at his arm which was still being held on by you. "The most important of these is you...You didn't laugh at me or anything of the like."

"Laugh at you," you asked curiously confused. "Why would I ever laugh at you?"

His eyes cast downward a bit till he looked back up at you, bringing you close so he could rest his face in the crook of your left neck. He breathed in your dazzling and oh so alluring natural scent along with the scent of your Hogwarts house (H/h) that somehow seemed to always calm him.

You both sat in silence for a few minutes just simply enjoying each others company in a world that was quickly crumbling down to the ground. He hums again, the feeling from his vocal cords soothing you as he pressed every closer to your soft chest. Then he finally began to speak:

"For who I am," he said talking slower than usual. "When I confessed to you I showed a side that if I told my Father I know I would be disowned. But you...you not only accepted this part of me you felt the same way."

You held him tight understanding what he was trying to say. The fact he was gay. The fact he put his whole reputation on the line to confess his love to you. Knowing that it could crash down on him if you confessed. Surely you would have told people that the Draco Malfoy confessed to you. But instead, you didn't. You accepted his love with a heart full of joy and hope.

He did the same and for the first time since meeting this lonely boy saw him genuinely smile after you also confessed.

A smile grew on your face fingers soothing still running over his tattoo. He pulled away a bit so he was able to look you in the eyes, but still very close. Glancing at your hand over his tattoo he looked up at you his face grew puzzled.

"Why do you always do that," he asked.

"This?" you said gesturing to massaging his mark. He nodded making you hum like he did. "Well, you call it a scar. And it reminds me of when my mother would massage my own in comfort. Telling the stories behind her own. I guess it just grew on me."

He nodded a smile on the edge of his lips now knowing you did so because you felt it helped him.

"We all have scars," you murmured laying you both back down on the soft bed as he curled against you with his head back in the crook of your neck. "Some you can see and some that are hidden deep down inside of a person. I can't start to imagine what kind lay inside of you Draco, but as a start, I will soothe the ones on your body until you realize it's okay to make mistakes and have things to remind us of them. For I love you no matter what you've done in the past and what you may do in the future. Just know that I love you and will always continue to love you."

"I love you too, (Y/n)" he whispered kissing your collarbone as softly as he could manage.

It was at that moment you realized scars were not something to ashamed of. They told the secret stories of a person's life. The hardships they have gone through, which they had obviously conquered and gotten past.

You knew he may never be able to accept the tattoo forever displayed on his arm, but with time he would accept the fact it was there. And it would forever stay imprinted upon his delicate pale white skin as a reminder of his past decisions.

Draco was just lucky you were always there to show him scars were blessings in disguise. For they reminded you of things you had gotten past. And every day until the day both of you died, due to old age and the curse of nonstop time, you constantly worshipped his fragile body that was littered full of scars.

~The End~

#oneshot #imagine #drabble #x reader #draco malfoy #harry potter #draco malfoy x reader #drack malfoy x male reader #male reader #death eaters #dark mark

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supersleepygoat · 7 years ago

Text

Better for Everyone: Part 7

Parings: Dean x Reader, Cat

Warnings: Angst. Baby Abuse (sorry). Angst.

Word Count: 3,777

Summary: The Reader spent most of her life with the Winchesters. She loves them like family but doesn’t feel like the feeling is mutual. When she is essentially kicked out of the Winchester clan she is left physically and emotionally vulnerable to dangerous situations.

A/N: It’s time to talk some things out don’t you think? I’m forcing Dean to talk about his feelings… so naturally there’s a fuck ton of angst.

Series Masterlist

The bunker. Dean keeps calling it home – your home – but it feels far from it. It’s like living in the world’s creepiest museum. All of the mystical trinkets and lore books that are out on display don’t really give you a warm homey feeling. In addition, the men you’re living with make you feel out of place, as if you are an interloper. They are walking on egg shells around you. Every time you enter a room all conversation comes to a screeching halt.

Needless to say, you spend most of your time hiding in the spare bedroom they had given you. You have only been here a week and you’re already itching to leave. This is not your home.

On top of that, you haven’t been sleeping. The few hours of sleep you do manage to get are plagued with nightmares of each Winchester taking a swing at Jonas until he is a bloodied mess on the ground. Your dreams always end the same, the Winchesters turn to you, once they have snuffed the light out of Jonas’ eyes, and do the worst thing possible – they leave you alive. Alive to suffer through the loss of your mate. Alive to share living quarters with the very men who took everything from you. They leave you alive so all that is left inside of you is the wish for death.

You’ve been at the bunker a week and they still haven’t found a case or a new monster to go hunt. They say it’s because things are quiet right now but you know they are just sticking around to babysit you. The Winchesters are getting almost as restless as you. You hear them bickering about futile things… that is, until you enter the room and then all conversation stops. You’re going insane.

You know they brought you back here out of pity or guilt but that isn’t exactly a recipe for happy living. That, in addition to the fact you still hold deep seeded resentment and mistrust for every Winchester, especially Sam, prevents you from making yourself at home.

Every time you walk into the library and see Sam sharpening his knives or cleaning his gun, you freeze in fear that he will turn them on you and take you out just like he did your mate. However, deep down you know that you are not actually scared of Sam killing you; you are fearful over the fact you secretly wish he would do it and put you out of your misery.

Every time Sam asks you a question, a fearful lump forms in your throat and you are unable to look him in the eyes. The mere thought of being alone in a room with the youngest Winchester fills you with dread.

When you overhear one of the men discussing a monster they have ganked in the past, you can’t help but wonder if that ‘monster’ had a family. You were raised by Winchesters and, as such, you know you shouldn’t think that way but those thoughts automatically override your hunter training. Were all monsters really monsters? Your worldview has been muted into endless shades of grey, reshaping your black and white hunter upbringing.

It is three in the morning and you walk down the quiet halls of the bunker. This is a hunter’s sanctuary but you feel so out of place because how can you be a hunter and a creature-sympathizer at the same time? These walls weren’t made for you, they are not your home. You’re not a Winchester. You’re not a legacy. You’re not a hunter. You’re not family. Everyone would be better off if you left.

Lost in your thoughts, you find yourself standing outside Dean’s bedroom door. The dark wood is smooth under your fingers. As you trace your hand along the cold metallic eleven at the center of the door, you accidently push the door open a tiny bit. You freeze in fear thinking that if you woke Dean up you would have no good excuse for lurking outside his door.

To your surprise the room is empty. Dean is not in bed but has left a reading lamp on as it illuminates the room from his nightstand. You wonder where he is and if he’ll be back soon and catch you in his room. However, you soon realize that Dean is a hunter who has been cooped up for over a week, which probably means he’s out letting off steam at the nearest dive bar and probably with the first willing waitress.

With the safety of that realization, you venture into his room. You don’t particularly care for Dean’s decorating style. A collection of guns on the wall is a little too overtly masculine for your taste but it’s interesting for you to see how Dean makes himself at home now that he has his own space. You lightly run your hand along the gun covered wall and smile when you think that this is Dean’s nest. His home.

Your eye is drawn to the nightstand as the lamp shines on what looks like a pile of photos. You sit on the edge of his bed and pick up the photographs. You smile as you see the first one is of a young Dean with his mother, their happy embrace almost has a contagious warmth. You flip to the next picture and see it is of Sam and Dean in Bobby’s junk yard. They are smiling, a rare expression to be caught on camera but you remember that day, hell… you remember taking that picture.

The next photo is of the boys with John, their smiles are almost non-existent because you remember it was like pulling teeth trying to get all three of those stubborn men to pose for the picture. The last picture is of Dean and Bobby in his kitchen, this time, Dean was smiling again.

You flick through the pictures again then check the floor around the nightstand. You don’t know why but a part of you assumed, or hoped, that he would have kept a picture of you within his small treasure trove of family keepsakes. You shouldn’t be surprised. He told you two years ago that you were nothing but a burden he never wanted in his life. You were just pathetic enough to hope that he at least wanted something, one measly picture, to remember you by.

Realizing you are not even worth a photographic remembrance to the eldest Winchester brother was the final straw. It had made up your mind. You have to leave.

Dean sits in the war room with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a picture of you in the other. The corners of the picture are worn out but he has taken extra care over the years not to crease the subject of the photo. You are twenty years old and are perched on top of Dean in a piggyback while you hold his head up by his hair and force him to smile for the picture. It was one of those rare playful moments when there was no impending danger or end-of-the-world crisis looming over you. It was one of the few times he saw you genuinely smile in the few years before you left – before he let you be taken.

When Dean heard footsteps coming down the hall and toward the war room he quickly shifted in his seat and carefully shoved the photo of you and him back into its rightful place in his wallet that was laying open on the table.

“Y/N?” Dean asks as you come barreling down the hall struggling to get your duffle bag zipped up.

You freeze at the sound of Dean’s voice and scan the dimly lit room for its source.

Dean rises from his chair and walks toward you with creased brows “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks when he notices you are fully dressed and toting an overstuffed duffle bag.

“What are you doing up?” you ask in a fruitless attempt to divert the question.

Dean snatches his wallet off of the table and stuffs it safely into his back pocket, “I asked you first,” was his mature response.

You roll your eyes and decide that there is no point in lying. “I’m leaving, Dean”.

“You leav- no you’re not!” Dean says stubbornly and with a little laugh of disbelief.

“You going to stop me?” you challenge.

“Damn right I will, sweetheart! You’re not going anywhere or have you forgotten how well it worked out the last time you took off on your own?”.

“Last time it wasn’t my choice to leave … this time it is,” you bite out.

Dean cannot formulate a response. His mouth merely hangs slightly open as he wracks his mind for an acceptable response. But there is none.

Before you leave, you need Dean to answer the one question all the Winchesters have been avoiding since they found you. “You never answered my question from that night, why now? Why after all this time did you come looking for me?” you ask with genuine curiosity. “Did you intentionally wait until I finally had built a life for myself, just so you could come and tear it apart?” you tried to joke but your voice was utterly humourless.

“We didn’t look -“ Dean started to say but cut himself off when he realized what almost slipped out.

“Oh,” you shift on your feet and look to the ground as the realization that they never looked for you flooded your entire body. They didn’t really want you back. “I get it,” you say solemnly “No, that makes more sense actually,” you try to say as you shake your head as if it should have been obvious. You were just, once again, pathetic enough to believe otherwise. You force the words out as lightly as possible so Dean cannot read the disappointment in your eyes. However, Dean has always been able to call your bluff.

“Y/N- you know we- if we knew-“ Dean can’t finish his thought because he doesn’t know what words could possibly make you feel better.

“You mean, if you knew I was shacked up with a vampire you would have then, and only then, given a shit where I was for the last two years? We agreed two years ago Winchester, I’m not your responsibility,” you state with an unintentional bitterness.

“Fuck,” Dean exclaims as he rubs a hand over his face to reign in his frustration. “There you go again! Just like last time… you’re making assumptions like you know what I’m thinking, like you know what I have been thinking for the past two years. You don’t know shit!” his thoughts rush out of his mouth before he can filter his words.

“I know enough! Trust me, I still remember everything you said to me. You made your feelings very clear. I know exactly what you really think of me,” your wavering voice betrays your steeled features.

“You don’t know shit,” Dean repeats only this time much softer.

“Well… even if that’s true, I don’t think I can handle another session of Dean Winchester’s brutal honesty. Let me leave before either one of us says something we’ll regret”.

Dean does not respond, so you take his silence as a waving white flag. You secure your duffle over your shoulder and glance behind you to make sure Cat is still following you.

You only make it a few steps before you hear Dean’s low voice say the one thing you thought you would only hear in your dreams: “You’re family, Y/N. Always have been. Always will be. We need you. I need you,” Dean says so plainly and so confidently you almost believe him. Almost.

You let out a small laugh “What got you to change your tune? Where was this two years ago?”.

“Y/N, I don’t have an excuse for the things I said that night… for the things I never said. All I can say is I left you alone because I thought you were out there building a normal life for yourself and I didn’t want to get in your way-”. You unintentionally cut Dean’s words off by rolling your eyes at him. “How many times you gotta hear us say that family doesn’t end in blood!” he says forcefully.

