#tim: do i have to do everything my goddamn self around here

[babygirl-but-a-boy]

on brand for him tbh

Tim is out here fighting to hold this family together and fix Bruce’s mental health. Gotta respect the hustle of trying to accomplish not one but two completely impossible tasks.

[k8fics]

Ruined Legacy

Do What You Want To Do, Step On Me

summary: Based off “Step On Me” by The Cardigans; Reader tries to gain Joel’s trust the only way she knows how — Episode Two of ‘Ruined Legacy’

rating: R — angst to slight fluff, apocalyptic world, cursing, mentions of murder/death, mean joel, reader’s just trying her best

Oh, I think you’re standing on my left foot

It’s hurting but that’s okay

‘Cause I’m in your way

Walking through the house I’d been stuck in for years with two strangers was not what I had in mind when I thought about leaving. Joel, a man with the seemingly everlasting scowl, still had his gun pointed at me. He stared me down as we walked through the house.

The girl he was with, Ellie, walked beside me, gawking at the amount of junk that had been organized neatly around the halls’ shelves. “So, how long have you lived here?” She asked, looking at me and then at Joel, who was giving her a look of warning.

“Like 10 years or something. I don’t know, I stopped counting a while ago.” I responded, and she only hummed as a response.

It was silent as we walked outside. I looked around, basically gawking the same way Ellie had moments before. Sure, Tim would take me outside sometimes, but to be outside without the paranoia of being watched — even if I was being stared down on with a gun pointed at my back — it was fucking amazing.

I was nudged by the tip of his gun to keep walking, leading towards another man waiting with two horses. The man in front of me looked strikingly similar to the man behind me. Maybe they were all related.

Before I could ask, I was interrupted by Joel speaking up. “Found who killed the guy, she said it was self-defense or somethin’. You watch her while we look inside the house.” He said, pushing me forward and causing me to stumble.

As Joel and Ellie were walking back to the house, I called for them. Stepping towards them, only for Joel to point his gun at me again. I put my hands up to cause no harm, “I can help you.” I said, he only scoffed. “I-I mean, I organized everything. I know where everything is. I swear.”

He was about to walk inside before Ellie said his name, he stopped and sighed. “Come on then.” Waving his hand to signal me in.

You’ll break the foot you’re standing on

I’ll walk with the other one

He still had the gun pointed at me as I walked through the house. I was instructed by Joel to only speak when describing what was in each space. I obliged.

“First aid kits,” I said besides the chest in one of the bedrooms. Ellie was the one collecting the supplies while Joel focused on me and the trigger on his gun.

I looked around the room in discomfort, looking at Ellie as she grabbed the last bit of supplies. “So-“ Before I could finish, Joel shushed me.

“What did I say? No talking.” He said, before grabbing my forearm and pulling me towards the door. Ellie followed behind him. He pushed me up against the wall, my chest smooshed against the wall and his gun pointed at my back once again. “Is that everything in here?” I could only nod, “Good, let’s go.” He said, pulling me down the stairs and to the front door.

Once we got back to the man with the horses, Joel called out for him, “Tommy, let’s head back. We got everything.” He said.

Tommy looked at him and then at me, and then at him once more. “Well, hold on now. I still don’t know what’s going on.” He said, his face looking more confused every second.

This time at least Joel wanted me to respond, I took a shaky breath before responding with my name. “The man over there,” I pointed at the rotting body in front of the house. “His name is Tim, I’ve been trapped in there for more than 10 years. He killed my parents. He was going to kill me,” I grabbed at my shirt, pulling it down. “Look, he did this before I killed him.”

Tommy looked more than convinced, “God Joel, you made it seem like she was a mass murderer.” He said looking directly at the man who still had the goddamn gun pointed at me.

Joel gave me a pointed look, “I don’t trust her.”

Ellie only laughed, “Don’t worry, he was the same way towards me when we first met.” She reassured me, and to be honest, it worked.

Do what you want to do, do what you want to

Be what you want to, be what you want to

Go on and step on me

Once we the gates to Tommy’s place of residency, Jackson, I was beyond amazed. Who knew civilization could be restored after an apocalypse? I was sure that everyone died inside after a couple of years.

Ellie looked as amazed as me, maybe even more. Joel looked the same as he did back at the house. It seemed he always did, never really seems to have another emotion except for anger.

As Tommy gave us a tour, I could still feel the eyes of Joel on me. He would even tug Ellie towards him if she got too close to you as if you were infected.

When Tommy gave us the bad news that there was only one house open in the town at the moment and that I may have to share with them, I could tell Joel was angry. Ellie seemed happy to finally have another person besides Joel around, “Especially a girl,” she said.

Joel decided to speak up about his disapproval, “No. I’m not sharing a house with her.” That was all he said.

Before Ellie could speak up in my defense, I spoke up. “Oh! Yeah, that’s fine, I understand. I wouldn’t want to be in the house of a stranger too.” And trust me, I do understand that feeling. Not even letting Ellie say her opinions on the matter before you walked back to the front of the town.

You’re free to have everything you can see

All that you want from me

Free to be all that you want to be

Do what you want with me

Tommy and I talked about what happened for what felt like an eternity. It was first him reassuring you that there were no hard feelings, “Joel is just closed off.” He said. I told him I understand, that I’m the same, in a way.

We talked about his wife Maria, and what they had gone through before and after finding each other. I tried opening up about my past, and I did, but it’s so hard remembering those memories, those moments.

Tommy stared down at the grass before asking, “How old were you when they died?”

I sighed, “22.” I laughed, “It’s funny. I used to dream of leaving my parents’ grasp when I was younger. But once you go through something like this with them, you never want to leave their side. At least I got them for a few years. Before it, all went to shit.” I said.

Tommy looked at me sympathetically, “You’ve been through a lot, and I’m sorry my ass of a brother can’t see that.” He said apologetically.

I waved him off, “Don’t apologize. I can tell he’s been through a lot.” Tommy’s head perked up at my statement, looking rather confused. “He has sad eyes. I don’t blame him for being the way he is, I’d rather be like that than like this.” I confess.

“What’s the difference between you and him?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m way too trusting. Shit, I’d probably give him my shoes if he wanted them.” I said before walking off as Tommy chuckled, shaking his head.

Oh, I think you’re spinning inside my head

I think of you all the day

‘Cause you’re in my way

Ever since our last interaction, I can’t stop thinking about Joel. I have seen him around town all the time, from when I went to the tavern Tommy mentioned to walking outside the building I was certainly residing.

I took up drawing, something I hadn’t done in a long time. It helped me ease my mind, most importantly; made me stop thinking about my parents which then leads me to think about Tim.

Sometimes I drew Joel. Though I can never seem to draw his face correctly, there’s always something missing. Maybe it was the furrowed eyebrows or the scowl that remained on his face, but nothing seemed to work.

I started staring at him more, not on purpose — okay, maybe on purpose — I studied his face, observing his mannerisms, focusing on him only. God, this is so unhealthy. I feel like a stalker.

Oh, I think you’re holding the heart of mine

Squeeze it apart, that’s fine

I think he started noticing after the first week of me admiring and observing him. I hadn’t seen him in a while but I truly felt like I had mastered his face.

As I sat in the tavern with my sketchbook and water on the table in front of me, I hadn’t noticed him beside me until he snatched the book right out of my hands. I jumped up immediately, almost falling over in shock but catching myself at the last second.

He flipped through it as I protested and grabbed at my possession, but he stopped me by grabbing me with one hand. He stopped at a certain page and dropped it towards me. “What the fuck is this? Are you fucking spying on me now?” He said lowly, obviously trying not to put more attention on the situation in front of me.

“I- No. I’m sorry, I just saw you around and wanted to-“ He interrupted me before I could excuse my actions.

He gripped me harder, “Stay the fuck away from me. Just because Tommy and Ellie trust you doesn’t mean I do.” He said before pushing himself off of me and ripping out the page with the drawing of him.

He stared at me as he crumpled the paper up and throwing into the trash. I could only stare as he walked out the door of the tavern leaving me with tears in my eyes.

Do what you want to do, do what you want to

Be what you want to, be what you want to

Go on and step on me

I did as he asked me to, he is the boss after all. I didn’t leave the building until I was forced out by Ellie, who had grown on me since we both had a niche for drawing, only for me to be back in the building for another day after our nice walk around the town.

I burned the sketchbook after the events that night, it’s a distraction anyway. I focused more of my time on finding a new home after realizing that maybe I wasn’t cut out for human interactions. This is understandable considering I was stuck in a house with only a deranged psychopath with me.

Tommy somehow found out about the situation between me and Joel, he didn’t tell me who told him. But I guess Joel wasn’t as quiet as we both thought he was.

You’re free to have everything you can see

All that you want from me

[2nd Person POV]

Joel felt bad. Of course, he did, how could he not? Seeing you standing there as he held you, shaking, trying not to cry as he told you off. It was a beautiful drawing, he’ll give you that. But he still doesn’t want some girl that just freshly killed someone to be stalking him.

That’s why he confessed to Tommy about the events that night, how you looking at him made him nervous, how he wanted to trust you but couldn’t. What he didn’t know is that Tommy was going to try to talk to you about it.

He wasn’t going to say sorry, “I only told her the truth,” This is what he told Ellie when she asked him what he did to you. Both Tommy and her told him to make things right, to apologize, to give her a chance. And he wants to, he really does. But he doesn’t want to care about anyone else. He would’ve done anything for Sarah and she died. He cared for Tommy and he left him. He cares for Ellie but she’s giving him grey hair and wrinkles.

There are a lot of reasons for him to not let you in, for him not to care for you. But there wasn’t a reason for him to be concerned if you hate him. “If you care about her feelings, then you care about her,” Were the wise words Ellie brought to him.

“Just try it out, please!” Ellie groaned, “I can’t stand seeing you mope around, and I want Y/N to hang out with me again without you making it awkward.”

Joel sighed, “Fine, I’ll do my best.” Slightly smiling at her celebration dance.

Do what you want to do, do what you want to

Be what you want to, be what you want to

Go on and step on me

Joel knocked on your door in his cleanest clothes — picked out by Ellie — with flowers in hand — also picked out by Ellie. He heard you groan before yanking the door open just to push it closed when you met his eyes.

He stuck his foot between the door and the frame. “Wait. Just give me a chance okay?” He pled.

You looked at him up and down before crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe, “I thought you didn’t want to see me again?” You mocked.

He sighed, “I know and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have treated you like that considering…” He trailed off and looked down.

“Considering that I just killed the only person I have known for the past 10 years?” You finished for him, staring him down.

Joel sighed once more, “Yeah. Considering that. Look, I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Tommy and Ellie have been up my ass about this all week.”

You finally softened and laughed, “They’ve been up my ass about it too!”

He gave you a small smile, “So how can I make it up to you?” He questioned

You thought for a second before coming up with an answer, smiling brightly when you do have an idea. “Be my model! Let me draw you correctly!” You responded.

“Yes ma’am, whatever you want.” He said, walking into your humble abode when you invited him.

You’re free to have everything you can see

All that you want from me

“What do you think, hot pink or lavender for your shirt?” You asked.

Joel groaned, “I think I’ve been here for too long.” He complained.

“Oh, boo-hoo. You said ‘Whatever I want,’” You said in an exaggeration of his accent. “And lavender is what I want.” You finished, smiling at him.

“Hey, as long as Ellie’s off my ass, you can do anything you want from me.” He replied.

You only laughed as a response, a comfortable silence resting over you two as you color in his shirt, finally finishing the final details. You flipped the page towards him, “Ta-da!” You gleamed.

Joel inspected it thoroughly, “Wow. You almost made me look as handsome as I do now.” He said jokingly.

You laughed, “I personally think this is the best you out there.” You said pointing towards the drawing.

He gasped in fake hurt, “Don’t make me throw away this one too.”

“Too soon.”

“You’re right, sorry.”

You’re free to be all that you want to be

Do what you want with me

Joel and Ellie were arguing about leaving when you walked into the house, ready to have your weekly discussion about what books you two were reading currently. You weren’t exactly sure why they looked so distressed when you walked through the door already speaking to Ellie about the book she had lent to you a week prior.

You stopped describing your shock from the latest chapter when you saw their faces. You’ve started to see a lot more faces from Joel once you both became friendly. “What’s up, guys? Why are both of you so gloomy on this fine afternoon.” You joked, hoping for a laugh but got nothing of the sort.

Ellie got up, stepping towards you. “Joel wants to-“ She was cut off by the man whose name she just mentioned.

“Ellie.” He warned her, staring at your concerned and confused eyes.

“No, fuck this! Joel wants to leave! He wants to leave without you.” She said, glaring at him before looking back at you.”

You looked even more confused and concerned. “What? But I thought we were good. I thought you trusted me now, Joel?” You questioned, looking more and more hurt.

He sighed, resting his head in his hands. “I do, you know I do. But it’s not safe, and you’re not ready to be out there and we all know that.” His reasonings made your eye twitch.

You scoffed, “That’s such bullshit. We all know I can handle myself! And I can keep Ellie safe as much as you can.” You argued, and Ellie nodded her head beside you. “Please. You guys are all I have here.” You said sadly.

Joel glared at you both, “You’re both pains in my ass you know that? I’m trying to keep you guys out of trouble.” He reasoned.

“Come on, Joel. Please, please, pl-“ Ellie’s begging was smothered by Joel’s booming voice.

“Fine! Whatever you want.” He said, “At least I’ll have someone I can trust with a gun.” He said giving a pointed look at Ellie.

Go on and step on me

[Back to 1st Person POV]

As Ellie and I got ready for our trip west, Joel walked over to me with his hands in his pockets. “Before we start, I have a few ground rules; I’m always right, follow my lead, and don’t get in my way. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” I said, saluting him like a soldier. “You’re the boss.”

He nodded, “Yes, I am.” Walking over to Ellie to help her with packing the rest of the supplies.

‘I never noticed how good he looks when he’s bossy. Or how good his ass looks in those jeans.’ I thought before Joel called me over to help me onto the brown horse.

-

bad ending i know i’m sorry i’m a horrible person and writer

[aceofshitposts]

there was talk of android tim on the server yesterday and it made me think of my alien au so uh here we go. mostly me rambling.

-

"You let a goddamn synthetic on board?"

There are other things he should be worrying about currently. Like the alarms blazing around them as their ship entered engine failure or the warnings that oxygen was going to run out. But instead of all that Jason is singularly focused on the slight form behind Bruce, one hand held up to his neck, white liquid leaking out between his fingers.

"Tim isn't-" Bruce tries to say, hands held up as if he was trying to calm a wild animal. That was fair, Jason supposes, he certainly felt like one right now.

"Bullshit! Look at it," Jason snarls, gesturing towards the still leaking wound on Tim's neck, "after everything that happened and you let this bloody thing on the ship with us."

Tim doesn't flinch or show any emotions from Jason's outburst, staring steadily at him with those bright blue eyes. Jason should have known from the moment Bruce introduced him to Tim, nobody human could have eyes that colour.

"That's enough, Jason," Bruce yells over the pounding in Jason's ears. "We have more important things to worry about-"

Which is right when something hits the side of the ship, causing Jason to lose his footing as the ship rocks and the world goes dark.

.

Jason wakes suddenly, eyes snapping open and body jolting upright in a single second. He's sitting along a river shoreline, huge deciduous trees rising above him. He twists around, spotting a dark blue hoodie he recognizes as the one Tim was wearing on the ship bunched up where his head had been.

"You're awake," Tim's voice drifts over from somewhere to Jason's left. He's carrying a small bundle in his arms and Jason easily sees the large bandage fixed to the side of his neck.

"Stay the fuck away from me," Jason snarls, scrambling backwards and away. "What happened, where's Bruce?"

Tim sets down the bundle, a bag filled with ration packs, and backs away. "You hit your head. Bruce instructed me to take you in the escape pod."

Behind Tim, Jason can see the smoking pod, presumably where he got the ration bundle from. If Bruce told Tim to take the escape pod, that would mean he stayed behind on the ship. Fucking self sacrificing bastard.

Tim keeps his distance, never coming within ten feet of Jason while he eats and Jason tries not to think about how jarring it is to see Tim acting so distant.

No, this was the way he was supposed to be. Every mannerism, every laugh or smile he'd send in Jason's direction were fake.

.

"You can find him, can't you?"

Tim turns to look at Jason, expression still blank.

"Connect up to the systems in the pod, we can find where the ship crashed."

"I can't."

"What the fuck do you mean you can't? You're a synthetic."

Tim's face scrunches in the first show of emotion since Jason found out.

"I can't connect to the ship like that, I never could."

"You're lying."

"I'm not," Tim snaps. "You can believe whatever you want but I wasn't made for that. I wasn't made for- for anything. I agree we should find him but it's not going to be easy."

.

"What did you mean," Jason asks later. When they're far from their crash site and trekking through the alien forest. "When you said you weren't made for anything."

Since they agreed to start looking for Bruce, Tim has been quiet. It's a stark contrast to the rapport they once shared back on The Dark Knight. Jason had been pissed, at first, about Bruce taking on another apprentice in his absence but the months of going on missions together had worn down the edges.

He'd come to like Tim. Too bad Tim was a lie.

"I'm... a third generation auton," Tim says haltingly. "You've heard about the rebellion, they got synthetics to make new synthetics. Then those, the autons, rebelled. My parents were two of the few surviving.

"They were discovered and dismantled. Bruce rescued me before they could get to me too."

Tim never spoke about himself much, before. It was obvious why, now, considering he wasn't even human.

"So, a couple synthetics got it in their heads to make, what, a kid?"

Tim doesn't answer.

-

"What in the goddamn fuck was that!"

"I don't know, just keep running," Tim shouts back, hand pressed against his side where some fucking alien stabbed him with its tail.

They were doing fine, making good ground, and then night had fallen and apparently there had been a reason they hadn't seen a single other sign of life until now.

Tim will be okay, Jason tells himself. He's not human, he's not going to die from a stupid stab wound. He doesn't care beyond knowing there's strength in numbers.

He doesn't care.

He doesn't.

-

"You don't have to do that." Tim's voice is quiet, firelight dancing off his face. "It'll repair itself eventually."

"And you didn't have to push me out of the way," Jason retorts, pressing a bandage to Tim's wound.

"You would've died. I couldn't let that happen."