“What happened to me being a burden you were saddled with raising? What happened to –“

“Fuck, Y/N” Dean sighs “I wish you would forget all the shit I said that night. I was pissed because you said – it doesn’t matter anymore. None of it was true. Besides you said you forgave us. When that asshole vamp was going to make you kill us… you said you forgave us,” Dean said with a hopeful tone.

You glare at him for his choice of words but force yourself to maintain a steady voice, “I forgave you for leaving me behind because I found what I always wanted. I found trust… I found real love. I found honest to god true and requited love. Something I never thought I would have… hell, I never thought I deserved. Even if it was with an asshole vampire, I was happy. And I will never forgive you for taking that away from me just to assuage your own guilt”.

A dumbfounded Dean Winchester cannot process your words. You hadn’t intended to let all of that slip out of your mouth but you couldn’t stop yourself. Once again you take Dean’s stunned silence as your cue to leave.

“So what, you were just going to leave without saying goodbye?” he asks in a sad tone. You let out a sigh, wishing he would just let you leave in peace but he continues, “If I wasn’t waiting up for you, would you have –“

“You were waiting up for me?”

“Try as you might to deny it, sweetheart, I know you… I’ve been waiting up for you all week… knowing it was a matter of time before you tried to take off,” Dean says with a sad laugh.

“If you know I am unhappy here, then just let me go,” you all but plead.

“No can do, sweetheart”

“Why?” you ask in almost a whine.

“You’re still under the delusion that what you had with that asshat was true love, and I sure as hell ain’t letting you go around thinking that some arrogant low life, bloodsucking killer is the best you can do. You deserve more,” he wants to continue but cuts himself off before he says too much.

“Do I? Isn’t happiness enough? I was happy and he was going to let you guys go… you should have just taken the out, it would’ve been better for everyone”

“Oh, come on YN, you can’t really be that naïve,” he says in an incredulous tone. “He was a vampire; he was never going to let us go”.

“But he promised –“

“Monsters lie. It’s what they do. Do you even care that he and his cronies were dropping bodies all over town?”

“Now I know your lying! He stopped killing people. He drank from blood bags or from me!”

You saw a look of disgust flash across Dean’s face, “Your boyfriend lied to you, sweetheart. How do you think he got on our radar in the first place?”

“Mate”

“What?” Dean asks with annoyance.

“He was my mate. Not my boyfriend”

“Same difference”

“To you maybe, but it means something to me”

“Maybe if you weren’t so caught up in semantics you could have seen that fucked up situation for what it was!”

“I was happy!” you keep trying to convince him.

“Were you really?” Dean suddenly closes the distance between you and reaches over to pull your arm out in front of the both of you. He rips up your sleeve to expose the scars that cover the majority of your forearm. “Because these scars beg to differ. I know for a fact these weren’t there when you left, which means at some point during your happy honeymoon phase, your little boyfriend drove you to do this to yourself,” Dean says as he lets go of your wrist as if he has just successfully proven his point.

You cling your arms to your chest as your watery eyes meet Dean’s glare. You cannot believe what he has just done. You see a flash of regret wash over him as he too realizes what just happened.

“You don’t want to know where these came from,” you whisper out in a bitter tone as you roll your sleeves back down and hold the cuffs in your palms.

“Y/N… I – I’m so” Dean tries to formulate an apology but once again is at a loss for words.

Now you know there is absolutely nothing left to say. This time when you attempt to leave, you almost make it to the stairs before you feel Dean interrupt your movements. He grasps your arm, more gently than before, and you let out an exacerbated breath. However, before you can vocalize your vexation with once again being prevented from leaving, Dean has spun you around so you are forced to face him.

He is merely inches from you, looking down into your glistening eyes. He has a string of apologies and proclamations running through his head, all of which he knows he should say. All of which you deserve to hear. However, as he looks into the sadness that is entrenched on your features, his voice fails him.

He raises a hand to your cheek to brush away a stray tear that has been threatening to fall for hours and finally realised itself under Dean’s intense gaze.

His thumb trails down your cheek toward your trembling lips. His eyes follow the path of his thumb before they flick back to your eyes for reassurance. His warm whiskey laced breath mingles with yours as he is closing the already short distance between your two lips. You know you should pull away. You know you should turn and leave but you can’t. You don’t want to.

His lips meet yours in a hesitant and chaste kiss, as if he is giving you time to push him away but also, as if he is testing his own comfortability with the situation. After a few moments, you return the kiss and he brings his other hand up to tangle it in your hair.

His tongue sweeps across your bottom lip almost begging for entrance. Once granted, he lowers his hands from your cheek and your hair to wrap firmly around your waist. As the kiss deepens he walks you backwards until your back rests against the far wall of the war room.

You tell yourself you are merely indulging in this kiss to satisfy the love-struck teenager inside of you who used to dream about this moment every night. You are doing this for her – to satisfy her undying curiosity of what it would be like to kiss the Dean Winchester. However, the butterflies in your stomach and the pounding of your heart betray whatever rational excuse your brain is scrambling to invent.

Your racing thoughts become muted as Dean pushes your hips up against the wall and starts nipping at your lower lip with his teeth. Your hands trace up his broad shoulder to hold him closer to your shaking body. His firm grasp on your hips make it so his thumbs are tracing under your shirt. He is not asking for anything more, he simply wants to feel you.

He lets out a low groan as he reluctantly pulls his lips from yours. He lowers his forehead to rest on the crook of your neck and takes a slow deep breath. You, on the other hand, are panting for air. Your lack of oxygen mixed with the return of your nervous thoughts left you gasping for air.

Without a word and without a glance, Dean pulls his body off of yours and leaves the room.

You stare blankly at his retreating form, unable to regain enough stability to call after him. You wait a few moments, that actually feel like hours, but he never returns. You chastise yourself for ever believing this would end any other way. The butterflies in your stomach have now died from suffocating disappointment. You shake your head in a vain attempt to will away the tears that sting your eyes. You once again secure your duffle bag over your shoulder and gesture for Cat to follow you as you leave the bunker for the last time.

A few minutes later Dean comes rushing back into the war room with a wide grin on his face. He is carrying a carelessly and hurriedly pack duffle bag in one hand as he swings the keys to Baby in his other hand. He is wearing his light green jacket and is ready to go. Ready to follow you anywhere.

When he scans the empty room, panic overtakes him and his smile instantly falls. “Shit!” he exclaims as he drops his bag and runs up the stairs and outside of the bunker. He scans the surrounding area but finds no trace of you. He runs to the bunker’s garage and punches the concrete wall when he notices that one of the spare cars is gone.

He pulls out his phone and dials the number of the burner phone he had given you earlier in the week. He hears the faint sound of a phone ringing and quickly follows the noise with a brewing sense of hope.

His hope is shattered when he finds the cracked phone laying on the concrete floor of the garage. He picks up the offending device with his bloodied knuckled and snaps the phone in half.

In hindsight, Dean realizes there was no way you could have known he was coming back for you… to be with you. He berates himself for being stupid enough to think you would expect anything more from him, more than disappointment.

With this realization, Dean picks up a discarded tire iron lying next to Baby. He takes the iron and smashes it hard against her passenger seat window. When he regains awareness of his actions he drops the heavy weapon and examines what he has done. Baby is now covered in dents and scratches, from bumper to taillights.

He knows he should care but a defeated numbness imbued with self-loathing washes over Dean as he looks at the damage he has caused and thinks about how he has hurt his girl.

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calligraphist-artemisia · 7 years ago

Text

I’ll Take Her Place (Chapter 11)

Summary: AU. When Allura breaks the news that she is to wed Prince Lotor in order to continue the peaceful relationship between Altea and Daibazaal, Pidge knows that she has to do something to change that. And so, with a little help, she comes up with a new plan. A better plan

Pairings: Keith/Pidge (main) ; Shiro/Allura (minor), Hunk/Lance (minor) ; Lotor/Allura (one-sided)

Chapter 1 - Previous - Masterpost

Also posted on AO3 and fanfiction.net

It’s been a few days past my goal of two weeks, but I’m okay with that. (It’s better than taking a whole month.) And this chapter still ended up being almost double that of chapter 10??? It took me all day with just a few breaks to type this up, but it was worth it.

Enjoy!

Chapter 11

Pidge hummed as she pulled up the coding for Rover's artificial intelligence, her keen eyes scanning over it for any clue about her beloved robot's continued instability. It was an insult to her programming skills that she'd been unable to solve such a simple problem.

Maybe it wasn't the programming. Maybe there was some crucial piece (or pieces) missing. The sentry had been pretty trashed when she picked it up, but she'd been so sure that she'd gathered everything she needed to complete her pet project. Pidge may have to put in a word to her suppliers and see if they had anything.

She was contemplating accessing their secure line to see if they were in the area, when the door to the Green Lion's hangar slid open and Allura and Lance stepped inside looking positively giddy. Pidge's eyes were drawn to the simple brown package in Lance's and she raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“It's finished already?” she asked, turning away from her desk.

Lance nodded, hurrying over to her in his eagerness to hand over his gift. “I gave Nilani the design a while ago, but couldn't find a good reason to get her to make it for you. Now, I do!” He held it out to her as Allura caught up to him.

Pidge accepted the package and slowly peeled away the tape, knowing the anticipation was killing her friends.

After several days of deliberation and looking at the work of several of the royal tailors and dressmakers, Pidge found herself gravitating towards the work of Lance's personal favorite – a half-Altean girl named Nilani, who'd developed a fascination with Earth culture and welcomed the challenge of designing for them. The parcel Lance had brought her was the first finished example of her work and Pidge didn't have the faintest clue how it was going to look.

While Lance squirmed, Allura stood with a beaming smile and her hands clasped in front of her, a sure sign that the princess was struggling to maintain her calm and cool appearance.

Pidge raised her eyes to meet Lance's as she leisurely lifted up the first layer of wrapping.

“You are a cruel friend,” Lance informed her.

Pidge laughed and finally ripped the paper away, eager to see it for herself. She saw the rich purple first – not too dark, but not too pink either. As she held it up, her attention was down to the wide panel of white down the center of the dress. The fabric itself flowed smoothly and was just the right thickness that it would drape nicely over her body.

“You liked the one I found at Space Mall, so I picked a style similar to that. The sleeves are longer, because I thought that might be more comfortable for you, and I think the skirt is shorter, so if you don't like it-”

“Lance,” Pidge interrupted because he could get too carried away. She couldn't tear her eyes away from her new dress, so similar to the one she'd worn for Matt's graduation, just before he and their dad left on the Kerberos mission. “I... I love it. It's like having a piece of home.”

(A piece of her old self. Of Katie, the girl who dreamed of being a pilot and finding out for herself what the stars had to teach her.)

Lance looked relieved.

Pidge stood and tried to hold the dress against herself so they could get a better look, but doing so with one arm proved a bigger challenge than she expected. She messily tucked the left side beneath the sling to hold it in place and then didn't dare move or risk it slipping free.

“It's beautiful,” Allura complimented. “Though it may cause a bit of a stir if people see you wearing Prince Keithir's colors so soon.”

Pidge wasn't really sure how she felt about that. A few weeks ago and she likely would have set the dress aside, burying it somewhere deep within her closet until she was sure she could look at it without feeling uncomfortable. However, after everything they'd been through, after the very nice evenings she'd spent in his company the past few days, she found she didn't mind so much.

“Speaking of Prince Keithir, how are things going with him?” Allura asked, genuinely curious.

“Good, I think,” Pidge said. “We're actually talking to each other now.” She folded up her new dress to the best of her ability and put it on the corner of her desk where she was sure to remember to pick it up and take it back to her room later.

“Does that mean you'll stop glaring at the floor whenever someone mentions wedding stuff?” Lance asked.

“I don't-! I didn't!” Pidge sputtered in protest.

“You did,” Allura and Lance said in unison. They looked at each other and grinned.

Pidge slumped in her chair as she sat back down. “Ugh, I did, didn't I?” she asked rhetorically.

As much as she wanted to blame being in pain for her dour mood towards anything wedding related, it had honestly started before her injury. She was learned hard and fast that just because she'd voluntarily offered herself up in Allura's place, it didn't mean a part of her wasn't still resentful for that.

“It's not too late, you know,” Allura reminded her, her voice soft. “Empress Honerva bought you three months for an official courtship. If either of you decides it isn't something you can go through with, no one would fault you for breaking it off.”

“But then you'd have to marry Lotor,” Lance said before Pidge had a chance to find the words.

Allura closed her eyes. She breathed in deeply and then slowly let it out. “Yes, I would.”

“That's not going to happen,” Pidge said with steel in her voice. She twisted her chair around so she was facing her computer screen, which meant she completely missed the twin expressions of surprise from Allura and Lance. “I won't let that happen to you, Allura. Besides, Keithir isn't so bad. I could be... content with him.”

Content.

She could see having a fantastic friendship with him, even with their rocky start, but that didn't mean they would fall in love and live happily ever after. They were two very different people, with just enough in common that they could get along and work well together, but that was all she saw.

Allura and Lance left soon after, giving Pidge more time alone with her thoughts.

Pidge worked until her stomach rumbled so loudly that she could no longer ignore it. She saved her progress and shut down her equipment before stretching carefully to release some of the stiffness in her back that had built up from sitting still for so long. Before leaving, she made sure to grab her dress and stuff it into a bag alongside a file of blueprints to work on back in her room, and then she was off to Hunk's kitchen.

When she arrived, she found Shiro dressed in full armor, calmly leaving instructions with the others. Hunk and Lance were notably not wearing their armor.

“What's going on?” Pidge asked.

Hunk looked as though he was struggling not to laugh. “Uh, someone mentioned bringing Slav in to look at the cryo-pods. Kolivan just came and told us that he's agreed to fly over here, but only if Shiro's the one to pick him up.”

Pidge chanced a quick glance at Shiro's face and had to hide her grin when she saw his eye twitch at the mention of Slav's name. As much as the crazy genius drove all of them up the wall, no one handled it worse than Shiro. There was something about Slav that pushed every single one of his buttons in the worst way. What made it better (to everyone else) was how much Slav loved the Black Paladin, probably because he was the only one willing to go above and beyond to fulfill his ridiculous conditions.

“I'll be gone for a few days, but that doesn't mean you three can slack off,” Shiro said sternly. “Allura will oversee your training while I'm away. Even yours, Pidge. You're still capable of running laps.”

Suddenly Pidge wished she was still confined to a bed. Training under Allura's guidance was bound to be a hellish experience. Even after three years of working together, the princess still forgot that their stamina and strength wasn't equal to that of Alteans and would push them until they couldn't stand.

Lance groaned, vocalizing everyone's thoughts on the matter. “Are you sure we can't take a tiny break? A few days wouldn't hurt, right?”

His question at least make Shiro smile and Pidge wondered for a moment if it was his way of getting revenge for their obvious delight that he was the one going to get Slav. She pushed the thought away. Shiro wasn't that petty.

(Yes. Yes he was.)

Pidge's stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly, reminding her of the reason why she'd let her hangar. She blushed as everyone turned to look at her.

“Hunk, you're in charge of making sure everyone eats properly,” Shiro said, sounding mildly amused.

That was an instruction the Yellow Paladin was happy to agree to.

It wasn't uncommon for conversation to come to an abrupt stop when Keithir walked into a room, whether he was in the royal palace on Daibazaal or at home in the Blade headquarters. So when he exited his room and Thace and Kolivan went silent as they turned to regard his arrival, he wasn't surprised.

“You should hear this,” Kolivan told him.

Keithir had been fully prepared to step out for a few minutes to let them wrap up, so he was pleasantly surprised by their invitation to learn more about what was happening. Even if it turned out to have nothing to do with the assassination attempt, it was still nice to be involved in something after being shut out for most of the week. He joined them, trying not to seem overeager.

“Part of my mission was meeting with an informant who has news from someone close to Lotor,” Thace explained. “According to him, Lotor returned straight home to Daibazaal after leaving Altea. There have been no noteworthy changes to his behavior and he hasn't met with anyone unusual. By all appearances, he had nothing to do with the attempt on your life.”

“But who else could it be?” Keithir's question came out as a demand. He flicked his ears back and looked away, waiting for the reprimand about keeping a level head.

“We doubt Lotor is innocent in this matter, which is why we will continue to investigate him. It is much more likely that this has been planned for some time, but certain events have caused him to act hastily,” Kolivan explained, crossing his arms over his chest.

Thace shifted uneasily. “What worries me is how quickly his plans have adapted to the currant situation. Ulaz is certain that Lotor is behind the malfunctioning cryo-pods. It cannot be coincidence that it happened the same day you agreed to marry Pidge, though it seems unlike him to make such an obvious move. I believe the two of you have taken him by surprise more than anyone expected,” he said, sounding a little proud. “This is the best opportunity we've had in years.”

“It has also become clear that Lotor is not working alone. We've suspected as much, but the sniper confirms it. Furthermore, the ease in which they avoided being caught suggests that it was the work of two people, rather than one. If he truly hasn't been seen meeting with anyone, they are far more than hired goons given the task of killing you. They have his trust,” Kolivan said.

The clear worry in his voice struck Keithir with vivid shock.

“You and Lady Katherine must remain vigilant.”

Keithir's stomach churned at the thought of it. It was one thing for his life to be in danger, but the reminder that Katie was just as big of a target as he was made him feel ill.

Logically, he knew she was fully capable of taking care of herself. He'd heard stories of the Green Paladin's courage and ingenuity in the face of adversity and had seen a spark of that for himself. In a fight, there was no question that she could hold her ground and come out the winner in the end.

But Lotor was a different battle. He was clever and didn't pull his punches, striking wherever he found a weakness to exploit. He had strategy and finesse on his side, as well as years of experience thanks to careful training. (He was raised to be the future Emperor, after all.) Keithir had never met anyone who was able to out-think his brother, and even with her quick thinking and brilliant mind, he wasn't sure even Katie had a chance.

“We've sent for Slav,” Kolivan told him. “He'll arrive soon to see what he can do about the healing pods and then we'll have one less thing to worry about. That leaves us with two more days of vulnerability. If Lotor has anything else planned for us, he'll strike before then.”

Pidge stealthily made her way through the halls, ducking out of sight whenever she was about to encounter a guard or one of the Blade. It was unlikely that anyone would stop her, but if word got back to her friends that she was leaving the Castle to go down to port on her own, without any additional protection and her wound still healing, they'd probably lock her up until Shiro returned. (Admittedly, that wouldn't be too long, as Shiro was due to return that evening, but she'd still rather avoid it.)

Just a little further and she would be free.

“What are you doing?”

Pidge barely withheld a shriek of surprise, spinning around to find the source of the voice. She spotted them quickly, tucked away in one of the small alcoves which seemed to serve no purpose except to break up the monotony of the otherwise straight corridor.

“Keith,” she breathed in relief.

He pushed his hood back and deactivated his mask. “It's dangerous to go out on your own.”

Her relief at seeing her friend quickly shifted to frustration. She was so tired of everyone trying to baby her and tell her what she could or couldn't do. She was a Paladin! There was always danger waiting for her, but that didn't mean she had to cower in her room out of fear!

Pidge turned away from him and kept walking. “I'm just going to see some friends. I won't be long.”

Swift footsteps followed behind her. Keith made no effort to hide the fact that he was following her.

“I don't need a baby-sitter, Keith!” she snapped.

Keith caught her by the arm, tugging her to a stop. “Are you insane? You have no idea how dangerous Lotor is! He's not going to pull any punches just because you're injured! You can't go out there by yourself!”

Pidge ripped her arm from his hold, frustration mounting to rage. “You can't tell me what to do!” Her voice echoed down the hall, much louder than she intended. Her face reddened slightly, but she held her ground.

Keith, it seemed, wasn't going to back down either. (Pidge wondered later if it was because he was used to dealing with an equally stubborn prince.) “Just listen to me! Lotor is done playing games. He's going to use every advantage he can take and you going out there by yourself is playing directly into his hands! You're going to get yourself killed, Katie!”

His use of her real name made her feel as though she'd been doused in cold water. So few people called her by that name anymore – Keithir was the only one, actually – and it was enough to make her stop and think.

“Please don't go by yourself,” he said, his voice a little softer. “It doesn't have to be me, but don't go alone.”

Pidge closed her eyes and took a moment to breath and calm herself. She wouldn't let herself be ruled by anger. It had a horrible way of getting her to yell at people who didn't deserve it and muddying her normally logical thought process.

“I guess having backup wouldn't be so bad... Just stay close and try not to draw attention to yourself,” Pidge told him, eyeing his dark uniform. They had little hope of not standing out, but if they acted natural, no one would watch them closely.

Keith fell into step next to her as they left the Castle. A heavy and strained silence stretched between them, hanging on by a fragile thread that neither of them was ready to break.

Pidge was still steamed about how he tried to order her around, as though she was a child who needed to be coddled and protected because she couldn't do it herself. It didn't matter how much time had passed. It didn't matter that she was considered an adult by most cultures, on Earth or otherwise. She doubted she would ever shake the paranoia of others treating her like she was too young.

“Who's this friend you're risking your life to see?” Keith asked.

“Friends,” Pidge corrected, ignoring the obvious jab. “They're kind of my suppliers for unusual tech that I re-purpose for my own use. Sometimes they bring me interesting news.”

Keith looked impressed. “They're your informants?”

“In a way. They're able to fly under the radar, so they pick up on tidbits no one else hears about. Sometimes it's useful. Sometimes it's just rumor. It's easy to pick out which is which when the rumors are usually something like Commander Sendak being spotted vacationing at the spa on Traxia's twelfth moon.”

Keith chuckled. “That does sound unlike him.”

“Yeah, I always figured he was the sort to enjoy fighting more than anything else. If anything, a spa day would be like torture to him,” Pidge said jokingly.

The two fell quiet again as they reached a more crowded area. Keith moved a little closer to her, his sharp eyes watching out for anyone who looked suspicious. Pidge pressed on, knowing exactly where she was going as she led the way through the winding streets packed with people.

They walked for some time, but eventually she spotted the old junker parked on the edge of port. Grinning, she strode forward to greet the blue-skinned alien who was moving boxes off of the ship.

“For a while I was afraid I'd have to come bail you out of trouble again,” Pidge called out.

The alien stood up straight and lazily smirked in her direction. “I'd be flattered if I didn't know the real reason you'd come to our rescue. Beezer's helping Nyma with a few things inside right now.” His gaze slid to Keith, who stood rigidly at Pidge's side. He raised an eyebrow. “Who's your shadow?”

“This is Keith. Keith, this is Rolo,” Pidge introduced. “So, you said you found something for me?”

“Straight to business, as usual,” Rolo teased. “But yeah, we picked p those parts you asked for the last time we were here and I think Nyma has some spare pieces for your sentry. You two come on in and I'll find them for you.”

Keith's gaze flickered to Pidge, who followed Rolo onto the ship with a bounce in her step, wrapped up in the delight of finally getting to start the projects she'd been postponing due to lack of materials. (Sure, she could ask Allura for all of the Altean tech she could dream of, and had done so more than once, but there was something infinitely more fulfilling about salvaging stuff that anyone else would declare garbage.)

“Keith, are you coming?”

He finally moved, unsure about walking onto an unfamiliar cargo ship, but willing to trust that Pidge wouldn't deliberately lead him into a trap.

“Nyma, Pidge is here!” Rolo called towards the front. At his words, a faint barrier built itself across the ramp of the ship, cutting them off from the outside world.

Keith's hand immediately went to his dagger as he slid into a defensive position, fully prepared to fight his way out.

Rolo caught sight of the movement and raised an eyebrow. “Twitchy, isn't he?” he remarked to Pidge.

She looked back, her eyes going soft when she saw him. “Keith, it's fine. The barrier just prevents anyone from listening in to what we're saying. It's not keeping us stuck inside. See?” She stuck her hand through it to prove her point.