Jason flicks his eyes up to meet Tim's, sitting back on his heels. "Because B told you to protect me?"

"No. Because I wanted to."

[welllpthisishappening]

It all kind of happens in slow motion.

One second, Emma hears the crack of the bat and the requisite roar of the crowd, and the next her eyes have widened to a size most scientists would likely advise against. Because, standing at home plate, that same home plate multiple baseball players are sprinting toward, is her kid. More or less waiting to be run over. That is, of course, until Killian Jones.

———

Word Count: 4.1K Rating: Flufffy fluff fluff of the fluffiest variety AN: Writing has been something of a legitimate challenge for me in the last few weeks, but earlier this week @ohmightydevviepuu sent a link to this tweet, tagged me, and said what I basically took as an unspoken prompt. Like, you’re going to send me video of a bat boy getting scooped up at home by a player in the middle of the game and then think I won’t write about it? Not possible. Even with the aforementioned writing challenges. Nothing stands a chance against my love of baseball. Here’s hoping the Yankees turn it around in the second half. Neither Aaron Judge or I deserve the season we’ve had so far.

———

Biologically speaking, Emma Swan is perfectly aware that the current positioning of her heart is more or less impossible. 

Stuck somewhere between the back of her throat and the pit of her stomach, it makes her all too aware of the now-empty chasm in her chest, stretching out toward her arms and threatening the structural integrity of her lungs, neither of which appear all that intent on working properly. Oxygen is a luxury not currently afforded to her capillaries. Instead, nerves mix with anxiety and the telltale flush of adrenaline that probably also makes her look relatively crazy because her pupils are definitely dilated and she does not know nearly enough about science to be making any of these claims. 

Whatever, really. 

It feels like that ooze from that movie. FernGully, Emma thinks. With the fairies. She thinks they were fairies. She’s not entirely certain they were fairies. 

And the ooze was definitely oil, obviously. There was a message involved in that movie. Not one that she appreciated when she was seven and Tim Curry’s animated-oil voice sort of freaked her out. But, like, she gets it now. The environment, and everything. With or without fairies. With Robin Williams, though. 

She’s positive about that, at least. 

Robin Williams was definitely in that movie. 

Less positive about the ability of her heart to actually split itself in half, as it seems wont to do at the moment. So, as to make it easier when it inevitably soars out of her mouth and falls onto the scuffed-up clubhouse floor beneath her feet. Naturally, this will happen simultaneously. For maximum effect. 

Much like the fireworks currently exploding over the left-field bleachers. 

She’s not sure if fireworks do explode, actually. That seems dangerous. Likely to lead to injuries and sounds that don’t resemble the  oohs and ahhs a ballpark generally inspires. Explode probably isn’t the right word. Maybe something more like…detonate. 

No, that’s worse. Way worse. She’s got to learn more words. Find a thesaurus or a dictionary or—a fireworks expert would be ideal, honestly.

Someone who could give her a detailed description of the inner-workings of a Yankee Stadium pyrotechnics display on a Tuesday in July, enough words that Emma’s mind would still for a few moments, allowing her to catch her breath and reestablish a consistent heart rate, and both of those problems could also likely be solved by sitting down, but the chair to her left looks a little wobbly, and her legs appear to have minds of their own because science is rather quickly becoming a lie and—

“Is he alright?” She spins. Nearly falls over. Her knees are also awfully wobbly, that’s why. 

Despite all of that, and the overall circumference of her pupils, the voice doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t even flinch. Shows absolutely no signs of imminent stumbling. And that’s probably because the voice is a man, one who is in possession of world-class instinctual reactions, and his hair is still damp from his post-game shower and it absolutely makes her something of an atrocious mother to acknowledge that last thing as quickly as she does. 

His shirt sleeves are noticeably sticking to his biceps, so that helps too. 

Opening her mouth, Emma is going to say words that are both vaguely intelligent and passably accurate, absolving this Major League Baseball player of any of the guilt he so obviously feels. Which is just patently stupid, really. None of this was his fault. None of it was anyone’s fault, really. 

Except maybe the idiot who left his bat at that particular angle across home plate, but Emma’s an adrenaline expert these days and walk-offs are understandably exciting. First walk-offs more so. 

She’s happy for Scarlet, really. 

They won the game. 

Everything is fine. Great, even. She nearly jumps twenty-six feet in the air at the next boom of fireworks. 

The pinch between the Major League Baseball player’s eyebrows gets—

Pinchier. 

The little roll of skin draws Emma’s attention, effectively robbing her of the ability to respond like an almost-sane person, but she’s also still trying to rationalize why she can remember the words to several FernGully songs while also being unable to recall what flavor PopTart she had for breakfast earlier this week and she figures watching her kid nearly get run over by professional athletes approximately forty-two minutes before gives her a fairly reasonable excuse. 

For opening and closing her mouth no less than eight consecutive times. 

Like a goddamn fish. There were no fish in FernGully. Least not so far as she remembers. 

It’s entirely possible she squeaks on attempt number five. 

The Major League Baseball player’s eyebrows do not move. It’s equal parts frustrating and incredible to behold. 

“I should probably thank you, right?” Emma asks, not quite regretting the words immediately, but it’s awfully close. That gets her some movement. Of the eyebrow variety. One eyebrow, specifically. Arching up, it somehow still manages to pull her attention directly toward eyes that should be the star of their own marketing campaign. Not quite Yankee blue, but distractingly blue, and it takes everything in her not to huff as dramatically as she wants to. Once the athletic trainer is done with Henry, Emma is going to make him examine her lungs. Rationality rules the day. 

Major League Baseball player shakes his head. It’s dumb to call him that. She knows his name. Knows at least some of his history. Is still staring obnoxiously at his freakishly attractive face. 

Freakishly is kind of mean, too. As far as descriptions go. 

“Unnecessary,” he says, an undercurrent of worry still clear in the letters. Ducking his head, he takes a cautious step forward, almost as if he’s wary of what Emma will do, and she supposes that’s fair. What with the impressive vertical she’s in possession of these days. “Anyone would do that.” “I’m not sure they could, actually.”

At some point in this otherwise shitty experience of a night, Emma is vaguely confident something will go the way she wants it to. Aside from winning. She’s glad they won. Seriously. 

“No?” “No,” she echoes, and it’s not like she can feel him. A few feet of space separates them, so whatever heat appears to be wafting off the Major League Baseball player in front of her, with his damp hair, and stupid, stupid, stupid eyes is as impossible as any of the various impossibilities currently taking place within her person. 

And yet. 

He sticks his hand out. 

It’s disarmingly earnest. 

“Killian Jones,” he says, confidence replacing the nerves, and Emma begins to see why there are so many stories. And Twitter threads. Regarding his face and the potential for that face to date a variety of other attractive faces across at least four of the five boroughs. Somehow Emma doesn’t think Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, is schlepping out to Staten Island for a date. 

Nor does she believe that Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, has ever once let the word schlep pass through his conscious mind. 

She takes his hand. 

It is—

Surprisingly warm. And...not quite soft, that’d be impossible with the job he performs almost nightly. But the calluses on the pads of his fingers aren’t as rough as Emma expects, which also suggests she’s managed to ponder the overall texture of Killian Jones’s fingers in the last twelve point six seconds, and that’s not entirely true. What is true is that Ruby thinks Killian Jones is real good-looking and has determined that the phrase quite a catch is the pinnacle of humor, so, sure, Emma has possibly considered the possibility of paths crossing and intersecting, and her hand looks minuscule wrapped up in his. So, that’s something to think about later. 

Their arms move. Bob up and down as society dictates they should, and he’s smiling at her, and she’s trying not to look like a serial killer, straining to hear the voices behind the door, and it does not work. 

“Why do you think people are so consistently fascinated by fireworks?” If he’s surprised by her absolutely inane question, he doesn’t show it. That’s points. For what, Emma hasn’t totally decided yet, but it’s something, and it’s probably good, and they’re going to play that clip on loop for weeks. Longer, probably. 

Every goddamn day if the Yankees make the postseason. 

When the Yankees make the postseason. 

Her dad wouldn’t appreciate the buffer. Leaves room for loss, and that is not the Nolan way. Not when there are championships to win, and this was supposed to be the best possible time. Smack dab in the middle of the season, with the All-Star break looming, Henry would get to suit up as batboy for one game that didn’t mean much and wouldn’t draw too strong of a spotlight, no murmurs about nepotism by internet trolls who couldn’t possibly define the word with any sort of accuracy, but also like to shout about canceling and culture with an almost alarming sense of self-righteousness, so, of course, the whole thing was now blowing up in their face. 

Much like the goddamn fireworks. 

It wasn’t Will Scarlet’s fault. 

Wasn’t Henry’s fault, either. 

His job was to get the bats out of the field of play. Doing it while the field of play was still active was a mistake any kid could have made. Just so happens that it’s Emma’s kid, and the grandkid of the Yankees’ hitting coach, and that means something to the New York media and the New York fans, and if Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman with an arm that can make cross-field throws with ease, wasn’t also so quick-thinking and sure-footed, scooping Henry up as he crossed home plate and avoiding the ensuing swarm of players at home plate, all intent on celebrating Will Scarlet’s first-ever career walk-off, Emma can only imagine what would have happened. 

Trampled. Stepped on. Broken bones. Concussions. 

They’re checking Henry for a concussion now. He absolutely does not have a concussion. He was laughing while he was carried off the field. Like he hit the walk-off. 

Front office is absolutely petrified she’s going to sue them. 

The thought hadn’t even once crossed Emma’s mind. Plus, she’s sort of busy. Holding Killian Jones’s hand. His stupid, warm hand. 

“Bright colors,” he says, responding to a question Emma’s nearly forgotten about. Jumping is more challenging when his fingers tighten ever so slightly. “Flash, boom. Taps into baser instincts, I think.” “You think people’s base instinct is to enjoy explosions.” “Phrasing that as a statement makes me think you don’t agree with me.” “You didn’t want me to thank you,” Emma points out.

“Well, no,” he says, and the precise way his eyes drop does something specific to all of her instincts. Leaves her flush with a heat that reminds her of Fourth of July sparklers rather than any sort of massive explosion, and that’s not bad, per se, although it’s admittedly a little surprising. As is the slight uptick of precisely one side of his mouth. It takes her a moment to realize he’s smirking at her. And another for her subconscious to admit that it’s working as intended. Her shoulders drop half an inch. While Emma pulls her hand back to her side. “Thanking me suggests I did anything to warrant the thanks.” “Big words.” “For a dumb athlete, you mean.” “That wasn’t a question, either.” “No,” Killian repeats, “it wasn’t.” “I’d really like to thank you. I—Dad told him when to come out of the dugout, so he definitely knew the rules, but I think he was super worried about you tripping over the bat.”

The smirk becomes a full-blown smile. Which is no less than forty-seven thousand times more powerful. Equivalent to staring directly into a solar eclipse or gazing upon the dark side of the moon, and Emma should at least do some research before coming up with these internal examples. Basic Google searches would provide her with the necessary information. 

“That’s more or less what he told me, yeah.” Emma’s nose creases. “Talked your ear off after your daring rescue, huh?” “Keep complimenting me like this, and my ego won’t know what to do with it.”

She hopes she’s not blushing as much as it feels like she is. The state of Killian’s eyebrows and the precise curl of his lips make that seem unlikely. “Your reflexes are unparalleled.” “Something about big bucks and why I get paid them.” “Oh,” Emma laughs, unable to stop herself, and she doesn’t remember deciding to stop pacing, only that her knees appreciate it once she has, “you think you’re real funny, don’t you?” “I think I’m moderately funny, not the hero you’re suggesting I am—” “Oh, I never used the word hero.” “—And you never actually told me your name.”

“Because you don’t know who I am.” It’s not a question, either. Neither one of them mention that. 

“I do,” Killian concedes, “Henry was also fairly quick to mention exactly who he was and where his mother was sitting.” Emma’s nose is going to freeze in this position. “But I gave you my name, which makes it only fair that we’re all square and whatnot.” “Whatnot, huh?” “Yup.” He pops his lips on the letter. Which is also unfair. In, like, the grand scheme of the world. The black ooze that is not actually oil when used in this particular metaphor recedes. Leaves Emma with a chest cavity that is partially full of butterfly wings and the growing sense of anticipation that isn’t quite as nerve-wracking as it should be. Like she’s about to step into the batter’s box with two outs and runners in scoring position. She’s totally going to hit against the shift. Fluttering her fingers at her side, Emma doesn’t lift her hand. It doesn’t matter. 

Killian’s eyes drop. To the movement. And her. And part of her shies away from that because part of her has spent a lifetime tucked into a shadow that didn’t belong to her and doesn’t belong to Henry, but now there’s some joke about Peter Pan to be made because they live in an internet-age and Killian Jones has a very good face. So. Viral video, enter stage right. Starring Henry Swan, Killian Jones, and the inevitably uneven pitter-patter of Emma’s traitorous heart. 

“Emma Swan.” “I think you should sit down.”

“Why is that, exactly?” “I’m worried about your legs.”

Whatever noise she makes can’t quite be classified as a scoff. It hurts her throat too much. And it’s not a laugh, either. Even as the butterflies threaten to rise up in mutiny of Emma’s more rational feelings, and she gets the distinct impression that Killian is reading her mind. Trying very hard, at least. 

“Sounds like a line.” “Might be a line,” he admits, which draws another wholly inhuman sound out of Emma’s barely-functioning lungs. 

“Did he kick you on the lift?” Killian hums. “You’d kick too if you were just hauled off your feet, so I understand the reaction. What I’m more worried about is the inevitable bruise on my foot from the bat landing there.” “Ah shit, really?” “I’ve had worse.” “But not in 4K video that people will play on loop for the rest of the news cycle. If not longer.” Narrowing his eyes, Killian doesn’t immediately respond. Mind reading requires a modicum of focus, Emma assumes. Instead, he rests a hand on her shoulder, directing her toward the chair and ignoring the soft crack her left knee as it bends. “That’s what you’re worried about.” “Stop sounding so confident.” “I can only sound how I am, Swan.” “Oh, I’m not sure we’ve reached nickname status yet,” she mumbles, pushing down the soft rush of metaphorical insects doing their beset to soar out of her barely-parted lips. “But, yeah, I—I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was totally terrified in the moment.”

“Understandable. Grown men barrelling down the third-base line at your kid are a lot to take in.” She snorts. It’s not cute. Not dignified. Killian smirks. “Should you be concerned that the Scarlet was making such solid headway behind you? Are you exceedingly slow?” “I am league average.” “How fast can you get out of the box to first?” “I’ve never timed it.” “Liar, liar.” “Please don’t make a crack about my pants,” Killian says, “I won’t be able to cope.”

“Oh God, you think you’re charming, too.” “I’ve had no complaints.” “To your face, at least.”

Throwing his head back, the laugh that erupts out of him is not of volcano proportions. Of which there was also one in FernGully if Emma’s memory is to be trusted.  An arm circles his middle, stretching muscle and ensuring that Emma notices just how corded that same muscle is, the slight bend of his wrist leaving her off-kilter. When he meets her gaze, she swears his eyes are brighter. “Yeah, yeah, that’s true,” Killian concedes, “no one has flat out told me I was lacking charm to my face.” “This thanking you thing is going great.” “And I continue to not need thanks. Why are you worried about the video getting out there? Filmed in 4K like you suggest, at least we’ll all look great. Sharp pixels and whatnot.” “What do you know about pixels?” “You basically heard the extent just now.”

She’s getting better at laughing. The ooze has almost all but disappeared, Emma twirling a strand of hair around fingers that are intent on moving, and it’s an old habit. One Killian’s gaze catches on. Immediately. Quickly. Seriously, Emma needs a thesaurus. “Baseball’s always been my dad,” she says. “And that’s—well, we’ve lived this game, me and my mom, weekend series and West Coast swings, waiting up for him to get home because the flight got delayed, but Henry’s just a kid, getting thrown into this world because of his last name and who his family is? That sucks. Nothing was supposed to happen tonight.” “Nothing did happen.” “Because of you.” “I’d like to believe Scarlet, ridiculously fast as he might be, would not run over a small child,” Killian says. “And, uh, for the record and all that, I got a bad jump off first because I didn’t know if they were going to catch it in left. No one wants to get caught on the base paths.” “Yeah, that’d be embarrassing.”

He must hear the hitch in her voice because the next thing Emma realizes, her fingers are twisted back up in Killian’s, and she’s warm and falling and flying, and it’s good and weird, and the door swings open. 

They both jump.

So, that’s something. 

Rushing out quickly enough that he nearly trips over his own feet, Henry’s head leads the way and finds Emma’s stomach, a tangle of limbs, and overly-excited words, all of which rival the now-finished fireworks display in volume. 

It takes Henry about five and a half run-on sentences to notice Killian standing there. 

His eyes widen. His mouth drops. Killian grins. Emma tries very hard not to die. It only sort of works. 

She blames the faulty body parts she’s in possession of. 

“Killian,” Henry exclaims, clamoring back to his feet and nearly falling again in the process. Hands that belong to both Emma and Killian dart out, steadying Henry while their eyes meet over the top of his head. Killian winks. He tries. It’s more like a blink than anything. “Hi, hi! You did so good tonight! And we won, and I got to go on the field and—and, it was so,” Henry heaves a deep breath, “we were so good.”

Collective pronouns do something to Emma’s entire state of being. 

Flips it on an axis she hadn’t been aware previously existed until it almost feels as if this was the path they’d been directing themselves toward from the start. Her eyes flit toward Killian. Who is already watching her. 

“We did,” he nods, “maybe next time, though, you wait one extra second to grab Scarlet’s bat, ok?” Seeing her own nose scrunch reflected back on her kid is not the worst thing that’s ever happened to Emma. The vibrating phone in her back pocket, might be. 

It’s one-hundred percent, Ruby. 

“That’s what grandpa said too,” Henry grumbles, digging a toe of the cleats Emma’s mother bought him last week into the ground, “but I wanted to make sure you didn’t fall.”

Definitely dying, then. A systematic shut down of all necessary internal organs. It’s not as bad as Emma would have expected. 

Neither one of Killian’s knees crack when he bends. That seems heavy-handed. 