Keith relaxed at her demonstration, a little embarrassed by his reaction, and let his arms rest back at his sides.

“You obviously have more than parts for me today,” Pidge said as she walked over to stand next to Keith. “What's going on?”

Rolo leaned back against a wall before he started talking. “We've started to hear talk about rebellion in the Outer Reaches. Seems there's a couple of planets willing to band together and 'take back what's rightfully theirs'. Mostly we figure they're talking about the colony planets and stations held by Altea and Daibazaal. They've never been fond of either spreading their influences that far, but this is the first time anyone has dared rally against them.”

Keith frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “You're talking about the Napamku Quadrant.”

Rolo nodded.

“That's Lotor's territory. The Galra colony and two outposts are under his control, to help him prepare for ruling the empire,” Keith quietly told Pidge. “The Blade's picked up whispers of unease for years, but nothing like this.” He directed his attention back to Rolo and raised his voice so the other could hear him clearly. “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn't be telling Pidge if I didn't think it was serious.”

“Kolivan and Shiro need to hear this,” Pidge murmured.

Keith agreed, silently vowing to find Kolivan the moment they returned to the Castle. His sharp eyes were soon drawn to movement behind Rolo and he watched as a female alien joined them with a sealed crate and a small robot at her side.

The robot beeped in excitement when it noticed Pidge and she squealed in response, dropping to her knees as it rolled over to her and playfully bumped against her side until she enveloped it in a one-armed hug.

“It's good to see you too, Beezer! How's the best robot in the whole universe?”

Beezer gave a series of different toned beeps in response.

Nyma watched on with amusement. “Sometimes I think the salvage is just an excuse to see him.”

Pidge was too busy holding a conversation with the robot, though Keith couldn't help bu wonder if she actually understood the little guy or if it was entirely one-sided.

Rolo cleared his throat in an attempt to get her attention. “That's not the only rumor we've heard, though the next one have been dismissed as too far-fetched so far. Nyma overheard this one during our stopover at the Fripping Bulgogian. Seems a couple of Galra had a bit too much to drink.”

“They say you've agreed to marry the Galra prince to fully establish ties between Daibazaal and Voltron,” Nyma said, sounding surprisingly uneasy with the idea. “It's not true, is it, Pidge?”

Pidge looked away and that was all the confirmation Nyma needed.

“Be careful, okay? Prince Keithir is said to be kinder than his brother, but that doesn't mean you aren't treading dangerous waters. Getting between them is risky.”

Pidge's shoulder throbbed painfully, as if echoing Nyma's concerns. “Yeah, I know. I'll be careful.” She gave Beezer one last affectionate pat and then stood up. “Anything I can do for you two while you're here?”

“If you could, ask Hunk to come down and help me give this baby a look over,” Rolo requested. “I think she's overdue for a tune up.”

“Sure,” Pidge responded, stepping forward to retrieve the crate of parts from Nyma. She hesitated upon realizing she didn't have a good way to carry it back to the Castle by herself. She could feel her cheeks heating up as she looked to Keith for help. “Could you...?”

Keith looked a little startled at being asked, but walked over and picked up the crate with ease.

After that, they said their goodbyes and began the long trek back to the Castle.

“Thanks for carrying that for me,” Pidge said after several minutes had passed.

“You're welcome. How were you planning on getting it back by yourself, anyway?” he asked.

“I, uh, didn't really think about that, I guess,” she responded, unable to look at him. “Normally they don't have this much for me and I can just carry it back in my pockets or in a small bag.”

Keith hummed and didn't say anything else for a few minutes until another question struck him. “What's all of this for?”

Pidge instantly brightened at being asked about her projects, something few people dared to bring up anymore. “Some of it's so I can finish my repairs on Rover! Oh, Rover's this Galra sentry that I found and decided to rebuild. He's going to help me around the hangar and keep Hunk from borrowing my things without permission. I've just about got him working properly, but he's not quite there yet. Last time I turned him on he chased Hunk around the room until I told him to stop!” She laughed at the memory. “The rest is for a miniature anti-gravity machine! Ages ago, I found these cute little fuzzy aliens floating around in a scrapyard and brought a few of them back to the Castle with me. The problem is, I can't turn off the gravity in my room, which means all they can do now is crawl around. But, if I can generate an energy field small enough that it won't interfere with anything else...”

Keith was content to listen to her babble on about her plans, enjoying the way her face lit up as she spoke. He'd been a little taken aback at first. He hadn't expected her to dive right in and explain it with such eagerness. Not to him.

It was clear her tech was something she was very passionate about and in a small way it reminded him of his mother.

Pidge talked the entire way back to the Castle, and while most of it went right over his head, Keith managed to think of a few relevant questions to ask along the way. It was for that reason that Pidge invited him inside of her hangar instead of having him drop it off just inside the door.

“Want to meet Rover?” Pidge asked, already heading towards her workbench.

Keith heard her question, but stood just inside the room, frozen in place at the sight of the Green Lion. He knew the Lions were massive, but to actually see one in person...

Golden eyes seemed to bore straight into his blue-violet ones, almost as if the Lion could see directly into his soul. He shuddered at the thought.

“Greenie, behave,” Pidge called out.

The staring lessened somewhat and Keith willed his legs to move. He carried the crate to the desk and put it down where Pidge told him to, but before he could excuse himself to try and get away from the Green Lion, a pyramid-shaped object flew into his arm and beeped indignantly. And then it repeated the process.

“Like I said,” Pidge said, grabbing Rover before he could carry on. “It's a work-in-progress. I'll have him working perfectly soon.”

Keith watched her gently caress the tiny drone before shutting it down and he couldn't help but smile at her treatment of it. It seemed there was more to her than he'd imagined.

“I found the perfect place to practice!” Allura happily said to Lance, before dragging him from the comfort of the couch and the middle of a huge boss battle.

“But my high score!” he yelped, fumbling with the controller. His head drooped in defeat when it fell from his hands and clattered to the floor.

Lance let Allura drag him down the hall and into a room that was no longer in use. He and Pidge had once tried to turn it into a yoga studio for a bit of lighter exercise, but it didn't last longer than a week.

“So what are we practicing?”

Allura let go of him and gracefully spun around, her hair flowing around her like a rippling silver river. “Dancing, of course! You did say you'd help me so I can properly teach Pidge, remember?”

The memory was coming back to him and Lance grinned as his excitement rose to match hers.

“I know Coran is a little busy today, preparing for Slav's arrival, but I thought we could at least get started with the basics. Once you've got that down, it will be easier to understand what Coran is telling you to do,” Allura said. She held her hands out to Lance, inviting him closer. “Shiro once taught me your Earth 'waltz' and I've found it quite similar to the Galran akríg, so we'll start there.”

Lance hesitantly got into place, his nervousness bleeding from every movement he made. “Like this?”

Allura hummed and adjusted his hand on her waist before beaming up at him. “Perfect! Now, if I remember correctly, you lead.”

“O-oh, right,” Lance stammered, taking another moment before guiding Allura in small, cautious steps. “I think it's like this? Sorry, it's been a while.”

“You're doing fine,” Allura told him.

Emboldened by her confidence in him, Lance relaxed, his movements growing more confident with every minute that passed. Soon, they were gliding around the room, both smiling and carrying on a conversation about how well they thought Shiro was handling getting stuck transporting Slav by himself.

“I feel like he's cooking up a horrific training exercise for us at this very moment,” Lance said with a shiver.

“Only if he hasn't thrown himself out of the Black Lion to escape,” Allura joked.

“You should've gone with him,” Lance told her. “You could've spared him from such a horrible fate and gotten to spend an entire day alone with him in the cockpit, just the two of you.” He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Romantic.”

Allura rolled her eyes, a dark blush settling over her cheeks at the insinuation. She made no attempt to deny his words as she normally would. “I had considered...” She stopped herself with a shake of her head. “It wouldn't be appropriate. This is for the best, at least for now. Perhaps after the wedding.”

“Do you really want to wait that long?” Lance asked, all trace of playful banter gone. He swallowed a wave of bitterness at the reminder of the situation Pidge had gotten into. “Pidge got you two a second chance. You can't throw that away. You and Shiro... you two are perfect for each other. It's the sort of relationship that people dream about having. So to see you two dance around it, knowing that you both feel the same, it's hard to watch.

“There's always a risk with dating. It... It changes everything and if it doesn't work out, it never goes back to exactly the way it was before. But if you don't take that risk, you might miss out on something wonderful,” Lance said, his voice low. “I was petrified when I realized I was in love with Hunk – in love with my best friend. It could have ruined everything. I was so sure of it. And then... and then that mission happened and all I could think was that I never had the chance to tell him how I really feel and it almost killed me inside.

“So don't wait, Allura. Don't wait until it's almost too late.”

The healing pods were fixed and the twitch in Shiro's right eye promised retribution to his fellow Paladins. Pidge chose to abscond the moment Ulaz proclaimed her shoulder fully healed, abandoning her leader before he could convince her to remain with him while Slav went on about proper pod maintenance and potential improvements.

She would usually be tempted to stick around longer. As crazy as he was, Slav had one of the most brilliant minds she had ever come across and when he actually stayed on topic, talking to him was enjoyable. But she had other plans. Plans she had set into motion earlier that day and was actually kind of excited about.

Up until that point, Keithir had been the one to invite her on their dates. First had been the dinner disaster and then there was the garden stroll, which started out decently, but ended worse than the first. They'd spent several evenings talking in his quarters under the watchful eyes of Thace, but she wasn't counting those as proper dates.

“Third time's the charm,” she said to herself as she walked into the kitchen.

Predictably, Hunk was there, putting the finishing touches on the food she'd asked for. He looked up when she entered and broke out into a huge smile. “You're healed!”

She playfully flexed her left arm, taking delight in the freedom she'd regained. She swore she would never take the cryo-pods for granted again.

“I'm one-hundred percent back to normal!” Pidge said as she joined him at the counter. She breathed in deeply, melting at the delicious smells. “Have I mentioned that you're the best friend ever? Because this is incredible, Hunk.”

Hunk blushed at the praise. “It is pretty great, isn't it,” he said, looking over his hard work with pride. “I hope you don't mind, but I'm borrowing your dinner idea for me and Lance. I found this really cute spot in the southeastern part of the gardens where you get a good view of sunfall and I'm going to surprise him.”

“Aww, that's so sweet!” Pidge said sincerely.

Together the pair packed two picnic baskets, carefully arranging the food inside so nothing would get crushed. Some of it was left behind for Allura and Shiro to enjoy, just in case they decided against joining the King and Queen for dinner.

While Hunk went to track down Lance and whisk him away for a surprise romantic dinner, Pidge gathered up her courage and headed to the room Keithir had been given.

He was waiting for her outside the door, quietly talking to the Blade who was there to protect him. He looked annoyed by something, his ears flicked back as he crossed his arms over his chest, but the moment he caught sight of her, that all went away and an expression of pure awe took its place.

Pidge shoved aside her impulse to look down. She'd worn her new dress knowing the sort of reaction it might bring. Maybe she should have listened to Allura's warning and saved it to wear another time.

The masked Blade roughly nudged Keithir when he continued to stare, knocking the prince from his stupor.

“You, um, look nice,” Keithir said awkwardly.

“Thanks,” Pidge said. She wanted to scream at herself for being so nervous about talking to him. What was it about calling it a date that always rendered them unable to function properly? She ducked her head as she felt her cheeks start to heat up and had to shift the basket from one hand to another as her palms started to sweat.

The simple movement spurred Keithir into action, years of training kicking in. “Here, may I?” he asked, gesturing to the basket.

Pidge almost insisted on carrying it herself, but something about the way he asked, so uncertain, left her feeling okay about handing it over to him.

It wasn't about strength or weakness. It was an offering to help, if she wanted it.

If Keithir thought he'd been nervous before, both of their previous dates paled in comparison to Katie leading him down to her hangar, where the Green Lion silently sat. The great beast made him unexpectedly anxious, as he doubted it would take kindly to his unintended double life and Keith and Keithir.

Katie, luckily, didn't pick up on his inner turmoil, and in fact looked wrapped up in her own thoughts as she nibbled on her lower lip.

It wasn't just the Green Lion that had his stomach twisted in knots. Seeing Pidge in that beautiful shade of deep purple (Daibazaal's royal color), it suddenly struck home that in a few short months he would be married to that clever, brilliant woman. She would be the one he would spend the rest of his life with.

They entered the hangar and, as before, Keithir's body froze up the moment he set eyes on the Green Lion. He could hear the whisper of a question in his head – an utterly foreign and bizarre feeling – but it was gone before he could rationalize it.

“Keithir, are you okay?” Katie asked.

Keithir tore his gaze away from the Lion, glad to find he could move once again. “I'm fine.”

She studied him closely for a moment and then let go of whatever question she had building in her mind. “I know it's not the most traditional picnic, but after last time I thought this might be safer. I tried to make it as comfortable as I could. Allura helped.” She turned and gestured to the floor behind her, where a green-and-white checkered blanket had been spread out over a mat.

It was simple. Relaxed. The exact opposite of how he'd been taught a proper date should be when wooing a lady.

Keithir loved it.

“It's perfect,” he told her and was rewarded with one of her bright smiles.

The two made themselves comfortable on the cushioned blanket and Katie started unpacking the basket, handing things to Keithir to arrange between them.

“Sorry about Regris,” he apologized. “Kolivan still has him on guard duty, just in case.”

Katie sat up as she removed the plates from the bottom of the basket and handed one of them to him. “Your safety is important, especially since we still don't know how the sniper got in or out of the Castle. At least you don't have to be within sight of him at all times when you're inside, right?”

“True,” Keithir agreed, thankful that his friend could be reasoned with. He doubted Regris really wanted to stand by and watch them on their date, no matter how much the older Galra liked to tease him about doing so.

He waited until Pidge opened the first container and began spooning out food for herself and then picked a box of tiny breads stuffed with what he thought might be meat of some kind.

Their conversation continued along those lines, as they compared notes on what they'd been told of the new security measures. From there, they moved onto the planets they missed visiting the most, but would be unlikely to see again for some time.

As the last bit of food was eaten, their simple date started to wind down and Keithir helped her clean up whatever he could.

“Can I ask you something?” Katie asked, out of the blue. “I've been wondering for a while now, but... why did you agree to this? I did it so Allura wouldn't marry Lotor, because she deserves to be with someone who makes her happy and I... Well, I could do something to make sure that would happen, so I did it. But you...”

Keithir took a moment to collect his thoughts. He had been wondering when she would ask and had been so sure that he was prepared for it, but all of his good excuses fled his mind as she looked at him with those big brown eyes. “Lotor and I got along once, but that was a long time ago. At some point, he decided I would be a hindrance to his plans, whatever they are, which makes me expendable.

“So I decided to do everything I can to get in his way,” Keithir admitted. “I'm sorry you got mixed up in this, Katie. I never meant for anyone else to get involved.”

He wasn't sure how she would take it.

Thace and Ulaz had lectured him about needlessly endangering himself when he told them. Regris had (affectionately, in a way) called him an idiot. Kolivan's response had been to push him even harder in training, determined to see his youngest Blade thrive.

Katie huffed in amusement and reached fr her half-full glass of juice, lifting it in his direction. “Here's to getting involved in dangerous situations most people try to avoid.”

Keithir gently clinked his glass against hers.

Upon reflection, several months later, he would realize that was the moment he started to fall for her.

Lotor was less than pleased with the way his plans were turning out.

After months of subtly influencing members of his father's council, he'd finally had Allura within his grasp, only to have her snatched away thanks to his so-called brother and that annoyingly clever Green Paladin.

He'd hoped to settle the matter and get his plans back on track by taking Keithir out of the picture, but once again that child got in his way. His only consolation was that Ezor had managed to successfully sabotage the healing pods for long enough that the paladin had to suffer the pain of her injury.

Perhaps he'd acted too rashly, allowing his rage to swallow him for a brief time. He would do better in the future.

Lotor silently watched his team of elite fighters banter with each other, all of them feeling the stress of the past few weeks. With Acxa's failure to kill Keithir and being spotted by the Altean guards while helping her escape (forcing her and Ezor to take care of the guards so they could never speak of what they saw), they were all waiting for the inevitable punishment.

It wouldn't come.

The two of them, as well as Narti and Zethrid, were completely loyal to him and him alone. Criticism would be enough to inspire them to do better.

“Zethrid, I have a mission for you,” Lotor said, a slow smirk curving across his face. A success would do well for morale and he had the perfect idea. “I think you'll enjoy this one.”

#voltron #arranged marriage au #kidge #kidgemas #fanfiction #I'll Take Her Place #slowly making progress #have i mentioned that this is a slow burn?

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r95irth · 7 years ago

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Happy birthday Shouto

I wanted to do a drawing for Shouto Todoroki birthday but it will have to wait until tomorrow...Too much work today. Instead i wrote something !

Birthdays weren’t the event Shouto had looked forward the most. He had little to no happy memories of his birthdays.

He remembered one, when his mother was still at home ; though.

She had woken up in the middle of the night, and got a cake out of a hidden box in her room, so they could eat it together in secrecy. He cherished this scene, even though time made his mother’s face and smile blurry in his mind, the song they whispered, too afraid to wake up anyone,was bit clumsy and dead tuned. But it had been his secret, their secret. At this age, when he saw his brothers and sisters from afar, throwing birthday parties with friends and maids, he had felt both jealous and special. None of them had to endure this, they could celebrate the normal way. But on the other hand, none of them knew the incredible sweetness of a cake eaten under the futon’s blanket, the warmth of his mother’s embrace, or the happiness of having her blow the single candle with him. And so it had been one of his few treasure as a kid.

When his mother was taken away, it ended. All together. On his birth day, Endeavour would simply state that, now he was a year older, they could add this or that to his training schedule. It was no gift, more of a reminder of the ticking clock, the same old instruction “you’re going to be my successor soon enough.”

Fuyumi always managed to sneak out a little gift into his pocket or his bag. Something small and, almost every time handmade. It made Shouto smile as he found it every year, while he was at school or changing. He couldn’t use it right away, because then their father -who was not an idiot- would have noticed it, and probably made a remark about it. He never confiscated the gift Fuyumi made for him, but he did talk about it, badly, making Fuyumi feel guilty, at best, uncomfortable, most of the time, and worst of all, powerless as she was inapt to fight back their father’s opinion without generating the conflict.

So Shouto tended to avoid showing his gift, for a few days, sometimes a whole month.

His brothers, who had been sent to under the supervision of his maternal family part, as they grew up -which was the same as the other side of the world, to be honest- , couldn’t do the same as Fuyumi. He got letters from them. At least his father never bothered getting the letters out of his reach. He only complained when Shouto read it in front of him -about the him wasting training time for childish emotions.

Sometimes, if he squeezed his eyes shut, and really -really- focus on his birthday, he could make up details of a dream he had when he was still little. Under the guidance of Fuyumi, he had followed her to the attic. The place was dark, and full of spiders. And there was only one old single window, completely covered by dust, to give the place some light. But the girl had organized the furniture around so it could almost make out a tent near this single window. An old forgotten Tatami, his old blanket from when he was baby were put there. It had the scent of his mother -though he could never quite point out how his mother scented, in was somewhere in between warm and fuzzy- And in the middle of old toys ; one old cable phone.

-I convinced our nanny to install a line here, Fuyumi had whispered in his dream. -Father doesn’t know about it.

She handed him a paper, full of numbers on it that shined under the slow ray, danced between colored dust of light.

Above those numbers, he knew there was his mother’s. The one Fuyumi always called, the hospital one.

But Shouto never called her, even in his dreams. Maybe it was a sweet dream, and he didn’t want it to turn into a nightmare. Like in the real life he was too scared to hear her voice, to hear her cry or scream. He was too afraid to see this mad look on him, as she looked at him. He was too afraid that she would hate him, as much as she hated Endeavor. As much as himself, hated his father. If he didn’t see her, she couldn’t look at him with those eyes. If he didn’t ask her, she couldn’t answer him : “yes i resent you”. If he didn’t meet her ever again, surely, she would never cry again (and he wished the thought was enough to stop him crying too, but unfortunately life wasn’t that simple).

So he didn’t call his mother, not in reality nore in the dream. But he called his brothers sometimes. He could almost make up their voice, no matter how long they were gone. His eldest brother’s laugh sounded exactly as back then, when he simply watched them play in the garden, a window away, so close and yet so far. Shouto would lie down to the dusty window, close his eyes. It almost felt like this night, when he was kid, as he blew the single candle in the dead of the night. This place, no matter how dusty and dark it was, was one of the place in felt the safest in the house. His father had no idea where he was, in the dream - how could he even imagine that Shouto was in the attic? There was nothing in the attic.

As he reached the age of 14, the dream was long forgotten. A memory as blurry as his mother’s smile and his brother’s voices. He sometimes had some sort of recollections of it, especially near his birthday. He could visualize the hidden door, the tiny passage under all the fallen furniture he had to crawl under to access the ladder, and finally, the trap to access the lonely window. He got back he feeling of being safe, far, really far away from his father, and close, so close to his mother, brothers and sister. And then he woke up, feeling numb and warm under the blanket and yet so cold and aware of his loneliness inside his bones. There was absolutely nothing in the attic. Heck, Shouto had no clue if the house even had an attic at all. He looked for it once, sure that he could not have made up such a vivid dream. But he never found it.

He wanted to ask Fuyumi about it, but he was too embarrassed to mutter a word. This was such a childish want, stupid illusion he had. And even if he could find the courage to mutter this question ; what if it was true? What if Fuyumi did really all of that ? (How could she even manage to install a line under their father’s back when she was still a kid, was already a big clue of how unreal this fantasy was). Then, he would only bring Fuyumi some trouble by talking about it. If the hideout really existed, then somehow, he had stopped going for a reason. Was father close to find it? Was the line suspended?

Shouto decided to let the dream be a dream and to not turn it into a nightmare. When he made his bag to move to the dorms of UA, he closed this door, for ever. He had no need to dream of a blurry safe place, lost somewhere in this house as big as Endeavor’s pride. He already found one, he built his own. One he didn’t have to hide, one he could call his mother every day, one he didn’t have to whisper the birthday song to his sister, one he could actually invite his brothers over, one he had friends to celebrate with.

***

The first birthday he spent with actual friends, he didn’t know what to do. They had all agreed to not celebrate it the first year, to be fair with those whose birthday was at the beginning of the year -before the dorms was built. So he assumed that his birthday was canceled.

It was in the middle of the week, so he couldn’t go and see his mother at the hospital, or ask Fuyumi or his brothers to come, they all had their lives, their work to do. Fuyumi promised him to organize something, this week-end, to reunite everyone in their mother’s hospital room, and eat a cake -an apple cake. She had no news of one of their brother yet, but she was confident.

Shouto tried not to care -he tried not to be impatient, so he couldn’t be disappointed if it didn’t happen either. He spent most of the day by the window, as he dozzed on and off, trying to find back the familiar feeling of his birthday dreams, in vain, focusing when class started, and immediately getting back to a dream state when the lesson ended.

-You must really be tired, stated Yaoyozozu with a sorry smile, next to him, near lunch. -Is supplementary lessons tiring you out? Do you need an energy drink or something?

He tried to deny it, but it was too late, she already took out a small bottle out of her bag. It was his favorite cold drink from the UA store. She handed it to him with a warm smile. And Shouto couldn’t help but take it, thanking her with a bow.

He decided that it was a birthday present. He liked the idea.

At lunch, Iida showed the same concern as Yaoyorozu, asking him how he was feeling and if there was anything he could do to help him find his energy back.

-First thing to do to be in full health, is to eat healthy food! He finally claimed, before running to the cafeteria and coming back with a full plate of cold soba.

Shouto thanked him, and savored his second present of the day, his chest a little bit warmer.