“And I don’t want you to fall either,” he says, “so we agree, right here, right now, not to let the other one fall, huh?” Emma holds her breath. Ignores the pinch in her lungs and the clearly unstable nature of both her mind and her heart, digging her nails into her palms. To ensure she isn’t tempted to haul Henry back toward her. Or push that one strand of hair away from Killian’s forehead. 

Henry nods. “Deal.”

They hook their pinkies together. 

It’s adorable and as endearingly charming as everything else Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, has done since he walked into that hallway. Less so when her dad emerges from the office, the athletic trainer on his heels to not-so-quietly inform Killian that he can’t just blow off post-game like that, and the second wink is as bad as the first. 

She does her very best to memorize the movement. 

And the joy on Henry’s face the next morning when a box arrives on their doorstep, a genuine, game-worn Killian Jones jersey inside. She doesn’t notice the note at first, tucked between the cardboard and the tissue paper someone must have bought for him. He can’t have bought that tissue paper himself. He just—it’s unfathomable. 

Emma knows he bought the tissue paper himself. 

As clearly as she knows that those numbers in that particular order will lead to Killian Jones answering his phone and that her voice likely won’t shake when she replies to the question written in surprisingly loopy script. Which is why, Emma will argue, she does reply. In the affirmative. To several questions over the course of the remaining season, and they don’t star in any more viral videos, but there are a few pictures once they clinch the division. 

Drops of champagne cling to the tips of Emma’s eyelashes and the ends of Killian’s hair, hands on her waist that blaze a quick path up her back and around her middle, and she has to tilt her head up to get the right angles. Of lips. While they kiss in the middle of the clubhouse, the hat someone forced onto Emma’s head falling and it’s impossible to hear over the sound of celebratory fireworks, but she can somehow still hear Henry’s laugh ringing out from the general area near Scarlet’s locker, and his jersey collection is growing at an impressive rate. 

No one can withstand the overall cuteness of him. 

Emma included. Emma, especially. 

Sometimes she worries she’s so happy she’ll burst, unable to contain the sort of emotion her body is still acclimating itself to. But then she realizes just how dumb that is and happiness cannot possibly be quantified, and her head is buzzing enough from champagne that she nearly misses Killian when he says, “people love the bright spots, Swan.” It’s not the most romantic thing he’s told her. Doesn’t crack the top five, quite frankly. She swoons all the same. With her kid laughing and her team winning and that’s about all the sentiment she’s willing to acknowledge before her tongue is in Killian’s mouth. He groans. She grins. 

And he’d been right about the video. It wasn’t the embarrassment Emma worried it could be. Was mostly relegated to the corners of the internet set aside for formerly popular content as soon as the season ended, spoken about only in fond recollection as the other seasons went on and the wins kept coming and all three of them stand on a parade float with the World Series trophy a few dozen feet away, several Novembers after that first game. 

It’s a Thursday afternoon, then. 

And yet Emma never entirely forgets. What the video meant and what it did and she’s not remotely surprised when it finds its way back to the forefront of the sports zeitgeist on a Wednesday in July. Most mentions come with similar taglines and messages. Something about feeling our age and wanna feel old because that bot boy, David Nolan’s grandson, Killian Jones’s stepson, he’s getting drafted now. 

Got drafted, technically. 

Third round, video of the soon-to-be third baseman for the San Diego Padres makes the internet circuits and garners plenty of interest. It’s not the most exciting video, though. Henry just hugs his family. Who hug tightly back. 

What is more exciting is the box that arrives on Emma and Killian’s doorstep. With a note that eventually earns a frame next to the last one and a wholly official, game-worn jersey that has a noticeable streak of dirt across the left sleeve. From sliding head-first into home plate.  

[renaroo]

Other History? More Like Other MYSTERY

as in it’s a MYSTERY how the hell this got past an editor the week before Pride Month are you fucking kidding me?

I was kind of hoping for more than like... a week of being back on tumblr before I breathed fire and ripped a comic book to shreds. But we all know why I’m here.

There are so many preemptive things to get out of the way before I rip into this thing...

John Ridley as a writer in other forms of media has been incredibly accomplished and an important additional voice to entertainment industries. I do not wish to take away from that or to minimize the impact of voices like his.

But, you know, he’s a voice in media. Not the end-all, be-all to all marginalized people worldwide who can substitute his perspective for any nonwhite straight male voice. And I don’t think that has ever been more apparent than the continued spiral down the drain that has been every issue of The Other History of the DC Universe since the first. 

DC’s “new” approach to everything being canon and everything mattering is dumb and filled to the brim with ways it’s going to backfire and reveal itself to be the eye sore of publications that it’s aiming for, but I was curious to see how they would try to incorporate these characters’ long and contentious histories in the comics with the real world issues they often were billed to tackle, and try to fit it into the current pop culture landscape. That was the whole reason I had my eye on this comic to begin with.

By the second issue we were getting some stark warning signs because as much as I appreciated hearing an authentic perspective on how the Teen Titans brand carried on while neglecting its landmark Black teen heroes (Mal Duncan and Karen Beecher), there was a note of cruelty added to the issue that felt otherwise misplaced and uncharacteristic of the tone being set. 

There was no reason to have a significant portion of that issue dedicated to Mal and Karen’s monologues taking some aggressive words out on Roy Harper specifically for being an addict. 

Perhaps it was a quirk of writing from a flawed perspective or a show of how righteous upset and anger could be turned outward to other people suffering in a vy for your own empowerment. 

I’m now pretty sure that wasn’t it at all. I’m pretty sure because it kept getting worse every issue and it’s culminated in today’s issue where the retelling of Renee Montoya’s story managed to be petty, cruel, shockingly pro-police brutality int its adulation of Jim Gordon and especially Harvey Bullock, and managed to make a well-rounded and very beloved Latina lesbian and just retrofit every stereotype she never had before to her without regard for what it did to her story or to the stories of people around her. 

Honestly, lapsed faith and a poke at the damage that Catholic guilt can have on especially queer believers is kind of my jam, so it’s not that I wouldn’t be down for a story with that perspective. I could even understand exploring that with Renee. But not at the expense of her established history.

Which is a question all of its own. Here we have the skeletal structure of Renee’s life events that we have read before (in much better stories), but they are surprisingly out of order and also shockingly twisted in a way to make EVERYONE as unpleasant as possible. 

And in a way that has convinced me that either John Ridley has never read comics featuring Renee, or that he was mandated to change things that had no business being changed.

According to this issue Renee hated Batman and other superheroes? Which, ah, I don’t even know where that could come from. Ever since the animated series where she got started, Renee’s whole bag has been “the acolyte of Jim Gordon, only other cop who supports Batman”. Like I don’t even know how you get around that.

But according to Ridley she’s hated them all along as an extension of her internalized homophobia and self-loathing. Great.

What follows out of that is that apparently? Renee and Batman specifically butted heads over wanting to rehabilitate Harvey Dent? As in Renee wanted to help him and BATMAN was the one flipping out and saying Harvey was a sociopath and couldn’t be helped.

Like. I’m starting to question if Ridley has read Batman comics before. I don’t know where that interpretation could possibly come from? Bruce and Harvey were friends? Bruce has always held out hope for saving Harvey from his psychosis? It’s like. THE storyline for Two-Face.

The cop stuff... I don’t really know how to talk about the cop stuff to be completely honest. If you mention the LA Riots on one page and a few pages later try to frame it so that over policing and methods of brutality weren’t a thing until 9/11... I don’t know what to say to you. 

I’d say maybe I was being ungenerous here except there were two characters who got entire full page spreads about what good cops they were. And one of them was goddamn Harvey Bullock with the explicit commentary that Renee USED to be uncomfortable with his torture methods and general brutality but figured it was “okay” because he knew how “innocent people screamed different” and that he “never collared someone and it didn’t stick” because. Y’know. Police violence and falsifying evidence never go hand in hand. what the actual fuck ever right?

The timeline for Renee and Kate’s relationship is also completely changed which means that we get to add a trope I just LOVE as a lesbian personally, which is that lesbians can’t keep relationships and can’t keep from cheating on their loving partners. Especially when they are butch. 

And I’m not talking about Renee cheating on Kate. Oh, no. Ridley decided Kate was the Other Woman during Renee’s relationship with Daria. 

And just.. the cruel commentary that Renee had about both Kate and Daria throughout. It made my skin crawl. The way she talked about other women in general made my skin crawl. “Uncomplicated women” “Broken souls” “Can’t be with someone better than yourself”

So I actually planned to go into a full rage post about just the queer content because 1. my lane and 2. it honestly affected me so bad I was shaking and tearing up in anger a bit. Every single friend I know who loves Kate and Renee, see themselves in Kate and Renee, have been the same kind of mess I am after this.

The NASTINESS of the internal monologue. I don’t know how to explain it more than this is how poorly men think of flf and to have one use a character so meaningful to the community to spout this hatefulness has revolted me in a way I... haven’t had happen to me for a while.

I was going to talk about the weirdness of just... randomly deciding to retcon Renee’s parents into being undocumented when that’s never been a thing before and just doing NOTHING with it the whole while after. Or how it’s pretty questionable how Renee suddenly became so adherently Catholic when it’s never been portrayed like that before (that’s Hel B’s bag, JPV if you squint) but it’s entwined with any of her commentary on her ethnicity p sus too but I don’t have the nuance for that discussion right now.

Rena Rants are back and what a fucking JOKE this comic was. 

I didn’t pay for it and neither should you.

P.S. bringing back Tim Fox and calling him “Jace” is dumb as fuck too

[gothamstim]

True Self - chapter 1

So since after Batman: Urban Legends I couldn't stop thinking about what Oracle told Tim, and I wanted to give my interpretation with a story.

I neve truly wrote a fanfiction, so I tried now to write the first chapter to see if someone may appreciate my story. So, here we go, enjoy the absolute angst this is haha

Tim Drake was always up to analyse everything and everyone in his life. Analysing things made him feel in control, made him feel that he could make sure anything was handled. But Tim Drake never truly realised, up 'til one day, that he analyses everything and everyone but himself. He was starting to be aware that he suppressed any emotion, any thought about his life, to keep himself safe and in control. The suppression of feelings was common in the Wayne family for sure, starting from Bruce. But everyone in the batfam handled themselves always when it was necessary, not every minute of their life. Unfortunately, Tim always chose the last option. Why?

This has started when he had lost everyone he cared, one by one. He realised that he couldn't handle the pain, his grief. Emotions destroyed him, made him weak, vulnerable, made him lose control. So he tucked his feelings away.

But was "not feeling" enough for living? Or he was just barely surviving?

Even after Tim fortunately had again in his life the people he loved, he kept suppressing part of his true self. But what was his true self?

He was lost. He was so involved in saving the city, fixing everyone and helping them, that he gave away piece by piece the chance to really find out who he is, what he wants, up to this moment.

Tim felt pain in his heart, and felt an unpleasant sensation suffocate his mind and body. 'is it fear?' he thought.

Tim Drake was scared to analyse himself because he could find some things he didn't like about himself. Something to be scared of.

Perhaps he always knew what that was, but tried so strong to cancel those thoughts out of his mind that almost forgot what he was scared of.

A name always tucked to his heart, even when he lost his memories.

A name always came back to him.

A name he could never forget, no matter what.

Why? Why was that name so important to his heart? Why the innumerable feelings he suppressed always tried to break the walls he built around his heart when it came to that name?

Conner. Kon.

Suddenly, emotions bombarded the walls he built around himself.

What was that? Why did he had to feel this way for a person he always considered his best friend?

He liked girls. He HAD to like girls ONLY.

Not boys.

Why not? Was it wrong? Tim didn't know.

perhaps it was wong for HIM.

He thought that it was a truth that could destroy everything he achieved in his life. In particular his most important friendships. He couldn't do this to Conner. He would be disgusted, ashamed, for sure.

So, everytime he felt something, he tossed it away, like he was letting grow thorns around his heart. It hurted, but he was used to pain.

He won't let his stupid being ruin his life. Because it could only bring ruination, right?

For sure.

Involuntarily, a tear slipped from his control and made his way through his left cheek, touching the tip of his lip.

Was he really crying? Fear came back and tried to take control of him.

He had to be strong, he had to compose himself before any other emotion would surface.

He was sitting on a chair in the library of Wayne manor. But Tim didn't realise he was not alone anymore.

"Tim? Is something wrong? Are you okay?" the worried voice of the one and only Conner Kent came from the open window at his right. He was there, floating, and entered the room looking at Tim with a worried expression.

Tim gasped to have been caught by surprise and speak of the devil, it was his best friend.

Tim realised he couldn't speak so he raised up quickly from the chair, as it something burned him, and tried to leave the library. He had to get away from Kon, he wouldn't want him to see him like that.

"Tim!" Kon said, alarmed. Tim froze in place, startled by Conner's voice. Taking a breath, he turned toward him and tried his best to not show anything that slipped from his grasp a few moments before.

"What are you doing here?" he said, in a tone that sounded most accusingly as he expected. Conner raised his hands, like to reassure him and to apologize. "I'm sorry Tim, I didn't mean- I was not very far and I heard you sobbing and your heart beat so fast that I felt...like checking if you were okay"

"Well, I'm okay. Now if you would excuse me, I want to be alone"

Conner's face saddened hearing Tim using that cold tone to him.

Tim felt extremely guilty about it, but he needed space, and maybe being away from Conner for a few days would help him being in control of his emotions like he always did.

"You are evidently not, Tim. I won't force you to speak about what's troubling you, but just know that sometimes opening up to someone can make you feel better."

Tim's mouth involuntarily trembled. 'what is wrong with me? Am I really starting to lose control over myself?'

"I said I'm okay. You don't need to check on me everytime I breathe. Goodnight, Kon". Tim hated himself for how he was reacting, because he was angry with himself, not him.

Tim didn't see Kon's hurt expression. "Okay, I'm sorry then. Goodnight. I hope to see you tomorrow night at the birthday party. I'm coming with someone". And with that, he flied away.

The fucking party. It was Bart's birthday, and he invited of course the Young Justice and many other people. So Conner was going to bring someone to the party. Who? Him and Cassie Sandsmark didn't date since a long time. But Kon was always the crush of some girl. With his curly hair and undercut, his black leather jacket, the sunglasses, his tight red jeans, he always had admirers. Not mentioning his beautiful blue eyes, and his smile...

stop. STOP.

What was Tim doing? 'stop thinking about your best friend's goddamn smile' he cursed himself.

Tim closed his bedroom door and sighed. As if Bart heard his thoughts, Tim received a message from him:

22.17 (From: Bart) Hey yo Tim remember to bring someone to the party! See you tomorrow!!

The message was followed by too much emojis as always.

He didn't care, he would go to the party alone. And he won't think about Kon's companion. He won't think about Kon at all. He could do it. But as he was ready to go to sleep, sad and hurt blue eyes hurt by himself wodn't leave his mind. Another hear slipped from his eye, and he was sure he won't sleep at all.

[cryinginthebackseat]

initials t.c.

Fandom: Open Heart

Pairing: Tobias Carrick x MC

Words: 7.299 (I’M SO SORRY)

Summary: Tobias Carrick makes Claire an offer she can’t refuse.

Warnings: 50% plot, 50% smut, swear-a-thon, blasphemy

Author’s Note: when the book first introduced us to tobias carrick, the first thing that hit my mind was “okay, but that dude is like the carbon copy of jesse williams and that’s hot” but then, once it reveals who he is and what’s his role in the book i went “interestinggggggg” cause you know, i’m a sucker for morally grey characters and all, and i’m not even ashamed to admit it. also, carrick is shaping up to be such an interesting character with each chapter and maybe one day- okay, maybe this sounds like a pipe dream- but one day, i hope he can be a li (let a girl dream plz) lmao

also if anyone’s interested, i made a PLAYLIST to accompany reading the fic.

the title is inspired by serge gainsbourg’s initials bb

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Cast down off heaven Cast down on my knees I’ve lain with the devil Cursed god above Forsaken heaven

To Bring You My Love - PJ Harvey

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Whenever Claire thinks about Tobias Carrick, admittedly, unfortunately, tragically, she always thinks about his eyes first before remembering what a colossal pain in the ass he is.

It always comes in that order. Like the number 3 always comes before 4, like the seawater dragging back from the shoreline before a tsunami occurs, like pouring milk before the cereal (she honestly didn’t get what the fuss is about until one day Elijah cried ‘oh, hell no you don’t, satan!‘ one morning and proceeded to give her bullet points why pouring the milk before the cereal is considered a sin and more of an abomination than Nephilims’ existence and that there’s a higher probability that she’s a psycho for being a ‘milk first’ kind of person). So apparently, Claire’s a psycho now which explains so many aspects- but she digresses and the point is, the reaction is uncontrollable and she high-key hates how she can’t control her goddamn mind most of the time.

The point is, she needs to stop thinking about him to begin with. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Claire Castelnuovo was born in the summer, under the sign of Gemini. Marilyn Monroe once said that stands for intellect, being a Gemini, but she was too blissfully unaware of this guerdon that she devoted her adolescent years to being outdoors instead. Too many days she spent trampling along the cornfields with her cousins until the skies faded out with brilliant purple-tinged amber and she was carrying a piece of the sun in her skin and smelled like one, stuffing wildflowers inside her boots as she walked around the neighborhood with her dad’s old stethoscope, napping in a hammock with Oasis’ All Around the World on repeat. By the time she hit 15, her black strands had turned brown from repeated sun exposure. She loved it.

But it was a different time, a different place. Somewhere that only exists on the margins of her memories, lost and hidden.

Now, Claire prefers the night.

It’s 9:30 pm when she arrives at a hotel bar in downtown Boston. A newly christened establishment which has somehow become a regular spot for Hemingway’s enthusiasts once the Boston Globe wrote an article about their Hemingway Daiquiri and how, as they wrote it, ‘probably the only place that’s brave and crazy enough to adhere to the 1930s original recipe’ and bourgeois party birds at wee hours during the weekend.

Her eyes are gritty, dry and strange. Her mind’s much worse for the wear- she feels like shit, like in the middle of watching that scene from The Green Mile shit when all is hopeless and you feel like walking out of the theater, but you’ve spent your last savings just to buy the ticket, so you decide to stick through it.

Claire makes a beeline for the bar, tries to flag down the bartender. She orders an Old Fashioned, making sure to specify to double it because she’s not a regular here and he’s not Reggie and that’s how she’s been taking her drink for years.

She knows well deep in her bones that she should be somewhere else. Somewhere more familiar, somewhere where Tim Mcgraw often plays from the subpar speakers, and the rustic wooden bar countertop is gouging and discoloring from the cheap household cleaners and alcohol stains, and her friends are cramming together in the same booth in the back, reveling and laughing until they close the bar down and make a mess all over. Perhaps it’s a mistake coming here, where no one’s a familiar face and the drinks are a tad overpriced for her budget.

But then, perhaps this is exactly what she needs; the unfamiliarity, the visceral feeling knowing that she doesn’t belong here, where no one knows her name and the huge deal of weight she’s currently carrying on her shoulders. Perhaps, she can’t face her friends after what happened, after what Esme has done. Shit, how could any of this happen? Claire knows this all on Esme’s, but her guilt has grown hopelessly tangled with her anxiety. She’s her intern, for fuck’s sake, Claire’s supposed to prevent this from happening in the first place.

Man, where’s Declan Nash when she feels like punching someone in the face?

Claire makes the mistake of drinking her drink too quickly, because it hasn’t been ten minutes and she’s drained half of the content. Then she reaches for her phone in her bag, fiddles with it, absent-minded, equal parts bored before then settles on watching the band performing Art Pepper’s You Go To My Head and immediately thinks of that time she accidentally dropped her brother’s saxophone in a moment of her rather graceless, wine-soaked self with the whole family present.

Someone plops down on the empty stool next to her. Claire’s now scrolling through her phone- again, bored. Sienna commented on the post Elijah shared to the group chat with a few unnecessary-yet-totally-necessary emojis to the already convoluted series of texts and Claire only reads them in silence, not only because her friends’ texting behaviors are too chaotic for her to follow sometimes but she’s not really feeling like talking to anyone right now.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Famous last words.

Claire freezes in her seat. Her phone’s still glowing in her hand, alighting her features. She recognizes that voice- too well, that is and it’s enough to set off her flight-or-fight response.

She glances up from her phone, preparing for the worst.

Well, what’s presented before her is literally the worst.

“Of all the gin joints…” she says once her eyes find Tobias Carrick sitting next to her, still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled-up, a few buttons undone, reeking of smoke, soap and antiseptic with a shit-eating grin plastered over his face.

She should have gone to Donahue’s instead.

“Evening to you too, Castelnuovo. Drinking your dinner tonight, I see?”

“What, this? No, this is breakfast. 100% daily value of alcohol and pretty much nothing else. I mean, it’s not the weekend without a bad case of hangover and an aspirin snowglobe in the morning, am I right? You know, like a glass of aspirin? Not a literal snowglobe?” she blabbers, realizing just so by the time she hears him snort. Claire chokes down another sip to shut her mouth up. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m about to commit first-degree murder and burn this whole place to the ground,” he drawls, the ever goddamn sarcastic. “What do you think? I’m trying to get dru-”

“No, I mean what are you doing here, of all places? Can’t you get drunk somewhere else?” she interrupts, her midwest accent does funny things to the vowels and consonants- something that only happens whenever she’s in distress, or at least according to Jackie.

“Last time I heard, this joint’s still owned by the Hilton, not a certain junior member of the Diagnostics Team at Edenbrook hospital.”

“Dude, what do you think of the H in Claire H. Castelnuovo stands for?” Deadpan, trying to keep up with the rolling sarcasm, she retorts. He smirks.

“Horatio?”

“Get the fuck out of here,” she mutters, mid-eye-roll, mid-snickering.

He chuckles, his voice rich and smoky amidst the late-night swing and distant chatters. Carrick doesn’t leave, of course, typically him- if those anecdotes Ethan told her has taught her anything about his character, that is- defying everything, scheming his way to the top, the embodiment of ‘those devilish boys with their heavenly eyes’ type your mother warns you about.

Not that the latter is relevant.

“Or what?” His mouth twitches but there’s a hard, challenging light in his eyes that she knows too well by now.

“Or I’m leaving.“ She shoots him a glare. He’s testing her patience- again, like it’s his finesse. Some things never change, it seems.

“Come on, Castelnuovo, don’t be a sourpuss. The night is young and I can promise you, the last thing I am is a horrible drinking buddy.”

With a touch of irony, she replies: “I’m sure. I bet you asked your friends to fill out a questionnaire every time you went out with them, did you?”

Carrick hums.

“You’re funny.” But he says it in the same tone that someone might say Jesus fuck, you’re probably one of the most frustrating creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on. Also, because the next thing he says is: “A little rough around the edges, but funny nonetheless.”

“That makes one of us then.”

Carrick frowns, which is kind of a surprise because she’s half expected him to flash her that signature cheeky grin of his.

“Listen, I’m just trying to make a friendly conversation here. I know we haven’t really seen eye-to-eye with each othe-”

Claire snorts and crosses her arms over her chest. “That, doctor, is an understatement of the fucking century.”

“Okay so, we’re like Tom and Jerry but sans the background music and a naive little duckling running around calling one of us his momma, but I feel like now’s the time to call out a temporary truce between us.” A beat, then: “I heard about what happened with the intern.”

Something flashes across her face- and Carrick must have noticed it, because his face does this odd thing- it softens, even for a moment. She hates it. He’s not supposed to be looking at her like that, not supposed to see her at her weakest state or saved her ass- And Jesus, why does she have to be indebted to Tobias Carrick, of all people- But god forbid, the last thing she’ll ever do is crying in front of him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mutters, barely audible, trying to temper her fluctuated emotions.

“Then don’t. We can talk about anything else or fall into some sort of endless, meaningless platitudes. Whichever will work.” As if sensing Claire’s lingering hesitation, he adds. “Tell you what, to sweeten the offer, your next drinks are on me.”

She assesses him for a long minute, eyes narrowing. She’s shaking her head, but her mouth, as if against her will, instead says: “Careful, Carrick, there’s a chance I’ll be abusing that offer and run you dry.”

"Hey, if you want to butcher your liver so bad, don’t stop on my account,” he says. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll make sure to save your ass again this time around. Pro bono.”

Claire looks as if she’s just swallowed a dead rat. “Thanks, but no thanks. Death seems more like an appealing choice.”

“Well, I stopped death from interfering then, I’ll stop it again.” Carrick winks, she pretends to gag again yet remains still in her seat, so Carrick waves at the bartender for their order- she orders for a refill and he, a martini and Claire is this close from asking 'shaken or stirred?’ but then remembers who he is and immediately washes the question down with her drink.

“You know, if anyone told me weeks ago that I’d be having a drink with you tonight, I probably would have socked them.“

Carrick is in the middle of lighting his cigarette, but laughs instead. “The Times They Are a-Changin’, as Bob Dylan said.” A puff of smoke escapes his mouth, curling around his fingers. Claire instinctively looks away. “Which reminds me of that one time your mentor sang Ballad of A Thin Man on the fucking subway when we were 20.”

She swivels her head to his direction, on the verge of choking on her drink. “Hold on, hold on, Ethan Jonah Ramsey sings?”

“Give him a dare he couldn’t refuse and a few shots of whiskey, and I promise you he’ll sing like Sinatra on crack.” He grins, his eyes are all crinkled and bright; she thinks that means he’s genuinely amused. “Ah, good times. We were like- wait, who was it he’d like to say we’re like again?”

A small smile pulls at her lips. “Bert and Ernie.”

“Jesus, he really fucking compares us to some Sesame Street characters, huh?” She laughs at that, loud and bright. He does the same. “Personally, I’d always say we were like Butch and Sundance back then- rebels with a cause, a band of misfits, trying to leave our marks on the world. You know those types. We were young, we wanted so much- I still do. I mean, let’s be real, whoever’s wanted to be defeated at their own game?”

A crease forms between her eyebrows, not quite a frown.

“Nobody,” Claire concurs, hating herself for it. “But was it worth it? Betraying the closest thing you had to a brother or a lover…” Carrick coughs on his smoke from the latter. “or whatever in the process just to get what you wanted?” Claire was obviously aiming for that brash, hard-hitting jab, but it lands gloriously too soft.

The bartender finally places their ordered drinks down on the bar. Carrick reaches for it, taking a careful swig, then sets his glass down. He takes a deep breath.

"It’s nothing personal. It never was. I never considered him as my rival.”

“Yeah, but by doing whatever you did, you’ve made an enemy out of him,” she counters. “Look, Carrick, I know we live in a dog-eat-dog world and I know being good sometimes doesn’t get the job done. Perhaps Machiavelli was right. Perhaps, when necessary, you have to be ruthless, dissembling and manoeuvring- what did he say again? ‘The end justifies the means’? But if any worthwhile end can justify the means to attain it, if everyone outright surrenders to their darker side, then what’s left of our humanity?”

For an interminable moment, there is only silence. He simply stares at her, as if she’s a walking, talking Rubik’s cube he can’t solve or a book that he has opened and now he’s got to know so much more and she feels pinned under those warm irises, uneasy.

Suddenly, his mouth begins to take shape; the corners hike up, stretch and then he does the unexpected.

The bastard fucking laughs.

“Excuse me?!” she spits, white-hot anger lacing each word. Carrick laughs harder- the audacity- despite Claire’s growing razor’s edge stare. “Did you just laugh at me? I was being fucking seriou-”

“Sorry, sorry.” Wiping an imaginary tear from his left eye. “I was just remembering Harper’s words. She’s right, you really are on the side of the angels, aren’t you?”

She points at him with her glass, snarling. “And you, mister, are the devil himself with a medical degree and an egg head- and I don’t mean the slang for a highly academic person.”

“Ouch,” Carrick says out loud, still kind of laughing, borderline frowning. “Okay, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Damn straight. Though you have a lot to apologize for.”

He groans. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about that one patient I stole under your nose?”

“The North remembers, ser,” she says, mean-spirited.

“Then does the North remembers that I saved her life?”

“Oh, so you’re discrediting the efforts of the other doctors that helped you make the cure?”

“Alright, alright. You win.” Carrick holds up his hands, the universal gesture of defeat and takes one final drag of his cigarette. He stubs it out, all the while keeping his gaze on her.

“So, how exactly can I make it up to you?“

Claire blinks- once, twice, thrice, realizing his intent. His voice drops an octave and he’s leaning in, close enough for her to notice the constellations of freckles splaying across his face and the way his brown eyes glinted like two shots of whiskey under a stream of light, intense and all-consuming. She feels her mind races, her brains feel as if they underwent a short-circuit and get caught on fire, and the fact that her mind’s on the precipice of exploring the idea is not helping.

A burst of laughter erupts from her throat, not that it’s funny- there’s nothing funny about the situation, but someone ought to diffuse this shift of tension between them, or that was her aim, at least.

“What, you wanna pay me back?” she asks, trying to keep her voice from cracking but failing miserably. Fingers trembling against her glass as she chugs nearly a quarter of her drink in one go.

He notices that.

"A Lannister always pays his debts, does he? If you think that I owe you one, then I’ll gladly pay.” His eyes flick back to her face, searing into her. The air crackles between them. The band is playing a different song now, a sound that only exists on the margin of her attention. If they’re in, say a mid 2000s rom-com movie, someone would probably interrupt this moment and save her from this. But this isn’t a movie.

Claire licks her lips, a candid reaction which encourages him to inch closer- or is it her? She can’t tell anymore. Tracing odd patterns on the palm of her hand with his finger and oh god, this is Carrick, the bane of her fucking existence, she’d shoot him first before she kisses him. But something about the prospect of fucking this bastard twists her insides deliciously into a confused mess.

“How? By fucking me?” she inquires, feigning scandalized- all that Catholic guilt bullshit.

He grins, all-teeth and wolfish and shrugs as if they’re talking about his life insurance policy or shit. “Well, that’s the idea.”

“But you don’t even like me.” It should come out as I don’t even like you, but even she knows that’ll be just another lie she tells.

“On the contrary, I enjoy our rivalry far more than I should, Castelnuovo,” he purrs and places a hand on her knee. Her throat bobs. She’s wearing a skirt, it didn’t seem important then, but now his hand feels warm against her skin, dangling on the edge of impropriety. Like gravity, all it takes is a little push for him to cross that line.

“I should be disliking the way you talk to me, challenging me and putting me on the back foot every goddamn time. I should be focusing on taking you down a peg, but the more I see you, the more I realize you have an attractive kind of power. And I’m just one man. And if there’s anything I learned, the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

But then his movement suddenly ceases. Claire almost asks why.

"However…”

“What?” she stares up at him, eyes wide, breath hitching.

“However if you only accept alcohol as the currency for transactions, then I’ll tell the bartender to get us another round instead,“ he tells her, offering her one last chance to back out from this, from making this mistake with him.

Claire stares into her drink, actually mulling this over. Her mind tells her no, but the other part- the alcohol-infused part of her mind- whispers otherwise. She imagines if Ethan or any of her friends are here, they would probably grab her shoulder and shake the living hell out of her for even reconsidering his offer.

But then again, intelligence, alcohol and desperation have always had a bad history of getting along together.

“What about June?” Claire asks against her better judgement, after a long, considerable pause. Carrick raises a confused brow.

“What about her?”

“I thought you guys…” she trails off, makes a face, feeling all-kind of flustered and aroused and wow, she’s really doing this, huh? “I mean, I don’t know- I don’t wanna get in between you guys.”

“Nah. It was only a three time thing, but there’s never been anything between us.” He chuckles at Claire’s askance look. “If you don’t believe me, you can fact-check it with the woman herself,” Carrick adds, looking at her dead-on with his eyes like he wants to get the message across.

She regards him silently for a long second, and maybe she’s a touch drunk now, maybe the bartender put something in her drink, or maybe she just needs to blow off some steam after what’s been happening in these past few weeks and Carrick happens to be a decent warm body for the occasion, but Claire finds herself shifting closer.

"Then I want you to pay me back.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” she answers, more sure this time, more determined.

Her nose bumps his, his breath fanning across her face all the while Carrick’s slightly pushing her skirt up, letting his fingertips travel higher. His eyes keep darting back and forth from her eyes and lips, checking for her reaction. There is no inhibition here, not anymore. People might be watching- heck, they could be already watching and it terrifies her that she doesn’t give a damn about it.

“But if you tell anyone about this, I swear to god… ” she warns and a shadow of mirth passes across his eyes, making her almost regretting this. Almost.

“Claire, darling.” It’s the first time he’s ever said her name and her stomach does a tango. “Your secret is safe with me.“ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

He gets them a room in the hotel, it’s on the twentieth floor. Carrick handles the accommodation- he can afford it, apparently, which is not really surprising and the nuisating check-in procedure while Claire only waits in the lobby like a beautiful, agitated china doll amidst the turbulent sea the whole time until he comes back, flashes the room key at her and beckons her to follow.

She goes ahead of him, but he catches up. His body heat sends her anxiety rocketing sky-high through the roof as they walk next to each other, hands briefly brushing against one another but she ignores that (or at least she tries).

They are silent in the elevator, they are silent even once they reach the designated floor and walk down the hall to their room where the dim and shadowed lights follow their steps like vultures.

Carrick holds open the door for her and she enters, taking in the windows and the striking view of Boston skyline peeking behind the curtains, the TV and the queen-sized bed. The latter does nothing to assuage the anticipation that’s bubbling in the pit of her stomach, by the way.

Claire hears him shut the door, locking both bolts. She peers at him over her shoulder, half-turned, one eye on him. Their eyes meet, neither speaks. He’s taking off his black peacoat, back against the door, he’s looking at her as if wanting her is his full-time occupation and the realizations comes in like a mule kick, how that tiny voice inside her head, the one that tells her that this is a bad idea and she’s better off leaving never comes.

The room is not considerably huge (with $110 per night, you would have expected you’d get a bigger room), he could easily have her in six large steps, yet he stands there. Sizing her up, smirking rather devilishly, handsomely as if challenging her to make the first move. It’s another fucking game with him. A display of power, waiting who would fall first.

Claire finally turns around to face him. With a renowned determination, she removes her coat, letting it fall unceremoniously onto the carpeted floor. Her blouse follows next and her skirt, which she tugs it oh so slowly down her legs.

Carrick’s eyes widen, if she doesn’t know better, she thinks he’s speechless. He takes a deep breath, his gaze religiously following every movement as she twirls around once more to unhook her bra. His jaw clenches and unclenches. He’s having a hard time keeping himself in check which she takes an immense pleasure in. Claire just wants to see the man squirm for a change, even if she has to shed every article of clothing she wears.

By the time she slips off of her underwear, she is breathing raggedly. He hasn’t yet approached her so she crawls onto the bed, lying on her back with one elbow props her up, legs crossed. She kicks off her heels, rolls down her stockings with a bit of that noir come-hither, Lauren Bacall-esque heavy bedroom eyes.

Finally, Carrick steps closer until he’s only a hair’s breadth away, like a target, filling her line of sight. The tension in the room is hot enough to send the thermometer reaching its maximum limit and she’s burning, burning, burning right through the core.

Claire cranes her head up to meet his gaze, noticing the way he’s drinking in her body like a pirate ogling a bottle of rum. High-strung, tense, Carrick lowers his head to her, his fingers carding through her long hair. Dimness consumes him raw, his silhouette is starting to find its place amongst the shadows except for his eyes. Never does the fire in his eyes falter, merely alight.

They are already nose-to-nose when Claire suddenly raises her hand over his lips. He withdraws from her, looking confused and hot and bothered.

“Take a seat over there, will you?” She motions to the settee near the bed, her tone leaving no room for argument.

He smirks, but she can see his bravado if faltering. “Ordering me around in the bed now, are we?”

“Didn’t you say tonight is about you making it up to me?”

“Touche, touche.” Carrick straightens his posture and makes his way to the settee across from her, shifting uncomfortably in his seat given the growing issue in his pants.

With eyes still trained to his, Claire cups her own breast, fingers pinching her pebbled nipple before the same hand travels lower down her stomach, her thighs. Carrick leans forward in his seat, obviously liking where this is going before Claire slowly and teasingly part her legs for him to see.

A surprised groan escapes him.

“Jesus, Claire,” Carrick hisses. “Fuck, I didn’t know you’re a goddamn tease.”

She doesn’t bother replying to him, but a winning grin finds its way across her face as she lays on her back, her shame and modesty are distant, knees pulled up so he can have a clear view of her. With two fingers, she runs them along her folds, dragging them slowly up to her clit. Claire imagines they are his fingers- which once upon a time would have horrified her, but tonight, as she repeats the motion over and over, knowing that he’s sitting there, watching her without being able to get his hands on her, she decides to submit to this newfound fantasy.