His third present was a bit special, as he was on his way to the dorm, Midoriya called him, clumsily running to him ;

-Todoroki! -He had still his cheek red from his usual jog- I was wondering if you mind training with me today! I want to test out my new battle strategies against not-close-range opponent!

He started to mumbles like he always did, and Shouto couldn’t make up the exact purpose of the training (was it for kicks, or, to focus on speed?) Yet, it was still a better thing to do, than just go back to his room and stare at the window for the rest of the day. He needed to train too, after all, he was behind everyone, and soon, would have to take back the pro license exam. So he agreed and followed Midoriya to one of the numerous training field UA lent to its students.

It was one of the first time Shouto saw training as funny, and hence decided that it deserved to be designed of his third gift of the day.

And he got a fourth (Uraraka shared her favorite candies with him as they did their homework in the common area) a fifth (Kouda let him pet his bunny) a sixth (Kirishima invited him to play video,game with Denki)... So many, he lost the count. On many aspects, it was like every day of his life, and yet, it felt so special.

His friends cared about him, they made him feel needed. Not the way his father used to do, like Shouto owed them for the attention they give him, for being here, as if anything they did were pilling up on the sheet of some cosmic bill he will have to pay back one day. It was selfless, it was kind and sweet.

That night, Shouto didn’t dream of his special place.

And two days laters, he had a secret party with his mother, sister, and one of his brother, in the intimacy of a hospital room, filled with handmade colored paper garlands.

***

Now Shouto was, what he liked to think, adult. And he had many birthdays he could remember happily, fond memories of his friends reunited together, simple gifts, his family singing a song, and him blowing a candle on a cake.

Momo offered him his first tie as a birthday gift, when he got twenty. He had a fine vine bottle from Mineta when he was twenty one. Uraraka built him a kotatsu when he turned twenty five. Iida and Midoriya payed a trip to onsen for the three of them when he got twenty-eight. He loved all those gifts equally, no matter what it was. But what he liked the most on his birthday was definitely being surrounded by the people he loved, by the people he choose to call his family.

Shouto was happy, contented.

And that was why, when he went to his old father’s house, to collect some his old stuff -Satoru, his adopted son, asked for some training gears and he was sure that his father had some- He was surprised to find a rusty door, behind a lot of packages and rubbishes.

-Was it always there? He asked Fuyumi, as his sister was trying to prevent her daughter from scribbling on the whole wall.

His sister gave the door a simple look, and smiled:

-Oh yes. It leads to the attic.

Shouto felt a shiver running down his spine, and his mouth went dry. For a moment, he could only stare at the door, so sure it had never been there before, and yet his memory full of childish dreams.

-Why was it condemned? He asked.

Fuyumi shugged:

-The attic was so full, and we kept adding new stuffs, some of the furniture must have fallen on the trapdoor, we couldn’t open it anymore. I didn’t want to ask father to unlock it, because…

-Because there was phone near a window, that he wasn’t supposed to discover, whispered Shouto, his heart beating so fast in his chest that he almost couldn’t hear his own words.

And suddenly there was no dream, and no doubt in his mind anymore. It felt no longer childish, or stupid, it no longer hurt and it no longer comfort him. It just felt right, and true, and it felt good that it had been real. Somewhere, long, long time ago, he had a safe place when he had needed it.

Fuyumi stopped and stared at him. She had this smile on her face, the one quite not sad, not quite sorry, a little bit of both, mixed with one more joyful emotion : relief.

-You remember, you were so little, i thought for sure that you wouldn’t.

Shouto felt himself nod and smile, as the hazy dream became more and more detailed, gaining as many detail as he found back his confidence in himself:

-There was a window. You used some piece of wood to make a tent near it…

-Mom’s old wardrobe, and some piece of my baby craddles, she confirmed, her voice full of amusement.

-You put Tatami on the floor, he added.

-Yes, and some old sheets to make a ceiling.

-And i used to curl up on the blanket, putting my head to the window as i talked to the phone…

-We only had half an hour everyday, when we went back from school, before father came back home. I used to keep the nanny busy by asking her to help with my homework, so you could go up.

Shouto didn’t remember being pressed by time, when he was up there. Time was not a concept that belonged there.

-Do you want to climb up? See the place? I’m sure if we do it together we can unlock the trapdoor now that we’re older. The place will surely feel small to you, now, but…

-No it’s okay.

Shouto didn’t feel the need to see it ; he knew that it had existed, and that was enough to make him happy. But it was a place of a past, a place that belonged to the sad kid he had been. He was no longer that boy, and so, it had no purpose, no meaning, no more magic to him. Seeing it now, would only shatter the mystic aura of the dream. And unlike before, he now knew that it was okay to dream.

Fuyumi seemed to understand it, as she closed the door back.

#shouto todoroki #happy birthday #bnha #My writing #better care related #somehow

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forestwater87 · 8 years ago

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John Dies at the End -- David Wong

So okay this is literally the best book I’ve ever read, but there’s really no way to explain “drug that lets you see into other dimensions turns two assholes into the worst exorcists ever” that doesn’t make it sound a little lame, so fuck it. I’m typing up the entire goddamn prologue.

If you need something to read, just . . . try it. It’s amazing. Try the book that the author calls a “convoluted NyQuil fever dream of a horror story,” “a Class II biohazard,” “the unholy thing I was growing in my brain’s murky cloning vat,” a “gruesome hyperactive chain of absurd non sequiturs,” “a crash between two semi trucks hauling napalm and vibrators,” “400 pages of undiagnosed personality disorder,” a “150,000-word cry for help,” “a hallucinogenic cacophonous Mardi Gras of fart monsters,” and “a 400-page tour through my misfiring synapses.”

Seriously, everyone. A work of fucking genius.

Prologue

SOLVING THE FOLLOWING riddle will reveal the awful secret behind the universe, assuming you do not go utterly mad in the attempt. If you already happen to know the awful secret behind the universe, feel free to skip ahead.

Let’s say you have an ax. Just a cheap one, from Home Depot. On one bitter winter day, you use said ax to behead a man. Don’t worry, the man was already dead. Or maybe you should worry, because you’re the one who shot him.

He had been a big, twitchy guy with veiny skin stretched over swollen biceps, a tattoo of a swastika on his tongue. Teeth filed into razor-sharp fangs—you know the type. And you’re chopping off his head because, even with eight bullet holes in him, you’re pretty sure he’s about to spring back to his feet and eat the look of terror right off your face. On the follow-through of the last swing, though, the handle of the ax snaps in a spray of splinters. You now have a broken ax. So, after a long night of looking for a place to dump the man and his head, you take a trip into town with your ax. You go to the hardware store, explaining away the dark reddish stains on the broken handle as barbecue sauce. You walk out with a brand-new handle for your ax. The repaired ax sits undisturbed in your garage until the spring when, on one rainy morning, you find in your kitchen a creature that appears to be a foot-long slug with a bulging egg sac on its tail. Its jaws bite one of your forks in half with what seems like very little effort. You grab your trusty ax and chop the thing into several pieces. On the last blow, however, the ax strikes a metal leg of the overturned kitchen table and chips out a notch right in the middle of the blade. Of course, a chipped head means yet another trip to the hardware store. They sell you a brand-new head for your ax. As soon as you get home, you meet the reanimated body of the guy you beheaded earlier. He’s also got a new head, stitched on with what looks like plastic weed-trimmer line, and it’s wearing that unique expression of “you’re the man who killed me last winter” resentment that one so rarely encounters in everyday life. You brandish your ax. The guy takes a long look at the weapon with his squishy, rotting eyes and in a gargly voice he screams, “That’s the same ax that beheaded me!” IS HE RIGHT?

I WAS PONDERING that riddle as I reclined on my porch at 3:00 A.M., a chilled breeze numbing my cheeks and earlobes and flicking tickly hairs across my forehead. I had my feet up on the railing, leaning back in one of those cheap plastic lawn chairs, the kind that blow out onto the lawn during every thunderstorm. It would have been a good occasion to smoke a pipe had I owned one and had I been forty years older. It was one of those rare moments of mental peace I get these days, the kind you don’t appreciate until they’re ov— My cell phone screeched, the sound like a sonic bee sting. I dug the slim little phone from my jacket pocket, glanced at the number and felt a sickening little twinge of fear. I disconnected the call without answering. The world was silent again, save for the faint applause of trees rustling in the wind and crumbly dead leaves scraping lightly down the pavement. That, and the scuffle of a mentally challenged dog trying to climb onto the chair next to me. After two attempts to mount the thing, Molly managed to send the chair clattering onto its side. She stared at the toppled chair for several seconds and then started barking at it. The phone again. Molly growled at the chair. I closed my eyes, said an angry five-word prayer and answered the call. “Hello?” “Dave? This is John. Your pimp says bring the heroin shipment tonight, or he’ll be forced to stick you. Meet him where we buried the Korean whore. The one without the goatee.” That was code. It meant “Come to my place as soon as you can, it’s important.” Code, you know, in case the phone was bugged. “John, it’s three in the—” “Oh, and don’t forget, tomorrow is the day we kill the president.” Click. He was gone. That last part was code for, “Stop and pick me up some cigarettes on the way.” Actually, the phone probably was bugged, but I was confident the people doing it could just as easily do some kind of remote intercept of our brain waves if they wanted, so it was moot. Two minutes and one very long sigh later, I was humming through the night in my truck, waiting for the heater to blow warm air and trying not to think of Frank Campo. I clicked on the radio, hoping to keep the fear at bay via distraction. I got a local right-wing talk radio program. “I’m here to tell ya, immigration, it’s like rats on a ship. America is the ship and allllll these rats are comin’ on board, y’all. And you know what happens when a ship gets too many rats on board? It sinks. That’s what.” I wondered if a ship had ever really sunk that way. I wondered what was giving my truck that rotten-egg smell. I wondered if the gun was still under the driver’s seat. I wondered. Was there something moving back there, in the darkness? I glanced in my rearview mirror. No, a trick of the shadows. I thought of Frank Campo. Frank was an attorney, heading home from the office one evening in his black Lexus. The car’s wax job gleaming in the night like a shell of black ice, Frank feeling weightless and invincible behind the greenish glow of his dashboard lights. He senses a tingling on his legs. He flips on the dome light. Spiders. Thousands of them.

Each the size of a hand.

They’re spilling over his knees, pushing up inside his pant legs. The things look like they’re bred for war, jagged black bodies with yellow stripes, long spiny legs like needle points.

He freaks, cranks the wheel, flips down an embankment.

After they pried him out of the wreckage and after he stopped ranting, the cops assured him there wasn’t a sign of even one spider inside the car.

If it had ended there, you could write it off as a bad night, a trick of the eyes, one of Scrooge’s bad potatoes. But it didn’t end there. Frank kept seeing things—awful things—and over the months all the king’s doctors and all the king’s pills couldn’t make Frank’s waking nightmares go away.

And yet, other than that, the guy was fine. Lucid. As sane as a sunset. He’d write a brilliant legal brief on Wednesday, and on Thursday he’d swear he saw tentacles writhing under the judge’s robes.

So? Who do you go to in a situation like that?

I pulled up to John’s building, felt the old dread coming back, churning like a sour stomach. The brisk wind chased me to the door, carrying a faint sulfur smell blown from a plant outside town that brewed drain cleaner. That and the pair of hills in the distance gave the impression of living downwind from a sleeping, farty giant.

John opened the door to his third-floor apartment and immediately gestured toward a very cute and very frightened-looking woman on his sofa. “Dave, this is Shelly. She needs our help.”

Our help.

That dread, like a punch in the stomach. You see, people like Frank Campo, and this girl, they never came for “our help” when they needed a carburetor rebuilt.

We had a specialty.

Shelly was probably nineteen, with powder-blue eyes and the kind of crystal clear pale skin that gave her a china doll look, chestnut curls bundled behind her head in a ponytail. She wore a long, flowing skirt that her fingers kept messing with, an outfit that only emphasized how small she was. She had the kind of self-conscious, pleading helplessness some guys go crazy for. Girl in distress. Makes you want to rescue her, take her home, curl up with her, tell her everything is gonna be okay.