A rustle pulls her back to reality. He’s undoing his own pants, palming his cock, runs his fingers over the leaking head.

A low moan catches in her throat at that, her gaze snapping up from his erection to his face where his irises have darkened and pupils dilated. He wants to show her, that’s he’s as depraved as her when it comes to wanting, that he fucking wants her and in spades and she fails to think like a normal human being anymore.

Claire uses that image to work on herself harder, faster, feeling the intense pressure beginning to build beneath her fingers. She’s so wet now, despite him being able to see that, she wants him to hear it as well as she uses her idle hand to tap against herself. Carrick growls, his pace matching the rhythm she’s setting.

She slips her fingers inside her, drops her head back against the mattress and bites a loud moan that threatens to escape her lips. Flushing scarlet all over her abdomen, her breasts and up to her neck. Her blood thumping louder than bombs in her ears, her breaths begin to come in gasps.

Another fast and hard thrust from fingers, and Claire finds herself sighing his name.

“Tobias…”

And every last bit of his self-restraint snaps.

In just a blink of an eye, Carrick is already on his feet, grabs her waist, harshly, and tugs her down onto the edge of the bed where he’s now kneeling before her. He doesn’t bother with the teasings or soft kisses or caresses, and even before Claire has the time to register what’s happening, he crushes his face between her parted legs and eats her out.

She gasps, high and fleeting, twisting the bed sheet between her fists while his tongue flicks over her, moving back up, back down, lapping along her folds in the same motions she showed him with her hand, how she likes it. Claire forgets how to breathe. It just occurs to her just how arousing the sight of him on his knees like this, sending her mind hitchhiking into outer space.

“Oh, fuck.” She breathes, back arching on the bed with a drawn-out moan. “Fuck, Tobias!” Her hips gyrate over his mouth and she presses her heels against his shoulder blades. She’s so close. All she needs is a little push to send her careening into oblivion and it seems that Carrick can sense it because he brings two digits to her entrance and slides easily inside her, setting a ruthless pace.

With her hands reaching out to the back of his head, Claire cries out his name and trembles violently. Encouraged, Carrick curves his fingers inside her, hitting that exact spot that finally undoes her as she comes, long and hard, around his mouth and fingers- the kind of orgasm that you can feel deep in your bones- and watches as fireworks dance behind her lids.

When she finally comes down from her high, everything is hazy. It’s like waking up from a deep slumber after a decadent soak in a scented bath and she loses all orientation, until she feels him nipping the inside of her thighs. She hisses, glances down, heavy-lidded eyes finding Carrick is leaving bruises after bruises all over her skin like some kind of a lewd memento of his work, like he wants her to remember this the next time she wakes up in her own bed and he’s not there.

"Are you trying to turn me into a Na'vi, doctor?” She asks, still kinda breathless, feeling surprisingly conversational despite having just experienced, if not, one of the best orgasms in her life. He smiles against her thigh and withdraws from her, only after her thighs are sufficiently bruised enough, licks his fingers clean and stands up at the end of the bed.

“Maybe. You’d make a cute blue extraterrestrial creature, though,” he replies cheekily, then undoes the button of his shirt, showcasing his naked torso.

Claire feels her cheeks heating up again, but forces herself to stare; eyes following his pectoral muscles, down to the toned lines of his abdomen while he slides off of his pants. The man is one fine specimen, alright, and he knows- smug bastard- and she thinks it’s such a shame that Carrick is… well, Carrick. If the man learns how to shut up for one minute or avoid trying to sabotage everyone’s career at Edenbrook altogether, maybe, just maybe, she’d consider him.

“But honestly, I just wanted to hear you say my name again,” Carrick continues, crawling his way up to her, pulling her out of her musings. He settles between her thighs. His lips finding her ear and nibbling at the lobe while his fingers pinching and pulling at her nipple. Claire shivers. Nails scraping along his skin, raising angry marks that would certainly be there tomorrow.

When they kiss, it’s so good that she can’t help but curl her toes. He kisses her like he’s trying to steal her breath or her name. She can taste herself in his mouth, which sparks so many feelings inside her. Her mind’s foggy, sweat pooling on her forehead. Carrick is but shoves his tongue into her mouth, lapping at her, biting, sucking and she leans hard into the kiss, retaliates by scraping her teeth against his bottom lip. It spurs him on. Making his cock twitch against her thigh and Claire decides she can’t wait anymore.

Claire rolls her hips at him. He takes the hint and rolls over to grab a condom from his pants. Then he’s back on top of her, his weight and heat crushing her most deliciously and brings her body further up the bed with him; she drapes her legs around his hips, hands gripping his arms. Her lust and anticipation collaborate to the point of near madness.

Carrick nips the taut line of her jaw and drives himself into her.

They both groan in unison.

“Oh, fuck.” Carrick mumbles between shaky breaths, his face pressed against her throat. “Fucking hell, Claire, you feel so warm.”

Claire, on the other hand, goes rigid under him. Her mouth hangs open and her world narrows down to the feeling of his cock inside her and the pleasure that builds up again in her abdomen.

This is happening, she thinks, he’s inside her and it feels so amazing. She might as well be crazy for agreeing to do this with him in the first place, but the promise of the thrill beats the doubts.

He starts slow, just the smallest fraction of hips, gently thrusting back and forth in shallow motions. She whines, frustrated and impatient, raising her own hips to meet his, but Carrick’s weight pins her onto the mattress and she can’t fucking move.

“F-faster,” Claire stammers, her molars grinding like toothache.

The bastard smirks, like he’s been anticipating the word coming out of her mouth.

“Beg for it.” His words are punctuated with every unhurried stroke he’s giving her, teasing her and if she’s not in the middle of being fucked right now, she would have kicked him in the balls.

Growling, she swallows her plea by pulling Carrick down for another kiss. This time, she’s the one who does the biting and the sucking, making sure he’s distracted enough and then just like with all the things she does in her life, she takes the matter into her own hands.

With all her strength, she scrambles up, pushes him off of her and knocks him onto his back flat on the bed. When she swings her legs to straddle him, his eyes pop.

“Holy shit, you are feisty.”

“Only cause I’m angry and horny,” she bites off. Angling herself above him and with one hand, guides his shaft back to her opening. “And you- you weren’t doing a proper job fucking me.”

He smirks. “I was trying to wind you up.”

“Fuck you.”

She lowers herself and sinks back onto his cock, relishing in his moans and growls.

“Baby, you’re doing it.” His hands curling around her waist, his head falls back onto the bed, exposing his throat and Claire is so hard-pressed not to bite him there.

Claire ignores his smartassness, naturally, and lifts herself, drops back down. Slamming her hips into his until she’s bouncing on him. Nails clawing at his chest. Finally be able to set a pace she desperately craves for, finally wiping that smirk off of his face.

Under her, Carrick is biting his lip in an effort to not to lose control. His hands are everywhere now; her stomach, her breasts, her neck, her cheeks. Leaving fire on its wake. She might still hate him after this is strange, little arrangement is over but at this juncture, he’s exactly the remedy she needs after everything.

Then Carrick wraps his arms around her and picks up the pace, thrusting into her hard and fast. Claire shakes. She can’t catch her breath, her forehead pressed on his shoulder, her teeth latching onto his skin. Breathing a string of 'fuckfuckfuck’ while he squeezes her ass and continues to fuck her with careless abandon.

"Tobias.” Her moans amplify. She’s close to climaxing again, her legs quivering. Eyes wide shut. “Please, please.” So much for not begging.

He pulls her to him so their foreheads meet. Their lips brush against each other, but they aren’t kissing, merely trading breaths. A hand touches her cheek and her lids flutter open, finding his eyes- those depthless, amber eyes that pretty much lead her to this point, are watching her, pulling her in.

“Say it again,” he encourages darkly, face twists in pleasure. “My name. Say it again.”

She does it again, it comes out as a groaned whisper, repeating it over and over again like a sacred mantra.

Her second orgasm sweeps through her, making her spine arches, it tears a winded moan from her throat and it’s more than enough to trigger Carrick’s own release; fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, groaning gutturally.

Panting, sore but sated, Claire collapses on top of his chest, his arm still drapes around her. The rise and fall of his breath lull her to sleep. Before she knows it, he gently rolls her to his side, pulling the covers for them and kisses her on the shoulder, which comes out as… odd for her.

The bed moves and she feels him leaving.

He’s leaving.

He’s leaving.

She doesn’t know why it stings, but it does. But also Claire opts not to pay no mind to it and forces her mind to surrender to sleep that once again tries to take hold.

Claire wishes she doesn’t dream of him that night, but she does.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It’s way past midnight when she wakes up. The room is dark. The curtains are closed. She’s still naked and sore under the covers, mind reeling in from what has just transpired.

One might ask in which universe does Claire Castelnuovo agree to sleep with Tobias Carrick? Well, apparently they did it in this one and oddly still, she doesn’t regret it. Though she’s still low-key sad that he left her straight after sex, but hey, what can she do about it? This arrangement itself is nothing but a means to an end, anyway, a perverse alternative for him to pay back what he allegedly owes her, she shouldn’t be surprised if he left after the ‘debt’ is paid.

Feeling her mood somehow takes an unexpected dip, she gets us from the bed and gathers her clothes on the floor.

She’s in the middle of zipping up her skirt when the bedside lamp flickers and comes on.

Claire turns around. Carrick, rousing from sleep, looks at her, rubbing his eyes and stifles a yawn. His lips still tinged from her kisses and bites.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, voice still raspy from sleep and Claire thinks her mouth is hanging open, standing rooted to the spot like a spider on an icicle; frozen in time.

For a moment, she does nothing but stares at him, being rendered speechless. For many times, Tobias Carrick never fails to surprise her. Just when she thinks she has him all figured out, he comes sneaking in through her windows like a thief in the night and it just strikes her, how he really is an uncharted territory for her. Despite her having him pinned under her, exploring the hard planes of his body under the touches just a few hours ago.

The man is like a fucking myth, at this point. She knows him only from stories and her limited time around him, but who is exactly Tobias Carrick? Is he the competitive doctor at Mass Kenmore, the Machiavellian asshole that severed his friendship/relationship with Ethan for the sake of his greed and ambition? Or is he, Tobias Carrick, the man who saves her life, makes her laugh and kisses her shoulder in the afterglow?

She’ll probably never know.

“Yeah, my roommates will probably deploy a search party if I don’t come home tonight,” she replies, distracted, finally finding her own voice back. He nods, feigning disappointment- or is he not? She clears her throat and continues putting on her clothes. “I thought you left.”

He chuckles at the absurdity of her deduction. “And without saying goodbye?” Carrick rolls off of the bed and rises to his feet. He’s already wearing his pants- thank fuck for that- and approaches her. “I may be an asshole, Castelnuovo, but just so you know, my mother raised me better than that.”

So they’re back to their usual last name basis perimeter. That’s good, right? After all of this, she thinks a little familiarity would be nice for her sanity.

“Good to know, then.”

Silence encompasses the room. It’s awkward and overwhelming and it throws her a little off-balance. At the bar, they seemed to know exactly what to say to each other- especially him; but now, even she can sense the hesitation in his gait, at the way he’s looking at her and a faint alarm is trilling her head. Because if he’s making this awkward, she can do a whole lot of worse.

"Oh, before you ask, that makes up for pretty much everything, yeah. I mean, it’s alright.” You fucking dumbass, she thinks to herself, averting his gaze while a smile blooms on his face.

“Good to know, then.” He parrots her words and she huffs a laugh, freely and sweetly, like she’s currently not knee-deep in her problems or she’s just fucked the most incorrigible man that ever exists. He does too, but his gaze lands on her mouth before going back to her eyes.

Another silence passes. It’s time to go.

“I have to go now.”

He nods mutely and moves away so Claire can step past him.

She wears her coat. In the mirror, she still looks thoroughly fucked; her hair’s dishevelled, she smells like him now, but she really needs to go. She promises herself that this will be a one time thing because, Jesus fuck, she’s supposed to be smarter than this. She’s not fifteen anymore, and this is not the summer where she can watch the sunset from the cornfields with her cousins even though his eyes possess the same color.

Yet she walks toward the door in a daze, like she’s forgetting something but can’t pinpoint what it is.

“Can I-”

“Hey, do you-”

She stops, mid-turning, and closes her mouth. She doesn’t realize she’s interrupting him.

“Oh, sorry,” Claire says, embarrassed. “You go first, it’s alright.”

“Can I have your number?” he asks, uncharacteristically hesitant.

She thinks he’s joking or maybe he’s just feigning interest, but one look at his eyes and she can tell that this isn’t smoke and mirrors.

The eyes, chico. They never lie. It’s dumb, but that line from Scarface is the first thing that comes to her mind. That’s why when she hands him her phone, her hand is shaking slightly. She has to bite her lip to stop herself from grinning like a maniac.  

Claire takes a cursory glance at her phone once he returns it. He saved his number solely as t.c. with the water drop, the syringe, the ghost, the eggplant, the firework emoji and she chuckles endearingly, questioning the universe how he can easily get both a rise and a laugh out of her.

“I’ll text you?” Carrick asks again and she nods a little too enthusiastically at it, but what the hell?

“Sure.”

“Alright.” He takes one look at her, steps closer and for a moment, she thinks he might be going to kiss her.

“Goodnight, Claire,” Carrick says instead and she nods, admitting the fact that he’s not going to do it.

“Goodnight to you too, Tobias.” Then pauses at the doorway, feeling surprisingly bold. “I gotta give it to you, though, for someone who’s become the bane of my existence for months, you’re a damn good lay.”

He barks out a laugh, obviously, that Claire can hear all the way down the hall. And she thinks she can get used to the sound.

                                                         fin.

Tag list: @villain-fuckarooni @beckaroo @arfeiniel​ @this-person-is-busy @colossalpainintheass​ @drethanramslay @hatescapsicum @theeccentricbibliophile

[oh-mother-of-darkness]

“That’s the third story this month,” Tim said, putting aside his plate. “What is it this time?”

“It’s more rumors about the company,” Bruce said, passing over the newspaper. “And you.”

“Me.”

“Yes.”

“What now?”

“You appear to be embezzling, Master Timothy.” Alfred pulled Tim’s empty plate from the table and replaced it with a platter of bagels. Tim pushed the tray away from his seat. He had eaten enough already. 

“Great.” 

“The fact that it is untrue will not stop them from printing it.”

“Yeah,” said Tim, while he glanced over the article. “Yeah, I know.”

Stealing, it said, and money changing hands. Tim missed the next minute of conversation, vaguely aware of Bruce, Alfred, and Damian talking around him, but not processing what they said. 

Tim should make a joke. He knew that. There was a nasty article about him in the paper, and he should make a joke. That’s what they all did, in situations like these. 

Tim was getting fed up with situations like these. He took a few deep breaths, pulled a pen from among the hodgepodge of case files and breakfast plates, and scratched at the edge of the newspaper to see if the pen worked. 

The pen did not work. Well, Tim thought to himself. Well, that was the last straw.

“Are we doing emotions today?” he asked.

The rest of the table fell silent. Bruce put down his glass of orange juice. 

“What?”

“Emotions. Do I get to be angry?”

“Yes,” said Damian. 

“Yes?” said Bruce.

“Cool.” Tim took another deep breath. “I’m angry.”

Damian leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. He rested his chin on top of them. “Angry about?”

“This.” Tim waved the article in the air. “The bad PR. The lying. The… it’s slander, right?

“It’s libel if they write it down.”

“Libel then.” Tim felt his face starting to heat up. “I hate it. I shouldn’t live in a world where cameras watch everything I do, and I definitely shouldn’t be reading about myself over breakfast. When I didn’t do anything. This is all nonsense.”

Tim stood up, suddenly anxious to move around. He looked down at the article in his hand again, reread the headline, and snorted.

“I’m embezzling?” said Tim. “I’m committing fraud? I’m bribing and conniving and stealing my way through this shitshow? Please, do tell.” 

He threw the paper down onto the table. “I am just… so tired of these journalists, these blogs, these— I don’t know— these instagrams insulting me and bending over backward to find mistakes I didn’t actually make. Obsession. They idolize me. They hate me. Which one do we get today?”

Tim paced away from the table, towards the center of the room. “Yes,” he said, kicking at the corner of a rug. “Quote me in pastels on your, your whatever— your social media. Post every photo of me that exists online. Take the pictures of my family that I take, run them through a filter, and insult us on your way to exploiting everything we do. Love it!”

Tim paced back, stopping. “Damian?” he asked.

“What?”

“What else am I mad about?”

“Me?”

“Not right now.”

“The dating stuff?”

“Oh, yeah.” Tim threw his hands in the air. “Oh yeah! If I ever have to read anything ever again— much less answer questions— about who I’m dating, or who my family is dating, or if I’m dating my family, I’m going to lose it. I’m going to lose my shit. How many times do I have to say this?” 

Tim slapped a hand onto the table on his way past. Everyone in the room jumped at the sudden sound as Tim walked away again, hand stinging from the impact. 

“I will not write your trash headlines or your terrible stories. No, I will not answer your questions, and I will not bend my personal boundaries for your fantasies. I do not exist for you, personally, to receive favors, because—”

Tim floundered for a moment, gesturing vaguely. “Because I just, I just owe it to everyone, don’t I? That’s what I’m for? To do you a solid? To help you out? To make you feel better about your life by giving you my time and effort?”

“Tim,” said Bruce.

“And then everybody on the planet thinks I’ll do it again!” Tim clenched his fists. “And again, and again, and again, because now I have to. That’s my job now.”

“Yes ma’am,” Tim said to his right. “No, sir,” he said to his left. “Absolutely. Yes. What can I do for you? What do you need? Oh I am—”

“Tim,” Bruce said, softer this time.

Tim heard himself getting louder and louder, but he didn’t try to stop. He didn’t know if he could stop, actually.

“I am so tired,” he spat, “of smiling while I get screwed— and if I, if I do anything about it? Then I’m petty, and I’m harsh, and I’m the one at fault, and I’m no better than they are. Moral high ground my ass! I’m tired.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Tim repeated. “I’m just here to give favors, but anytime I need something, anytime I ask, or even when I don’t, I’m expected to fall on the floor in gratitude. Oh thank you, my Lord and Savior, for blessing me with the human decency you should have been exhibiting this entire goddamn time.”

Tim kicked at the carpet again. “I’ve been working for seven days straight. I haven’t slept. It’s not cute, and it’s not fun, and it feels like dying, but here I am doing everything on Earth because it’s all my responsibility. The whole thing! All of it! So I’ll be—”

He raised a hand above his head with a lifting motion, rolling his eyes. “—I’ll be over here playing Atlas while everything I actually want to do goes down the drain. Fine! Used to it! I’m used to being stuck here because nothing— nothing ever goes right. It just doesn’t.”

“Be obedient,” Tim said. “Be polite, be perfect, be— I’m tired! I’m tired, okay? I’m tired, and I’m angry, I’m so angry that I’m going to scream. I am screaming! God! If everything could take a break for half an hour so I could just stop—”

Tim cut himself off, out of breath. Shit. He turned fully around and found the three of them staring back at him in varying stages of alarm. Damian appeared more interested than anything else, while Alfred’s eyebrows furrowed in concern. Bruce, of course, remained inscrutable. 

“And, um,” Tim added, suddenly self-conscious. “And whoever is hoarding all the good pens is getting written out of my will.” 

“Isn’t me,” said Damian, shrugging. 

“You’re already written out.”

“That’s valid.”

“I’m going to go now.” Tim pulled his backpack out from under the table. “I’m fine, don’t worry about it. See you.”

He marched out of the room, very aware of three pairs of eyes behind him. 

[spoondrifts]

long post ahead I'm sorry-

crack au where Jonah Magnus is a good guy but everything keeps going wrong and he spends all of his time running around trying to stop his employees from diving headfirst into their Fuck Up™ of the week

in this au Jonah is almost entirely incompetent but he's got the exasperated parent thing down enough to make up for his lack of braincells

he's also at least 7% dumber than he is in canon

s1 Jon: please call pest control there are so many worms

s1 Elias: I already did

Jon: and??

Elias: they ate them

Jon: the worms?

Elias: the pest control guys. the worms ate them

Elias spends the entirety of season 2 desperately trying to convince Jon that none of them killed Gertrude (in this au Gertrude just had a stroke or something in the tunnels). Elias stops Jon from destroying the table but a week later something heavy falls on it and the NotThem escapes anyway. Elias bashes in Leitner's head with a pipe after mistaking him for the monster and Jon gets framed.

now Elias has to convince this hunter that Jon is innocent while Jon runs around and harasses various fear avatars (who are all very amused with Elias' wayward Archivist). Jon assumes Elias knows nothing about all this bullshit because Elias is just his weird and uptight boss who accidentally killed someone, he can't possibly know that there are literally fear gods ruling over them

olive ⚰ has named the group 'Avatars ✨'

JMagnus 👀: Jude please don't hurt him. I'll explain everything when he gets back to the Institute.

🔥: too late

JMagnus 👀: What?

🔥: too late

🔥: burned him

[JMagnus 👀 is typing]

JMagnus 👀: Where is he now.

🔥: going to mike

JMagnus 👀: Mike Crew???

🔥: ya

Elias RACES to Mike's house but he. he fucking misses them. the Beholding helpfully tells him that they're all going back to the Institute so Basira and Daisy can interrogate him, which isn't ideal, he'd really like to not go to jail, so he drafts up an employment contract on the way back and barely manages to escape the whole thing with his life intact.

then he explains everything to Jon because if Jon is going to end up being the Archivist, being uninformed won't do. Jon becomes the Archivist completely on accident and Elias is desperately trying to make all of this work because, haha, the Unknowing is coming up, and Elias is not in the fucking mood to deal with clowns.

olive ⚰ has named the group 'all that is terror uwu'

spidey🕸: lmfaooo jonah how do you make an archivist on accident

JMagnus 👀: He stumbled into it. All I can do now is ensure he doesn't die.

JMagnus 👀: Or get further injured by the rest of you.

🔥: woops

🎭: hEy gUyS lOnG tiMe nO sEe

🎭: gEt iT eLiAs

🎭: sEe

JMagnus 👀: Beholding puns are not amusing from a manifestation of the Stranger.

🎭 has named the group 'eLiAs bE niCe tO niKoLa cHaLlEnGe'

🔥: haha

spidey🕸: I'm sure Nikola will be on her best behavior

🎭: yEaH i wOnT kiDnAp yOuR aRcHiViSt

[JMagnus 👀 is typing]

mike n ike: hey guys what'd I miss

🔥: arent you dead

mike n ike: yeh but I came back

JMagnus 👀: NIKOLA ORSINOV WHERE IS JONATHAN SIMS

🔥: can't you see haha

mike n ike: heh "see"

JMagnus 👀: NIKOLA

spidey🕸: wow he must be pissed

spidey🕸: he left out the punctuation

JMagnus 👀: I WILL BREAK ALL OF YOUR PLASTIC BONES WHERE'S MY ARCHIVIST

🎭 has left the chat.

JMagnus 👀: what the FUCK

since he's still a coward Elias sends Michael to go fetch Jon, only finding out after the fact that he very nearly almost signed Jon's death warrant. Elias is now speedrunning Jon's development because fuck the Unknowing is coming up really quickly and Tim is a self destructive mess and Melanie keeps trying to stab Elias and Martin is a pining idiot and goddammit he didn't sign up for this

Elias prepares Jon the best he can for the Unknowing, because even though he knows the ritual will fail, the Circus can still cause a considerable amount of damage and he needs them out of the way.

the Unknowing happens. Jon ends up in a wack ass coma, Tim is dead, Daisy's in the coffin, and Basira is starting to look like the better choice of Archivist because jesus christ Jon has no self preservation instinct. Elias doesn't get arrested this time around but his ex husband starts coming by the Institute and fucking with all his employees. and the Flesh is attacking. jesus. goddamn.

olive ⚰ has named the group 'bully elias'

JMagnus 👀: Why are you all so mean to me? I'm arguably the nicest one here.

🔥: ur joking right

Peter Lukas: you're not nice you didn't buy me an anniversary gift 😢😢😢

JMagnus 👀: I was busy.

Peter Lukas: doing what

JMagnus 👀: Stopping the Flesh from destroying my Institute. Besides, you didn't remember my birthday.

Peter Lukas: you're 200 years old how could I remember 😓

helen!!!!!: We All Know I'm The Nicest One Here!!

JMagnus 👀: How did you make your text that colorful?

helen!!!!!: IDK

JMagnus 👀: Liar.

helen!!!!!: That's Literally My Job

olive ⚰: hey eli your archivist just woke up I think

🔥: ew why

helen!!!!!: How Delightful!! Maybe I'll Throw Him A Glad You're Alive Party!!

olive ⚰: should we invite him to this chat since he's an avatar now

Peter Lukas: no 🙅 🚫❌

Peter Lukas: I hate archivists 😤😤

olive ⚰: still mad about gertrude huh

🔥: were all still mad about gertrude

🔥: but jons fine once you burn some manners into him

JMagnus 👀: Can you all please stop hurting Jon? Or talking about hurting him? I would like my Archivist to not acquire any more scars.

🔥: damn

Peter Lukas: damn 😔

Elias keeps trying to teach Jon how to pick certain victims to feed off of because personally he has no qualms about feeding from innocents but Jon!! actually trusts him!!! so Elias doesn't want to push Jon into making decisions that will offend his moral sensitivities.

things are actually going okay for a while. Elias starts going home at a reasonable time in the evenings and Jon is actually getting some sleep. and then-

Elias is having a nice dream about Peter trying to fish Simon Fairchild out of a sky filled with eyes when he abruptly sits up in bed, wide awake.

"Ah, fuck," he says to Peter, who is laying on the floor where it is Lonelier™. "Jon's doing something stupid. I Know it."

Peter's mumbled "isn't he always" goes unnoticed as Elias hurries to the Institute, where he finds a fucking rib on Jon's desk and the coffin in the middle of the room.

Peter Lukas has named the chat 'archivists ruin my sleep schedule and my sex life'

JMagnus 👀: What the fuck do I do?? I can't go into the Buried! Why is Jon so stupid? I didn't know he had zero braincells when I hired him!

🔥: ngl why havent you fired him yet

JMagnus 👀: Beholding won't let me. We're all bound to the Institute.

🔥: F

JMagnus 👀: Why are there no Buried avatars in here? Please someone help me.

mike n ike: lol the buried is gross why would anyone go down there

spidey🕸: does he have an anchor?

[JMagnus 👀 sent an image]

🔥: is that a fucking rib

spidey🕸: wow that's not a good anchor at all

spidey🕸: he needs someone he loves

JMagnus 👀: Thanks. Gtg.

spidey🕸: np

🔥: are we not going to talk about his rib

🔥: how the fuck did he get that out of his body

🔥: yall

🔥: YALL

it takes three days for Elias to find Martin.

"Please tell me why the fuck you're dabbling in the Lonely," Elias says as Martin steps sheepishly out of the fog.

"Ah. Well. Jon can't See into it very well and sometimes we like to spice up our se-"

"Stop before I have to gouge my eyes out again."

"A-Again-?"

Elias drags Martin back to the Institute. Martin starts setting tapes on the coffin because "Jon loves these" and Elias starts bashing his head into the wall.

Jon climbs out of the coffin with Daisy and Elias almost considers locking Jon in his office so the damn archivist can't do anything else ridiculous. instead, Elias very calmly takes Jon by the shoulders, and shakes him like a rag doll.

"Stop fucking with entities, you stupid, stupid man," Elias says, shaking Jon more viciously now.

after several hours of breathing exercises Elias returns to his house and doesn't take his Sight off of Jon for the rest of the night, which is a fun experience for Peter when he wakes up and finds Elias' bloodshot eyes staring directly at him in the morning.

JMagnus 👀 added Daisy to 'archivists ruin my sleep schedule and my sex life'

Peter Lukas has named the chat 'archivist hate club'

JMagnus 👀 has named the chat 'shut up peter'

Peter Lukas has named the chat 'you love jon more than me'

JMagnus 👀 has named the chat 'I don't love either of you I'm heartless'

Peter Lukas has named the chat 'I want a divorce'

spidey🕸: jeez take your marital dispute elsewhere

spidey🕸 has named the chat 'lonelyeyes dni'

Daisy: wtf is this

mike n ike: it's a chat for avatars

mike n ike: and ex avatars ig

Daisy: didn't I kill you

mike n ike: yea

JMagnus 👀: Hello, Daisy. Welcome to the group chat.

Daisy: why is Jon not in here

Peter Lukas: because I hate him 😁

spidey🕸: Elias talks mad shit in here and Jon would get offended

Daisy: if you talk bad about Jon I'll rip your throat out

Daisy: :)

JMagnus 👀: Noted.

mike n ike: he's kinda rude tho

Daisy: I've killed you once

Elias' only goal now is to keep Jon and his assistants from pulling any more wild stunts without his supervision. his renewed involvement with the archival staff results in a few things he'd hoped to avoid: drink invites, physical contact (Martin is surprisingly quick to start hugging Elias once he realizes Elias won't stop him), and- shudder -feelings. because Elias genuinely cares about his staff and doesn't want any harm to befall them. especially Jon. Jon is his Archivist, the only one to ever succeed like this, and Elias will be damned if he lets anything happen to him.

"Why do you care?" Jon asks, once, compulsion thrumming like static on his tongue. "About us, I mean. I would've assumed you'd want to perform the Beholding's ritual."

Jonah Magnus attempted the Watcher's Crown once, when he was young and new. he'd brought his patron close, but not all the way through, and the backlash of power killed all the inmates at Millbank and severely crippled Jonah's connection to the Eye for months afterward. he grew to assume that the Beholding simply preferred the world as it was--ripe with fear for watching. it didn't need a ritual.

he instead dedicated himself to growing stronger, cultivating his Institute of knowledge, his stronghold. if he tore out a few people's eyes when he got too old, then, well, collateral. but he doesn't want the world to end, and knows now that no ritual will ever succeed unless it brings in all the Powers at once. and he doesn't want that either.

it's concerning to him that Jon seems to be collecting marks regardless. the only ones he's missing are the Dark and the Lonely, and Elias is determined to keep it that way.

he explains all of this to Jon who, to his credit, takes it pretty well. Jon is fascinated with historic life and Elias spends some time simply recounting tales of his youth, when he still bore the name Magnus.

they bond. it's good.

and one day Basira does a little too much research and discovers the dark sun waiting in Ny Alesund. she insists they need to go and see what's left of the People's Church, they need to ensure everything is taken care of. Jon is rather insistent too. and Elias wouldn't have been inclined to let them go, except Peter was finally home after weeks at sea, and it wasn't like Jon was defenseless, he could call Elias if anything went wrong...

so, very reluctantly, Elias gives them the all clear. Basira, Jon, and Martin head north, and Elias almost forgets they've gone when he arrives home and Peter already has dinner prepared.

Jon comes back marked by the Dark.

Elias curses himself, over and over, for being foolish enough to let them go, for not keeping a closer eye on them. he knows the ritual won't work unless a certain incantation is spoken, so he'll just have to keep world-ending written chants away from Jon. easy. and it's not like Jon will even get marked by the Lonely. Peter wouldn't.

(but Martin doesn't have the same level of control, and sometimes...)

it's an accident. Martin and Jon are testing it, pushing the boundaries, when Martin pulls them both into the Lonely. Elias threatens divorce until Peter caves and fetches them, but it's too late. Jon has been marked by all fourteen Powers.

Elias tells him, and warns him to check everything he reads.

helen!!!!! has named the chat 'apocalypse babey'

JMagnus 👀: How are you doing that?

JMagnus 👀: And the apocalypse is not imminent. I have the situation under control.

olive ⚰: ha yeah

JMagnus 👀: What do you mean by that?

olive ⚰: nothing

JMagnus 👀: Well, now I certainly think it's something.

olive ⚰: it's just

olive ⚰: don't you think it's kinda weird that @spidey🕸 has been offline for so long

🔥: thats weird shes always online

JMagnus 👀: Oliver, what are you implying?

olive ⚰: idk

olive ⚰: just weird, that's all

🔥: never good when the spiders are quiet

olive ⚰: hear hear

Elias gets a sinking feeling in his stomach, and beside him, Peter looks alarmed. meanwhile, in his flat with Martin making tea in the other room, Jon has a statement clutched in his grasp.

Hello, Jon.

I would apologize for the deception, but I'm afraid that's quite what I'm good at. I'm not one to monologue, that's more Jonah's shtick, so shall we get on with things?

I admit I underestimated Jonah Magnus. He's still remarkably easy to manipulate, but when he abandoned the Watcher's Crown ritual I knew I would have to take a different approach. The Mother is not so satisfied with the world as she may have insinuated. It is our turn to rise, Jon.

At the age of eight, you were marked by us. We sent you to the Magnus Institute in the hopes that a new Archivist would rekindle Jonah's desire to end the world. Unfortunately, it seemed as though he grew fond of you, and so we brought in a new plan. We marked you. One fear at a time. Jonah gave an admirable attempt at protecting you, but ultimately, he is an incompetent old fool, and I am a Weaver. Even Jonah Magnus dances to invisible strings.

Everyone underestimates a spider until it bites. Poison is poison, Jon, regardless of the medium in which it is served.

You will be safe in this new world. Martin, too. Perhaps even Jonah and his Lukas, if the Mother deems them worthy.

Now, please repeat after me...

Jon reads the ink scratched words, eyes welling up with tears and hands trembling, as thunder crashes outside and a howling gale picks up beyond the windows. Martin is shouting something, there's the crawling press of Elias' gaze as it rests heavy behind Jon, a silent observer. He can feel Elias' soothing presence, cool and calm in the raging storm.

Elias is still watching out for him.

Strings are wrapped around his wrists, jerking his arms up in a poor mockery of religious regard, strange hysterical laughter clawing out from his throat.

Jon's tears run red. Somewhere, Elias is still watching.

The door opens.

[creepycatboyz]

"Scary Monsters" Marble Hornets Tim/Brian Fanfiction

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33361528/chapters/83235640

Chapter 2: Reunited at once

Ever since he was free from the grasp of the Operator, he could properly breathe out and not having the feeling of being watched. He yearned for this feeling for years. Medication helped, but he could never shrug off the slight feeling of being watched. He absolutely hated it, as he loved to keep his privacy. He had gotten sick and tired of Jay coming back to dig through the stuff of Marble Hornets, he just wanted to forget that, especially after his best friend has gone missing after Alex and him went to film a scene.

After everything had progressively gotten worse, the lack of medication he had to fend off the Operator with, he had enough. Someone in a beige-yellow hoodie, with a badly sewed on frowny face, has been stealing his medication, and that pissed him off so bad. Tim needs them, not this random person. Eventually he confronted the person, ran after them and surely accidently killed them. He's still not over this, he goddamn killed someone! Was it technically self-defense? Probably not. At least he could've called an ambulance, but he just left with the stolen pills they left in their pocket.

It's been a month, since he packed up the little things he had and left as far as he could. A relative of his offered him a relatively big cabin, where he can stay so he can settle down and calmly search for a job. He told this member the least amount of information, as he didn't want to freak them out or call him crazy.

Smoking a cigarette, this habit having never left his mind, he calmy gazed at the surrounding trees of his cabin. He's not completely engulfed in the woods, but it would be slightly hard to find the way if you don't know it. Which Tim appreciates, as he doesn't really want to talk to people, or be disturbed while he's doing his own thing. He likes his privacy, especially after he had no feeling of being watched. Usually he would be staying as far as possible from forests, as it always reminds him of the operator, but now he grew quite fond of the nature around him. He loves to watch birds pick berries from the nearby berry bushes, sometimes other small animals run around in the evening trying to find something to eat. At times he leaves out some food, a little bit further away from his cabin so they won't come back, to feed the animals around here. If he can't currently take care of a dog, he can at least fed the wild animals around here. He still kept his old phone number, as first off, he only gave it to Brian and Jessica, but never the others. He rarely talked to them outside of filming anyways, and honestly, he doesn't want them to contact him. He's done with the Operator, done with these scary monsters that should stay childhood fears.

The calm moments that were just now, were interrupted by a loud ring from his quite old phone. It looks a bit broken, but it still does his job! He lazily threw the cigarette he was smoking on the floor and crushed it with his shoe. Curiously he walked over to his phone and answered the call.