She had a white bandage on her temple.

John stepped into the corner of his tiny apartment that served as the kitchen and smoothly returned to place a cup of coffee in her hands. I struggled to keep my eyes from rolling; John’s almost therapist-like professionalism was ridiculous in a room dominated by a huge plasma-screen TV with four video game systems wired to it. John had his hair pulled back into a neat job-interview ponytail and was wearing a button-up shirt. He could look like a grown-up from time to time.

I was about to warn the girl about John’s coffee, which tasted like a cup of battery acid someone had pissed in and then cursed at for several hours, but John turned to her and in a lawyerly voice said, “Shelly, tell us your story.”

She raised timid eyes to me. “It’s my boyfriend. He . . . he won’t leave me alone. He’s been harassing me for about a week. My parents are gone, on vacation and I’m . . . I’m terrified to go home.”

She shook her head, apparently out of words. She sipped the coffee, then grimaced as if it had bit her.

“Miss—”

“Morris,” she said, barely audible.

“Ms. Morris, I strongly recommend a women’s shelter. They can help you get a restraining order, keep you safe, whatever. There are three in this city, and I’ll be happy to make the call—”

“He—my boyfriend, I mean—he’s been dead for two months.”

John cast a little gleeful glance my way, as if to say, “See how I deliver for you, Dave?” I hated that look. She went on.

“I—I didn’t know where else to go. I heard, you know, through a friend of mine that you handle, um, unusual problems.” She nudged aside a stack of DVD cases on an end table and sat the mug down, glancing at it distrustfully as if to remind herself not to accidentally drink from it again, lest it betray her anew. She turned back to me.

“They say you’re the best.”

I didn’t inform her that whoever called us “the best” had pretty low standards. I guess we were the best in town at this, but who would you brag to about that? It’s not like this shit has its own section of the phone book.

I walked over to a cushioned chair and scooped out its contents (four worn guitar magazines, a sketch pad, and a leather-bound King James Version of the Holy Bible). As I tried to settle in, a leg broke off and the whole chair slumped over at a thirty-degree angle. I leaned over nonchalantly, trying to look like that’s exactly what I had expected to happen.

“Okay. When he comes, you can see him?”

“Yes. I can hear him, too. And he, uh . . .”

She brushed the bandage on the side of her skull. I looked at her in bewilderment. Was she serious?

“He hits you?”

“Yes.”

“With his fist?”

“Yes.”

John looked up from his coffee indignantly. “Man, what a dick!”

I did roll my eyes this time and glared at John once they stopped. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a ghost, but I’m guessing that if you did, the thing didn’t run over and punch you in the face. I’m guessing that’s never happened to any of your friends, either.

“When it first happened,” Shelly said, “I thought I was going crazy. Up until now, I’ve never bel—”

“Believed in ghosts,” I finished. “Right.” That line was obligatory, everybody wanting to come off as the credible skeptic. “Look, Miss, I don’t want to—”

“I told her we would look into it tonight,” John said, heading me off before I accidentally introduced some rational thought into this thing. “He’s haunting her house, out in [town name removed for privacy]. I thought you and I could head over there, get out of the city for a night, show this bastard what’s what.”

I felt a burst of irritation, mostly because John knew the story was bullshit. But then it suddenly clicked in my mind that, yes, John knew, and he had called me because he was trying to set me up with this girl. Button-cute, dead boyfriend, chance to be her hero. As usual, I didn’t know whether to thank him or punch him in the balls.

Sixteen different objections rose up in my mind at once and somehow they all canceled each other out. Maybe if there had been an odd number. . . .

WE HEADED OUT, in my Bronco. We had told Shelly not to drive herself, in case she had a concussion, but the reality was that, whether or not her story was true, we still had vivid memories of Mr. Campo and his unusually spidery car. You see, Frank found out the hard way that the dark things lurking in the night don’t haunt old houses or abandoned ships. They haunt minds.

Shelly was in the passenger seat, hugging herself, looking blankly out the windshield. She said, “So, do you guys, like, do this a lot?”

“Off and on,” said John. “Been doing it for a few years.”

“How does somebody get into this?”

“There was an incident,” he said. “A series of incidents, I guess. A dead guy, another dead guy. Some drugs. It’s kind of a long story. Now we can see things. Sometimes. I have a dead cat that follows me around, wondering why I never feed it. Oh, and I had one hamburger that started mooing when I ate it.” He glanced at me. “You remember that?”

I grunted, said nothing.

It wasn’t mooing, John. It was screaming.

Shelly didn’t look like she was listening anymore.

“I call it Dante’s Syndrome,” John said. I had never heard him call it any such thing. “Meaning, I think Dave and I gained the ability to peer into Hell. Only it turns out Hell is right here, it’s all through us and around us and in us like the microbes that swarm through your lungs and guts and veins. Hey, look! An owl!”

We all looked. It was an owl, all right.

“Anyway,” I broke in, “we just did a couple of favors for people, eventually word got around.”

I felt like that was enough background and I wanted to stop John before he got to the part where he says he kept eating that screaming hamburger, down to the last bite.

I left the truck running as I jumped out at my place for supplies. I bypassed the house for the weatherworn toolshed in the backyard, opened the padlocked door and swept over the dark shelves with my flashlight:

A Winnie the Pooh toy with dried blood around its eyes;

A stuffed and mounted badgerconda (a cross between a badger and an anaconda);

A large Mason jar filled with cloudy formaldehyde, where inside floated a six-inch clump of cockroaches arranged roughly in the shape of a human hand.

I grabbed a medieval-style torch John had stolen from the wall of a theme restaurant. I picked up a clear squeeze bottle filled with a thick green liquid that immediately turned bloodred as soon as I touched it. I reconsidered, sat it back on the shelf and grabbed my vintage 1987 ghetto blaster instead.

I went into the house and called to Molly. I opened a small plastic tub in the kitchen cabinet filled with little pink, rubbery chunks, like erasers. I put a handful in my pocket and rushed back out the door, the dog following on my heels.

Shelly lived in a simple two-story farmhouse, black shutters on white siding. It sat on an island of turf in a sea of harvest-flattened cornfields. We walked past a mailbox shaped like a cow and saw a hand-painted sign on the front door that read THE MORRISON’S—ESTABLISHED 1962. John and I had a long debate at the door about whether or not that apostrophe belonged there.

I know, I know. If I had a brain, I would have walked away right then.

John stepped up, pushed open the front door and ducked aside. I dug in my pocket and pulled out one of the pink chunks. They were steak-shaped dog treats, complete with little brown grill lines. I realized at that moment that no dog would know what those grill lines were and that they were purely for my benefit.

“Molly!”

I shook the treat in front of her and then tossed it through the door. The dog ran in after it.

We waited for the sound of, say, dog flesh splattering across a wall, but heard only the padding of Molly’s paws. Eventually she came back to the door, grinning stupidly. We decided it was safe to go in.

Shelly opened her mouth as if to express some kind of disapproval, but apparently decided against it. We stepped into the dark living room. Shelly moved to flip on a light, but I stopped her with a hand motion.

Instead, John hefted the torch and touched his lighter to it. A foot-tall flame erupted from the head and we slowly crept through the house by its flickering light. I noticed John had brought along a thermos of his coffee, this “favor” already qualifying as an all-nighter. I admit, the horrific burning sensation really did keep you awake.

I asked, “Where do you see him, mostly?”

Shelly’s fingers started twisting at her skirt again. “The basement. And once I saw him in the bathroom. His hand, it, uh, came up through the toilet while I—”

“Okay. Show us the basement door.”

“It’s in the kitchen, but I—guys, I don’t wanna go down there.”

“It’s cool,” John said. “Stay here with the dog, we’ll go down and check it out.”

I glanced at John, figuring that should have been my line as her handsome new knightly protector. We clomped down the stairs, torchlight pooling down the stairwell. Shelly waited behind us, crouching next to Molly and stroking her back.

A nice, modern basement.

Washer and dryer.

A hot-water heater making a soft ticking sound.

One of those waist-deep floor freezers.

John said, “He’s not here.”

“Big surprise.”

John used the torch to light a cigarette.

“She seems like a nice girl, doesn’t she?” John said softly and with a kind of smarmy wink in his voice. “You know, she reminds me of Amber. Jennifer’s friend. When she came to my door, for a second I actually thought it was her. By the way, I wanna thank you for comin’ along, Dave, sort of being my wingman on this. I’m not saying I’m going to take advantage of her distress or anything, but . . .”

I had tuned John out. Something was off, I knew right then. Lingering in the back of my mind, like a kid in the last row of the classroom with his hand up. John was acting all detectivey now, leaning over a large sink with a bundle of white cloth draped over the side.

“Oh, yeah,” said John, pulling up a length of cloth. “Take a look at this shit.” The garment was white, a single piece with straps, like an apron. Well, it had been white. Once. Now it was mostly smudges of faded-blood pink at the center, like a kindergarten kid’s rendering of the Japanese flag.

I turned to the large floor freezer. That freaking dread again, cold and hard and heavy. I strode over and opened the lid.

“Oh, geez.”

It was a tongue. That’s the first thing I saw, rubbery and purplish and not quite human. It was longer, animal-like, twisted inside a ziplock bag and coated in frost. And it wasn’t alone; the freezer was filled with hunks of flesh, some in clear bags, some bigger chunks in pink-stained white paper.

Butcher paper. White apron.

“Well, I think it’s obvious,” said John. “Those stories of UFOs that go around mutilating cows? I think we just solved it, my friend.”

I sighed.

“It’s a deer, you jackass. Her dad hunts, apparently. They keep the meat.”

I nudged around and found a frozen turkey, some sausages. I closed the lid to the fridge, feeling stupid, though not for the reason I should have felt stupid. I wasn’t thinking. Too late at night, too little sleep.

John started poking around in cabinets. I glanced around for the boom box, realizing now that we hadn’t brought it down here. Why did that bother me? It was upstairs with Shelly, right?

“Hey, Dave. You remember that guy whose basement got flooded, then called us and swore he had a fifteen-foot great white shark swimmin’ down there?”

I did remember but didn’t answer, afraid of losing that thread of thought that kept floating just out of reach like a wayward balloon on a windy day. Besides, when we got there, it wasn’t a great white at all. Just a garden-variety eight-foot tiger shark. We told the guy to wait until the basement dried out and call us back. When the water left, so did the shark, as if it evaporated or seeped out the tiny cracks in the concrete.

Think. Damned attention span. Something is wrong here.

I tried to pull myself back from my tangent, thinking of the boom box again. John had found it at a garage sale. There’s a story in the Old Testament, a young David driving away an evil spirit by playing pretty music on his harp—

Wait a second.

“John, did I hear you say you thought she looked like Amber?”

“Yeah.”

“John, Amber’s almost as tall as me. Blond hair, kind of top-heavy, right?”

“Yeah, cute as hell. I mean—”

“And you think Shelly looks like her? The girl sitting upstairs?”

“Yeah.” John turned to face me, already getting it.

“John, Shelly is short. Short with dark hair. Blue eyes.”

—They haunt minds—

John sighed, plucked out his cigarette and flung it to the floor. “Fuck.”

We turned toward the stairs, took a step up, and froze. Shelly was there, sitting halfway up the stairs, one arm curled around Molly’s neck. Innocent, wary eyes. Playing the part.

I stepped slowly onto the third stair, said, “Tell me something, Miss, uh, I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your last name—”

“Shelly is fine.”

“Yeah, remind me anyway. I hate forgetting things.”

“Morris.”

I took another step toward her.

“That’s what I thought.”

Another step. I heard John step up behind me.

“So,” I said, “whose house is this?”

“What?”

“The sign out front says Morrison. Morris-son. Not Morris. Now would you describe your own appearance for me?”

“I don’t—”

“You see, because John and I have this thing where we’re both seeing completely different versions of you. Now, John has eyesight problems because of his constant masturbation, but I don’t think—”

She burst into snakes.

That’s right. Her body sort of spilled out of itself, falling into a dark, writhing puddle on the ground. It was a tangle of long, black serpents, rolling over each other and down the steps. We kicked at them as they slithered past, John warding them off with the torch.

Some, I saw, had patches of color on their scales, like flesh or the flowered pattern of Shelly’s dress. I caught a glimpse of one snake with a writhing human eyeball still embedded in its side, the iris powder blue.

Molly jumped back and barked—a little too late, I thought—and made a show of snapping at one of the snakes as it wound its way down the stairs. She bounded to the top of the stairs and disappeared through the doorway. We kicked through the slithering things and stomped up after the dog, just as the stairwell door banged shut on its own.

I reached for the knob. At the same moment it began to melt and transform, turning pink and finally taking the shape of a flaccid penis. It flopped softly against the door, like a man was cramming it through the knob hole from the other side.

I turned back to John and said, “That door cannot be opened.”

We stumbled back down the stairs, John jumping the last five, shoes smacking on the concrete. The snakes fled from the firelight and disappeared under shelves and between cardboard boxes.

That’s when the basement started filling with shit.

The brown sludge oozed up from the floor drain, an unmistakable stench rising above it. I looked around for a window we could crawl out of, found none. The sewage bloomed out from the center of the floor, swirling around the soles of my shoes.

John shouted, “There!”

I whipped my head in his direction, saw him grab a little plastic crate from a shelf and set it on the floor. He climbed up on it, then just stood there with the muck rising below. Finally he looked at me and said, “What are you doing? Go find us a way outta here!”

I was ankle-deep now in a pool that was disturbingly warm. I sloshed around, looking above me until I found the large, square duct feeding into the first floor from the furnace. The return air vent. I went to a pegboard on the wall and grabbed a foot-long screwdriver. I jabbed it into the crease between the metal of the duct and the floor, prying down the apparatus with a squeal of pulled nails.

I finally got a hold on the edge of the metal duct and felt it cut into my fingers. I pulled it down to reveal the dark living room above me, blocked by a metal grid. I jumped and knocked the grate aside with my hands. I leapt again and grabbed floor with both hands, feeling carpet under my fingers. With a series of frantic, awkward movements I managed to pull my limbs up until I could roll over on the floor of the living room.

I looked back at the square hole and saw a flicker of flame emerge, followed by the torch and then John’s hand. In a few seconds we were both standing in the living room, glancing around, breathing heavily.

Nothing.

A low, pulsing sound emerged from the air around us. A laugh. A dry, humorless cough of a noise, as if the house itself was expelling the air with giant lungs of wood and plaster.

John said, “Asshole.”

“John, I’m changing my cell number tomorrow. And I’m not giving you the new one. Now let’s get this over with.”

We both knew the drill. We had to draw the thing out somehow. John handed me his lighter.

“You light some candles. I’ll go stand in the shower naked.”

Molly followed me as I went back to where we left the boom box and the other supplies. I lit a few candles around the house—just enough to make it spooky. John showered, I found another bathroom and washed the sludge off my shoes and feet.

“Oh, no!” I heard John shout over the running water. “It’s dark in here and here I am in the shower! Alone! I’m so naked and vulnerable!”

Out of things to do, I walked around for a bit and eventually found a bedroom. I glanced at my watch, sighed, then lay down over the covers. It was almost four in the morning.

This could go on for hours, or days. Time. That’s all they have. I heard Molly plop down on the floor below. I reached down to pet her and she licked my hand the way dogs do. I wondered why in the world they felt the need to do that. I’ve often thought about trying it the next time somebody got their fingers close to my mouth, like at the dentist.

John came back twenty minutes later, wearing what must have been the smallest towel he could find. He lowered his voice. “I think I saw a hatch for an attic earlier. I’m gonna see if there’s room to crawl around up there, see if maybe there’s a big scary-looking footlocker it can pop out of or somethin’.”

I nodded. John raised his voice theatrically and said, “Oh, no. We are trapped here all alone. I will go see if I can find help.”

“Yes,” I answered, loudly. “Perhaps we should split up.”

John left the room. I tried to relax, hoping even to doze off. Ghosts love to sneak up on you when you’re sleeping. I scratched Molly’s head and—

SLEEP. LICKING. A soft splashing sound from another room. I dreamed I saw a shadow peel itself off the far wall and float toward me. Most of my dreams are like that, always based on something that really happened.

My eyes snapped open, my right arm still hanging over the edge of the mattress, the rough tongue still flapping away at my ring finger. How long had I been out? Thirty seconds? Two hours?

I sat up, trying to adjust to the darkness. A faint glow pulsed from the hall where the nearest candle burned away in the bathroom.

I quietly stepped off the foot of the bed and headed across the room into the hallway. Down the hall now, toward the sound and the light. I ran my hand along the textured plaster of the wall until I reached the bathroom, the source of the gentle splashing. Not splashing. Slurping. I peered in.

Molly, drinking from the toilet. She turned to look at me with an almost catlike “can I help you?” stare. I thought absently that she was drinking the poowater with the same mouth she used to lick my hand. . . .

If she’s in here, then that wasn’t her by the bed.

I picked the candle off the counter and headed back to the bedroom. I stepped in, the candle casting an uneven halo of light around me, rustling the shadows aside. I moved toward the bed and saw . . .

Meat. Dozens of the wrapped and now partially unwrapped hunks from the freezer, laying neatly on the floor next to the bed in an almost ceremonial fashion, the objects arranged in the rough shape of a man.

I moved the light toward the head area, where I found a frozen turkey still in the Butterball wrapper. Under it, wedged between turkey and torso, was the disembodied deer tongue, flapping around of its own accord.

Hmmmm. That was different.

I jumped back as the turkey, the tongue, and a slab of ribs levitated off the floor.

The man-shaped arrangement of meat rose up, as if functioning as one body. It pushed itself up on two arms made of game hens and country bacon, planting two hands with sausage-link fingers on the floor. The phrase “sodomized by a bratwurst poltergeist” suddenly flew through my mind. Finally it stood fully upright, looking like the mascot for a butcher shop whose profits went entirely to support the owner’s acid habit.

“John! We got, uh, something here.”

It was about seven feet tall, its turkey head swiveling side to side to survey the room, the tongue swaying uselessly below. It extended a sausage to me.

“You.”

It was an accusation. Had we dealt with this thing before? I didn’t remember it, but I was bad with faces.

“You have tormented me six times. Now prepare to meat your doom!”

I have no way of knowing that it actually said “meat” instead of “meet” but I’ll give it the benefit of the doubt. I ran.

“John! John! We got a Situation Fifty-three here!”

The thing gave chase, its shaved-ham feet slapping the floor behind me. My candle went out. I tossed it aside. I saw a closed door to my right, so I skidded to a stop, threw it open, and flung myself in.

Linen shelves smacked me in the face and I fell back out of the closet, dazed. The meat man wrapped its cold links around my neck and lifted me up. It pinned me against the wall.

“You disappoint me. All those times we have dueled. In the desert. In the city. You thought you had vanquished me in Venice, didn’t you?”

I was so impressed by this thing’s ability to articulate words using that flapping deer tongue and a frozen turkey that I almost lost track of what it was saying.

Venice? Did he say Venice? What?

Molly came by just then, trotting along like everything was just A-OK in Dogland.

Then she noticed some meat standing nearby and started happily chewing on a six-inch-wide tube of bologna serving as the thing’s ankle.

“AARRRRRGHHHH!!!!”

It dropped me to the floor. I scrambled to my feet and ran downstairs. The meat man followed.

At the foot of the stairs, John was waiting.

He was holding the stereo.

The monster stopped halfway down the staircase, its eyeless turkey head staring down the device in John’s hands, as if recognizing the danger.

Oh, how that Old Testament demon must have howled and shrieked at the sight of young David’s harp, seeing at work a form of ancient magic that can pierce any darkness. The walking meat horror knew what was coming, that the same power was about to be tapped.

John nodded, as if to say, “Checkmate.”

He pushed the “play” button.

Sound filled the room, a crystal melody that could lift any human heart and turn away any devil.

It was “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake.

The monster grabbed the spots on the turkey where its ears would be and fell to its knees. John wielded the stereo before him like a holy talisman, stepping up the stairs, driving the sound closer to the beast. Every inch of its fat-marbled skin and gristle writhed in agony.

“Take it!” John screamed, suddenly emboldened. “It looks like you should have taken time to beef up your defenses!”

The beast grabbed its abdomen; in pain, I thought.

Instead it pried loose a canned ham and, before John could react, hurled it at the stereo, the can whizzing through the air like a Randy Johnson fastball.

Direct hit. Sparks and bits of plastic flew. The stereo tumbled out of John’s hands and fell heavily to the stairs.

Disarmed, John hopped down to the floor as the beast rose to its feet and pursued. It grabbed John by the neck. It snatched at me, but I dodged and grabbed the coffee thermos from the table. I ran back with the thermos, spun off the top and dashed the contents at the meaty arm that held John.

The meatstrocity screamed. The arm smoked and bubbled, then burst into flame. The limb then blackened and peeled off from the socket, falling to the hardwood below. John was free, falling to his knees and gasping for air.

The beast howled, collapsing to the floor meatily. With its only remaining arm, it pointed at me.

“You’ll never defeat me, Marconi! I have sealed this house with my powers. You cannot escape!”

I stopped, put my hands on my hips and strode up to it. “Marconi? As in, Doctor-slash-Father Albert Marconi? The guy who hosts Magical Mysteries on the Discovery Channel?”

John stepped over and glared at the wounded thing. “You dumbass. Marconi is fifty years old. He has white hair. Dave and I aren’t that old combined. Your nemesis is probably off giving some seminar, standing waist-deep in a pile of his own money.”

The thing turned its turkey at me.

“Tell ya what,” I offered. “If I can get you in touch with Marconi so you two can work out your little differences, will you release us?”

“You lie!”

“Well, I can’t get him down here, but surely a being as superhumanly powerful as you can destroy him at a distance, right? Here.”

It watched me as I fished out my cell phone and dialed. After talking to a secretary, a press agent, a bodyguard, an operator, the secretary again and finally a personal assistant, I got through.

“This is Marconi. My secretary says you have some kind of a meat monster there?”

“Yeah. Hold on.”

I offered the phone to Meaty. “Do we have a deal?”

The thing stood up, hesitated, then finally nodded its turkey up and down. I held out the phone, while giving John a dark look that I hoped conveyed the fact that Plan B involved me letting the monster beat the shit out of him while I tried to escape out of a window somewhere. Fucking girl and her “ghost boyfriend.” Marconi would have seen this shit coming a mile away.

A bundle of sausage fingers took the phone from my hand.

“So!” it boomed into the receiver. “We meat again, Marconi. You thought you had vanquished me but I—”

The beast spontaneously combusted into a ball of unholy blue light. With a shriek that pierced my ears, it left our world. The lifeless meat slapped to the floor piece by piece, the cell phone clattering next to the pile.

Silence.

“Damn, he’s good,” said John. I walked over and picked up the cell phone. I put it to my ear to ask the doctor what he had done, but it was the secretary again. I switched it off. The doctor hadn’t even hung around long enough to say hello.

John made a casual hand-dusting motion. “Well. That was pretty stupid.”

I tried the front door and it opened easily. Who knows, maybe it had never been sealed. We took time to straighten up the place, not finding any Morrisons restrained or dismembered and figuring that “Shelly” was at least telling the truth when she said the real family was on vacation. The shit had vanished from the basement, but I couldn’t fix the heating duct I had messed up earlier. We packed the meat back into the freezer as best we could, with one exception.

The sun was already dissolving the night sky by the time I got home. I opened up the toolshed and set the broken boom box inside. I found an empty jar, filled it from a square can of formaldehyde and dropped the deer tongue in. I placed it on the shelf next to a stuffed monkey paw, lying lifeless with two fingers extended. I locked up and went to bed.

—from the journal of David Wong

#john dies at the end #david wong #seriously #my favorite book #except maybe the sequel #gotta be real this book still scares the shit outta me #it's the best combination of funny and horrifying

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