"Hello?", his voice a bit hoarse, due to smoking just a moment ago. "This is Dove's care hospital, am I speaking to Timothy Wright?", a female voice from the other end came. He grimaced at hearing his first name but soon thought to himself: 'A hospital? Why would a hospital call me from all the other possbilities?' "Yeah, this is Tim, is there something wrong?", he asked, confused on why he was even called in the first place. "A certain Brian Thomas had you on his contacts, in case something happened to him. His family was also on the list, but we couldn't reach them." Hearing his best friends' name his heart dropped, he couldn't even believe it. His lips let out a small whimper before he tried to compose himself. "I- Uh.. I will get there. It'll take some hours 'til I get there though. Around 5 hours", as he was saying that he already began to pack up some money, pills, snacks and spare clothes. The receptionist noted that down and told him Brian is in a stable situation, but has no memory on what had happened. As soon as he heard which room he was in he said goodbye and immediately hung up. He rushed to lock his door leaving immediately.

Right as he got in his car he couldn't even properly focus on the road, due to him being so overwhelmed with emotions. He for real thought his friend was gone! He hasn't heard from him for ages and he only noticed it was off ever since he moved out after Jay tried to dig through the old recordings. He secretely saved the old tapes, Jay posted, of him and Brian, those are the only recent memories he even had of him. Childhood memories of course stayed, but with those memories he also has to look back to the Operator, who tormented him since he was little. While he was driving, he was trying so hard not to cry, mostly due to happiness, he missed him so much. He wished he noticed sooner, but he was completely trying to forget everything, anything to get away from the monster. The amount of happiness overshadowed the dread he was feeling driving closer to Tuscaloosa, his hometown, where all the trouble happened.

Arriving in Tuscaloosa gave him this familiar feeling of being watched. If the Operator felt any joy, he would be feeling it right now, seeing his victim return once again. He won't give him the satisfaction, as he swallowed the pills he had taken with him. The closer he drove to the hospital, the gaze of the Operator started to fade away and he let out a sigh of relief. He wants to get Brian out of this hellhole, where both of them can be safe, from the monster and Alex. He didn't mind Alex if he's honest, he seemed pretty neat, but after the filming of Marble Hornets, he just started acting weird. The Operator can sure do a lot of damage to people, Tim himself is a example for that, but he's slowly getting better. He hopes Alex can also get the help, but he doubts it, as Alex went as far as to attempt murder.

He parked near the hospital and as soon as he stepped out of the car, he felt nervous. What should he even say to Brian? Oh hi, I didn't realize you were missing, because my brain was in constant fear due to some tall thin monster with no face? Yeah, that sure will be believable. He shook his head and made his way towards the hospital. As he entered he went to the reception and told them he's visiting Brian Thomas as he was on his contacts if something ever happened to him. Tim already knew which room he was in as he kept repeating it on the way there in his head, but he wanted to make sure and let the receptionist know that he arrived.

Room 52. He anxiously glanced in the direction of the hall where the numbers from 50 til 60 were. He composed himself and made his way to number 52. He can do this, it's just his best friend, well he hopes they still are. Oh god, what if they aren't anymore? He still cares about him so much. As he stood in front of the door, it took him some moments to gain the courage to knock twice.

A faint 'yeah' could be heard from inside the room and he immediately started to panic. He tried to shake off the feeling, which took a bit longer than he wanted. After having his usual calm expression, he opened the door and walked in, closing the door behind him quietly. What he saw beforehim, was a Brian bandaged up everywhere where he could see him and a cast on his left arm. Confused on how he even got hurt that badly, he was speechless. His friend had a tired expression, but still the warm smile he always had. "Hey Tim, how's it goin'?", Brian spoke, his voice clear, yet a bit quiet and hoarse.

Tim walked closer to him and took a seat on the chair on Brian's right side. "Quite good actually unlike you", he teased and glanced at his bandaged up body and arm. The light haired male rolled his eyes, but still had a grin on his face. "Yeah, no clue what happened. One day I was filming with Alex for Marble Hornets, which is still a stupid name, and ta-da next thing I know I woke up in a hospital. Amnesia I guess?", he chuckled, resting his head on the hospital pillow. "Probably the meds, or you hit your head bad", the darker haired man suggested. Brian shrugged with his right shoulder, as he couldn't with his other.

"I was actually in a coma for around a month, just woke up 2 days ago, I was barely awake though. They tried to call my family, but that didn't work, so today they called you", he explained and he sounded happy about the fact that they called Tim. "I'm glad you came" The smile his best friend gave him, made his heart simply melt, he had a slight tooth gap, which he always thought was pretty adorable. "I missed you dude, I had no clue that something had happened, I wish I knew sooner", that made Tim frown, as he wished he could've been there for his friend, but he just moved away, leaving everything behind, even his best friend.

Brian chuckled and shook his head. "It's alright, you showing up is enough for me" That made Tim smile, and he leaned back into the chair. For a few moments there was an awkward silence between the two, just being in eachother's presence was enough for both of them. The thought of the Operator crept up in the dark haired man and he had to break the silence. "So, when are they going to release you?", he asked, looking at his friend. Brian thought for a moment and scratched his chin, which had a unkept beard. "Uh, maybe two weeks? At most, I would have to do check-ups at the doc though", with that he just shrugged with his one shoulder.

Okay Tim, now you have to ask him if he wants to live with you, that doesn't sound weird, but how will he explain the reason why? Brian doesn't believe in this Operator nonsense, he hasn't been affected by it, at least he couldn't tell.

"I- This is gonna sound weird and it will probably make no sense to you, but do you want to move together with me?", the best way for Tim to ask Brian is just talking to him directly. Brian stared at him for a moment and furrowed his brows, but then grinned. "I mean, it would be refreshing to finally live outside Tuscaloosa, so I wouldn't mind, I'd have to get my old stuff though" He stopped and his eyes widen, he immediately tried to sit right up, making him only groan in pain. Even that didn't stop his panicked talking. "Oh god, I hope they didn't kick me out! I haven't paid rent, in like what? 2 months!"

Oh shoot, Brian has been missing for more than 2 months, at least 6 months? Hell, he himself can't even remember. Trying to calm him down he placed his hand on his healthy shoulder rubbing it gently "Slow down, tiger, how about I check your place out and discuss it with your landlord?" The light brown haired man took calm breaths and nodded. "I should probably call them too, seems more personal" Tim thought for a moment if this was a good idea, probably? Then they would get the amount of months he had been missing... Brian would be hella confused though. "My phone's over there", while he said that he pointed towards a table with his belongings they found him with.

Tim nodded, standing up and walking towards the phone only to realize it has been completely thrashed, as if it fallen out of his pocket as he tripped or something. He inspected the phone and awkwardly turned to Brian, who was watching him in anticipation. "Your phone is completely thrashed man", that's the only thing he could say, holding up the phone that doesn't even turn on, with a completely shattered screen. Brian's face immediately became a frown. "Uhh, well. Shit, I also don't know her phone number. My brain is a complete mess..." Tim smiled and walked over to him ruffling his already messy hair, which made the other man pount slightly. "I'll just drive by there and tell the situation, m'kay? And what if I bring you some good lunch after I am done, so you can finally eat some proper food?" At the mention of food, Brian immediately got excited. "I've only been awake for a few days, but these meals are a real pain. You're the best, dude", he grinned widely.

With that, Tim made his way towards Brian's old apartment, trying to find his landlady. Brian mentioned her name being Margaret something and she was really sweet. He walked around the complex and saw her name on one of the name cards on where to ring. What he didn't expect is for an old lady to open the door, huh, the worst she could do to Brian is pinch his cheeks to death he guessed. He always hated his cheeks getting pinched when they visited his grandparents, he would get very annoyed and his cheeks would be red. "Hello, are you Margaret, the landlady?", he asked, looking at her. She nodded and smiled. "Ah, yes, I am the owner of this apartment complex. Is there something you need?" Her smile was warm and welcoming, she looked like a kind soul. He cleared his throat and nodded. "Yeah, it's about a friend of mine, he rented an apartment here? Brian Thomas, tall, lanky, brown blondish hair?" he asked. At the mention of his name and then the further description her eyebrows raised. "Mr Thomas... I haven't seen him quite a while. He also hasn't been paying rent for the last... eight months or so? Is he alright?" He expected her to be angy, but he was only met with a look of concern.

Tim scratched the back of his neck. "Well, he was in a coma for a month or so and I came to visit him today, because family couldn't. I have no clue what happened to him, but he's very sorry for not being able to pay rent" The old lady scoffed and shook her head. "Tell that boy he shouldn't worry. His furniture is still in his apartment and he can still live here, but with rent. He doesn't have to pay it back, but he should properly take care of himself!" he nodded, paying close attention to every word she's saying. "I'll take care of him, as me and him will move together out of state..." As soon as those lips left his mouth, she started to talk. "Do you want me to call a move truck? My son has one, and he would be glad to help"

The dark haired man just blinked for a few moments and nodded. "Uh, sure? How much would that be, I have some spare money", he chuckled slightly. "Oh, you could fetch me some groceries from the store that is all" Well, he really struck gold with this lady, she's so nice even though, Brian hasn't paid rent in a long time. Surely they had a really good friendship, if she's so worried about him. Tim nodded and asked for the shopping list, which he got. She even wanted to give him the money for the groceries, but he avoided that, persisting that he will pay that out of his own pocket as it isn't too much. He thanked her and told her he will be back soon enough and left to get the groceries and some good food for Brian and him, as he hasn't eaten anything since he came to Tuscaloosa.

Back at the hospital, after delivering the groceries to the old lady, he handed over Brian a turkey sandwich with a sunkist soda. "You still remember my favorite sandwich and drink?", his eyes shined as he unpacked the sandwich with his one hand, immediately munching on it. He opened the can for him, which gained him a grin from his best friend. He also sat down on the chair on his right side, eating his own sandwich, which had tuna. How fast Brian was able to eat, still baffled Tim, he devoured the sandwich in less than one minute. "That was good", was the only thing Brian said, sipping on his sunkist. For the rest of the afternoon, they talked about various things, but mostly enjoyed eachothers presence. After it started to become slightly dark, Tim said goodbye, going to arrange the moving truck and all the other stuff, so everything is ready, when he's released from the hospital

[incoherentbabblings]

can i get a long post about why tim/steph worked out when tim/ari, tim/zo and tim/cassie didn't?

To be honest, I really struggled with this one because...well, so here’s the thing. Tim and Steph didn’t work out. That is, if you are saying 2011 is the end of that timeline with those specific iterations of those characters, Tim and Stephanie as a couple failed. Fairly spectacularly really. Like, you can make an argument that people died because of it even. Twice if you count the very end of Robin with all the crap with Ulysses. 

There are things which they got right that the others didn’t, sure. And you can say Convergence was the genuine last time we saw those iterations of those characters, in which case, yes, they got there in the end. And though I would like to think that the two would have reunited in the end, their respective solo runs do not end with them as a couple. Tim doesn’t even really get a mention in Steph’s final issue, and vice versa. Like, they focus on the main thematic points of their series - Tim and his relationship with his fathers, Stephanie and justifying her existence as a vigilante. Don’t get me wrong they matter deeply to each other and they probably do still love each other...they just have more important things on their mind when the other is not in the room.

But even so, between 2004 and 2015 (or 2016 if you count Rebirth instead of Convergence), Tim and Stephanie were not a couple. And one of the reason they failed was the same as for Arianna, Zoanne, Tam etc., didn’t work out. (Cassie is kind of it’s own ballpark). Tim could not keep his girlfriends in the loop. Either as Robin or as Tim Drake. There are other things that made them flatline, and I think at the end of the day what made Tim’s relationship with Steph fail was a little different, but that’s the jist. For the long and short of it:

Ari/Zo: Largely Tim’s fault. Too secretive about Robin.

Tam: Entirely Tim’s fault. Too secretive about both Tim and Red Robin.

Steph: Equally at fault. She trusted Bruce over Tim. Tim didn’t trust her enough period.

Cassie: Equally at fault. Grief is not a good reason for a rebound.

Lynx: Boy was just horny.

So, for Ariana, it was genuinely just because they were too young. They were fourteen when they split up. Ariana said it was because they were getting too serious at too young an age; Tim because he was tired of lying to her about Robin and also the will they/won’t they of Tim and Steph had been rolling on for fifty plus issues and Steph was just a more interesting character than Ari and was the preferred option by the readers so hey. There you go. End of. Tim cheated on her with Steph repeatedly, emotionally and smooching. Ari cheated because she felt ignored and left behind by Tim. He fell asleep in the car as she was telling him. Also Ari was insecure, because she was fourteen and every fourteen year old is insecure, so she did things like dye her hair (because Tim was staring at Steph at funeral not because he was gobsmacked by her beauty or anything it was less of a ‘holy shit she’s so pretty and blond’ and more of a ‘holy shit if she sees me my secret identity is blown’) or try to keep Tim’s attention on her by sleeping together. Which, again, they were fourteen. So in many ways, she was right in her reasoning. There was a lot going on there for people barely starting adolescence, but Tim’s general emotional and physical absence made their problems seem huge and overwhelming, when really, it was just because they were fourteen. Everything is such a big deal when you’re fourteen.

It’s kind of a similar thing with Zo. Now, I don’t know if it was intentional, but it’s sometimes said that your next partner after a big breakup is often the complete opposite of your previous. Zo comes from a nice middle class background with parents who are still together and are very loving. She is very school orientated and in fact tutored Tim. She is also (bless her) very boring. Which is arguably what Tim wanted. He’s still trying to convince himself that there’s a Tim Drake life worth living. However, same issues as Ari arise. Emotional and physical absence. Only this time it’s both the pressure or Robin plus the lovely trauma of dead family and friends. He can’t keep up with Tim Drake anymore. He falls asleep on a rollercoaster and can’t tell Zo why. He cheats on her with Steph (again emotionally and smooching). He breaks up with her over the phone. He kinda gets a bit grabby and manhandle-ly at points, physically lifting and carting her around when they are having an argument and she does not want to listen. Tim is... not good to Zo. At all. 

Ari and Zo fail as relationships because they only know Tim Drake, except who Tim Drake is... is Robin. So they aren’t really in a relationship with Tim as a whole, so inevitably they both crumble.

The reason Cassie didn’t work out was just because they were out of their minds with grief. The cult arc and the cloning was bad. Like it was just a bad storyline. Rebounds like that (which timeline wise was occurring at the same time Tim was taking an interest in Zo) were bound to fail. Cassie deserves better!!!!!!!!!! Stupid goddamn writers.

Tam is tricky. Because she, like Steph, actually gets the privilege of knowing about Tim and Red Robin. She does it ‘backwards’, so her issue is having the realisation that yeah Red Robin is really cool but Tim Drake is a mess. And he still lies to her. There’s a few times where she has moments of realisation of how messed up Tim Drake is by the time she meets him. Her leaving is explicitly because that cool person who saved her from the LoA is also the kind of person to lie and throw people under the bus if it serves the greater good (what Tim thinks is the greater good). And she wants no part in that. It’s emotionally taxing to say the least. Also Tim cheats on her with Lynx. Constantly. And Steph, less constantly. He deserved that slap to be honest.

So we’re left with Steph. Steph also does things backwards, meeting Robin first. However, she gets moments with Tim (kind of) before she knows who Tim actually is. So she gets to go to the cinema with him. She gets her birthing classes with him. She gets the evenings sat at her kitchen table chatting about school. She gets him before the absolute shit show that was 2004/5 for Tim Drake. She is more patient than the other girls, either owing to a general lack of self esteem (hence being more willing to put up with long unexplained absences' than the others) or just by nature. At the same time she’s also more likely to tell Tim to belt up when he’s being mopey or secretive or whatever. Tim to be fair makes it pretty clear the ground rules of the relationship - she can’t be in all aspects of his life. Managing expectations and all that.

This fails. Obviously. Bruce is Bruce and uses Stephanie repeatedly to manipulate Tim. And she trusts Bruce. Repeatedly. For reasons. Bad writing. Low self esteem. Desire for approval making her throw out common sense. 

But, here’s why maybe Tim and Steph would one day work again. It’s a minor thing I know, but Tim falls asleep on his girlfriends a lot, as I have shown above. What is Steph’s reaction when he does so?

Sweet dreams then, honey...

She knows him. So she is able to put the pieces together. Zo and Ari were not given that opportunity, so it could be said they couldn’t ever love Tim because they didn’t know him. Tam didn’t even like who Tim was when they broke up. Cassie never really stopped loving Conner. Steph pretty much consistently remained in love with Tim, and vice versa, even after their relationship imploded. It’s a lot easier to forgive your significant other for things like falling asleep over the phone when you know there’s a high chance they were probably out all last night working a case you know? 

Stephanie had the sheer determination (stupidity) to stay around Tim until brick by brick (hoho) she was allowed behind those walls into all aspects of his life (unlike Zo and Ari), and she loved all aspects of Tim, regardless of how... disagreeable those aspects or actions were (Tam).

Flipping over to Tim’s feelings towards the girls... Steph won over Ari because he enjoyed sharing his night life with someone who understood. She was wittier, sharper, and less insecure than Ari. Steph won over Zo because of the omg you’re not dead factor and by this point she was a presence in both Tim and Robin’s lives so was just around him more often. And again, bless her, Zo was kinda dull, especially in comparison to Steph.

Steph didn’t win over Cassie or Tam as such but Tim did make a move on her whilst dating Tam. The problems that had ruined their relationship at the end of the Robin run had been proven moot after she’d shown how much she’d matured. So it’s possible in Tim’s mind, just for that split second on the roof, he thought things could go back to the way they were. Only for Steph to remind him that one of the reasons she had grown so much was because of his absence. And then he had the lovely reminder that Tam existed via engagement announcement.

Finally Lynx... well. He just wanted to bonk there to be honest. Which is fine. If he wasn’t seeing Tam at the same time. 

#TimDrakeStopCheatingOnYourCivilianGirlfriendsChallenge

[internalsealpanic]

Radio Silence

Summary: You take Tim with you to a family reunion hoping to monopolize his time. You may have forgotten to tell him a few things. For example, the haunted radio.

masterlist

a/n: I’m sorry for the wait. I forgot that I am no longer used to describing atmosphere. This isn’t my best work but I hope you like it. This was based on my family’s tradition of sitting in the dark on Halloween listening to scary stories on the radio. This is mainly Tim Drake x Filipino!Reader because I realley wanted to try my hand at a bilingual character. You will see misspelling of words in the dialogue. That’s intentional on my part. There will be translations.

“Yes, Nay, he’s the one in the picture,”

“No! It’s the guy with-” You blow out an exasperated breath. You hear Tim snicker behind you and you dedicate half your brain cells to coming up with the best way to kick his ass.  “Yung mukhang Koreano. Yeah. Yeah. Dat one.”

“Yes, he looks more like a white boy. Mistiso.” You explain curtly.

“Yes, he’s smart. I hab standards,” Tim raises a disbelieving brow at you. You stick your tongue out at him but nearly bite it off when your grandmother speaks again.

“What do you mean doubtful?!” Tim looks absolutely delighted. A cheshire smile curling on his lips as he leans back into your couch. You glare at him then at your phone then at the ceiling then past that to glare at whatever god was up there.

“THAT WAS ONE TIME! Justine was an-” You mutter trying to remember the word.  “- an anomaly and you know it!”

“…..”

“Ok der were 2 anomalies!”

“3”

“Ok maybe Tim is the anomaly, but seriously, Nay, he’s fine,” You snarl, the jaggedness of your Gotham accent rearing its head. You wince but do not apologize. This will bite you in the ass later but you didn’t say it. You don’t like the taste of the word.

“No. I mean if you don’t want us to embarrass you at the church social then- Yes, I have been going to church,” You can see Tim rolling his eyes and mouthing liar with a twitch of his lip in the corner of your vision. “No, he’s not the showy type. Nay, I gotta go. The food’s burning,”

“Yes, Nay, I lab you bery mach,” You sigh into the phone letting your grandmother’s lather your tongue cutting into the briskness of your consonants. It held the same euphoria as taking off your shoes after a particularly long day.

“Unless you’re Dick, you can’t burn cereal,” Tim cut in carting you away from your reverie.

“Watch me, Drake,” You huff throwing a pillow at Tim almost making him drop his cereal bowl.

“So, can Gotham survive without Red Robin for a weekend?”

“Shouldn’t you have asked me this before telling your grandma that you’re taking me?”

“I’m just double-checking,”

“How considerate,”

“To be fair, your schedule is already volatile as is,"  You huff snuggling up to him on the couch. It was too cold in Tim’s apartment. You think a rich kid like him could afford to turn up the heat. Though, you aren’t exactly going to complain about an excuse to cuddle him.

Tim doesn’t make a move to push you away. Instead, he wraps his arm around you pulling you closer. This was the type of easy affection you two had become accustomed to. This was also the thing that will make your Schrade even more convincing. "True, but I asked Cass and the others to cover for me. Plus, your grandma sounds like she likes me,”

“Considering you don’t have a criminal record and aren’t currently being investigated, you immediately rocketed to the top of her list,” You answer absentmindedly stirring your cereal and taking a bite.

Tim whips his head to you and gives you a concerned look which you return with a smile full of cereal. He blanches at you, shaking his head and grabbing the remote to unpause the Star Trek episode you two were watching. You both prop your feet up and chew your cereal slowly, not feeling any reason to hurry.

How long has it been since you started? You’re pretty sure it was 1 AM when you started.

As if reading your mind, Tim looks at his phone, winces then turns back to the screen without another word.  You quirk your brow at him but decide that there is some truth to the saying ignorance is bliss.

You were gonna hate yourselves come noon.

 It’s noon, the sun has the audacity to show itself,  and you hate yourself.

You definitely, unequivocally hate yourself.

You groan in the passenger seat, head pressed against the cool window. The faint warmth of the sun glancing off your skin makes the tinges of nausea circling the periphery of your senses come to life. Your stomach does a cartwheel and you think- you’re sure you’re going to throw up but you aren’t gonna do that.

No way in hell are you gonna do that. Not when you’ve finally conned your way into monopolizing Tim’s attention for the weekend.

Ok, yeah, sure it was the result of some miscommunication between you and your cousin who then passed on the miscommunication to the whole goddamn family but that’s just what you call a happy accident.

You blow out a breath, greedily taking in all the coolness of the glass pressed against your skin calling your mind back to your body. You weren’t really good with handling the not sleeping thing.

“You ok?” Tim asked his eyes flickering between you and the alarmingly empty road. There was worry in his eyes whether it was the fact that you looked like shit or the fact that the road you were on looked like the opening to a terrible 80s slasher flick. It was Halloween after all. It would be pretty perfect. Dread licks at your stomach at the thought.

You let the silence lapse. In the corner of your eye, you see Tim’s hand tighten on the steering wheel. You stare at the expanse of farmland stretching to the horizon debating whether to humor his question or to let him stew.

“I’m fine,” You picked the third option.

“You don’t look fine,” Tim deadpans, turning to you.

“Stop looking then-” Tim scowls at you his pouty lips pulling into an angle. You sneer. “-You don’t look too good yourself, Kirk,”

Tim makes an offended noise. You look at Tim, really look at him, for the first time in hours. Tim, as per usual, looked obnoxiously handsome even though he was running on at most 30 minutes of sleep and had eye bags running down his face. Somewhere lost in his contemplative expression was the blindingly obvious hint of self doubt. You’ve seen it tons of times.

You peel yourself away from the cool glass to look Tim in the eyes. Dread swims in the pools of teal looking straight back at you. Tim’s mouth edges between a pout and a frown. You soften, shifting in your seat angling until your body is facing his.

“Whatever it is you’re overthinking it,”

“You don’t even know what I’m thinking!”

“Ay,” You chuckle and shake your head. “Tim, it’s you. You overthink everything. I don’t need to be a mind reader to see that,”

 Tim huffs. Maybe he was overthinking things.

“ ‘sides, I don’t see why you would be nervous 'bout meeting my family,”

Has it occurred to you I want to date you for real at some point? Tim thought a little frustrated.

You laugh when he frowns but instead of teasing him any further. You flick the radio on. Your hackles rise as it crackles to life. A smile flickers on your face when ‘All-star’ comes on. You cry out, a noise of shrill joy filling the air.

“Oh my god” Tim breathes, running his long fingers through his dark hair. “You absolute dork,”

“Kettle. Pot.” You grin.

Tim snorts as you loudly sing along with the radio. Unfortunately for him, your enthusiasm for the song was infectious. Somehow you both managed to miss every beat of the song.

You somehow felt like you were definitely forgetting something.

6 cans of monster and 5 things of 5-hour-energy drink later, you arrived. Tim’s nice-looking car pulls into the dusty gravel driveway of a rather large and old colonial looking house. Seeing the robust form of the large house looming in the distance injected your veins with a stifling source of dread. 

You love your family to bits but sometimes their presence weighed so much. You can feel their words already pecking at you, drawing pit and pieces of your self into frayed fibers. All you can think about were the comments hushed behind palms and the dissecting gaze of dark eyes. Your mouth feels dry and you can already feel your feet pivoting back towards the car.

Tim reaches for your hand, lacing his slender fingers between yours.  He smiles at you squeezing your hand. You can feel him rattling from his own anxiety but his effort steadies you. You grin at him and squeeze back.  

Your teeth click the entire walk up to the large oak doors. Tim squeezes your hand again, his teal eyes sweeping over you with a concerned glint. You furrow your brow and somehow he understands and raises his hand to knock on the door.

The door bursts open. Music and laughter wash over you as hands hurry you into the front hall.

“Nay! Dito na sya! May dalang gwapo!” (Mom, y/n’s here and they brought someone handsome.)

About 20 heads turn to look at you. Tim feels some embarrassment from the attention but that doesn’t last too long as in the space of about 5 seconds, those 20 heads were swarming you both, pulling you into hugs, shaking your hands, and ruffling your hair in varying degrees of force and order.

“Beh, you’ve grown so big” Your aunt coos squishing your face.

“Nena, look at this guy,”

“Tita, he doesn’t have any tattoos,” Your little cousin marveled looking bug-eyed as she lifted Tim’s shirt. You swat her away but take a quick second to subtly admire Tim’s sculpted abs. Your aunt scolds him and your uncle drags you to the main room where more guests were sitting chattering or screaming at a foreign horror movie.   

All the apprehension bundled into your stiff shoulders dissolves like seafoam against the overwhelming warmth of the festivities. The raucous laughter drags the roughness of Gotham away from your tongue. In place of your slow, careful syllables are quick clattering consonants and concise vowels. Your vowels were still elongated and angled to a sharp point unlike the nearly musical words of your cousins but as you said before ‘Gotham has its way of burying itself in your bones’. Tim just never thought about how saliently it showed itself in words. He wonders how his accent (folded, neat, and sterilized) sounds to you. He wonders how dull he sounds to you.

You have teased him about it. You’ve teased him endlessly about the way upper-class Manhattan just rolls off his tongue, how Alfred’s British affectations worm their way into his syllables. What you don’t tell him is how the smooth velvet of his words lull you into a hypnotic state that steals every bit of oxygen from your lungs.  What you can’t make yourself tell him is that you would gladly spend your whole life listening to him read a fucking phone book. 

The festivities were lively and informal. Jokes flying every which way. All alternating between your native tongue. You laugh into your drink, hiding the hesitant curve blunting your infectious smile. Tim nudges you to ask what’s wrong but you simply nudge him back and shake your head as if he had said something funny. Your relatives didn’t seem to notice your demeanor or if they did they left it alone.

Tim decides to leave it alone for now. Instead, he leaned into the flow of conversation. His years of speaking at galas working their magic on your aunts. They bombarded him with questions. Most of which sounded like screening questions at the embassy. You snarled at them more than once to knock it off but Tim shook it off. He knows they’re just worried about you the same way he worried for you. Well, not the same way but it was their way of showing they cared. He lets himself be immersed in the conversation.  It’s more like he tuned into the sweet sound of your laughter but made sure to dedicate enough restraint to not look like a love-sick puppy.

“Tanga!” (MORON!)

“Baliw!” (Crazy!)

“E gago ka pala, di ba halata yun?” (No shit sherlock, isn’t it obvious?)

Tim is at best confused as he watches the volley of words between you and your cousin. Your voices rising above the blaring karaoke. Anthony (?) clamps a hand on his shoulder and laughs as he watches you and Martin (?) hurl insults at each other. In the corner of your eye, you watch his reactions checking if he understood a word. He isn’t fluent but he understood bits and pieces. He’s heard you mutter angrily about customers enough times to distinguish an insult. 

“Dun worry about 'em. They won’t fight. They’re stupid but they’re not that stupid. ‘Sides, they’re too afraid of Nay for that,”

Tim gives Anthony a doubtful look. Anthony chuckles at him, clapping him on the back urging him to keep watching. He does if only to make sure you’ll be alright. When he does, he tunes into your words. Tim marvels at how musical you sound as you trade another round of rapid-fire jabs with Martin, how at ease you seem. Tim makes a mental note to get you to teach him. Though, he wasn’t entirely sure how he would justify it.  Admittedly, part of it was just wanting to spend more time with you.

He can probably swing it.

A surge of protectiveness crowds his veins when Martin grabs at you but his hand is swatted by a cane. The air crackles with a sharp snap. The room plunges into silence.  A small woman with silver hair stands tall and imperious at the other end of the cane. You and your cousins stiffen.

“Hi Nay,” You trail off with a distinct lack of grace. You swallow the lump forming your throat, robbed of any coherent thought by the stinging look in her eyes. You felt bare under her gaze. Layers and layers of skin peeling beneath the weight of her attention. Fury flickers like firelight across her dark eyes. Your skin suddenly felt like lint and you were sure you would catch fire.

A pause.

A bated breath held for what felt like an eternity.

“Iha(Iho), It’s been so long,” She says, softening. Her wrinkled face stretches into a kind smile that made you think of freshly cooked vegetables.  Her cane folding to her side as she loops her arm over your shoulders. “It’s nays to see you,”

A choked sound comes out of you and you feel something shake loose. “Missed you too, Nay,” You breathed. Tim feels awkward, fidgeting in his place.  

The soft smile on your grandmother fades a little. Her sharp eyes appraising Tim. The look wasn’t particularly venomous, but it left Tim feeling like he’d been cut open and analyzed. He wasn’t entirely sure of why you were all so scared of her before but now he fully understood.

She relinquishes her grip on you and urges you to go back to Tim. You frown a little, giving her a suspicious look which she returns innocently.  You let out a little breath before walking back to Tim’s side. She gives him another long once over before silently strolling away. His stomach churned but eased at your touch. You still look uneasy but you don’t fuss over it. Not when Martin decides that he wasn’t quite done with bickering.

 The festivities went on as normal. Maybe with a little less cussing going around. But Tim barely noticed when your laugh, free of any hesitance, echoed sonorously in his ear as he held you close. 

Roz presses a drink into his hand. “Congrats, you’ve survived round one of Nay’s hazing,”

“Round one?” Tim hiccups into his drink. He coughed. The beer was strong. A strangely potent amount of alcohol that made his throat burn.

“Yeah, Roz, that was more like round 2.” You mutter sullenly, distinctly taking no sips of the drink Roz had also handed you. The paranoid Bat-part of his brain screams that he’s been poisoned. He’s struggling not to let it win over but your conversation wasn’t helping.

“Nay will eat him alive,”

“I mean. She’ll do it nicely,”

“Pfffft, right! Ok, Tony, name one time she’s been nice.”

“How about-”

“The thing with Y/n earlier doesn’t count,”

“Why not?”

“There was a hidden agenda,”

“Oh shit! The bitch is right- Ow! You are!”

You look at Tim apologetically and squeeze his hand. Somehow this does not calm his nerves, but he tries his best to ease into his touch.

 On the trip here, you warned him that it was going to be exhausting. He assumed, incorrectly, that you were exaggerating. After all, he’s survived snobby rich people and his family. Your family seemed nice. He can survive a nice family dinner.

But what you neglected to tell him was that it would be sheer chaos.  He definitely wasn’t prepared for the sensory overload.  The house was almost unbearably loud compared to the manor. Every corner was filled with people chattering, playing games,  eating, and doing anything to entertain themselves. Sure, Tim was used to chaos but he was more accustomed to short bursts. He wasn’t quite as prepared for the seemingly endless stream of conversations and liquor.

You had definitely not prepared his poor unassuming introverted ass well enough. Not even halfway through the night, Tim was ready to crash. The 20 minutes of sleep he got beforehand had not helped. 

You, the angel that you are, guide him away from the party. You drag yourselves down the wide yawning corridor to the grand staircase.

Lit only by the thin veil of moonlight, the house showed its age. Walking up the stairs and walking through its hallways was like falling through time. The halls were lined with paintings, all landscapes and still-lifes. He’s thankful for that small mercy. His head swimming in liquor, he is reminded of the portraits at Wayne Manor and how their eyes burned at you as you passed.

The lack of portraits doesn’t make the house any less creepy mind you. Religious fixtures line the halls, crucifixes affixed to every arch-like mistletoes. There were doll-like statues of hollow-eyed saints at every corner table. It might have been the dancing moonlight but Tim swore he saw one of them move. Tim suddenly wishes he hadn’t ingested so much liquor.

Before long, you make your way to a bedroom. How the hell you knew which one to put him in was anyone’s guess. You lead him into the room. Touch gentle and careful as you coaxed him in. Soft jazzy music echoing hauntingly. The dancing moonlight and the solid shadows of the room highlighting your gorgeous features, drawing his attention to your plush lips. You lean over him to make sure he was indeed still part of the living. Liquid courage surging in his face, he presses his lips to yours. It’s cautious. He gently runs his hand through your hair, pulling you towards him with a push. The press of his lips is restrained, more of a question than a demand. Slightly chapped lips press against your sweet and searching.

Tim remembers the warm press of your lips, the way the pads of fingers trail against the soft fabric of his shirt, your warm breath fanning against his cool skin, then nothing.

Knock

Knock

KNOCK

Tim grouses into his pillow. Tim was having an absolutely wonderful dream. He could still feel your warm lips against his.  Tim squeezes his eyes trying to go back to sleep.

Knock

KNOCK

KNOCK

‘1 AM’ the antique analog clock at the nightstand reads.

“I’m up!” He lies burying himself further into the thick sheets.

His brothers really needed to stop breaking into his apartment at 1-

KNOCK

KNOCK

KNOCK

Tim nearly falls out of bed when he remembers where he is. He jams a shirt over his head and some sweatpants before stumbling to the door.

“Hey Tim, you coming?” Anthony asks through the crack of the door.

Tim opens the door a little wider. “Where?”

“Outside,” Roz shrugs vaguely.

 “Whe-”

You step out of your room, extremely hesitant. Your knuckles were turning white from apprehension. You look at Tim, surprise plain in your eyes. You flinch heat rising to your cheeks. Tim remembers the texture of your soft lips. He wishes that wasn’t a dream. You glare at your cousins who give you a confused look. 

“Roz, he-”

“Awwww, ‘insan, you’re actually coming?” Martin mocks clapping you on the shoulder drawing, what Tim considers, an adorable squeak from you. His heart almost leaps from his chest when your warm body presses further into Tim’s side. You can’t hear it but Tim’s breath stutters in his chest.  He loops his arm around you protectively. Martin gives both of you a sly conspiratorial look.

You scowl at Martin. Glaring with as much intensity and intimidation your burning cheeks would allow. Roz swats him over the head making him almost topple down the steps before Anthony even gets a chance to rebuke him. Instead, Anthony turns to you, brows furrowed. “You sure you want to come? Nay said-”

“La a!” Martin protested. Roz rolls her eyes and swats him again. “Dipshit’s right. Nay didn’t say jack,”

“Then why did you swat me?”

“E, I felt like it e,”

“Bish, whose side are you on?!” He snarls but before he can lunge at Roz, Anthony is already dragging him by the scruff of his neck.

“Shhhhhhhhhhh! Not so loud. The kids will hear us,”

“I for one will not help you wrangle tita’s crotch gremlins,”

“We’re going to be late and Nay is going to unleash hell upon us,”

Anxiously, you tug at Tim urging him to follow your cousins as they filed out through the back door.

 “Where are we going?” Tim hisses.

All four of you share a look.

“We’ll explain,” You promise.

 The journey was eerie. Punctuated by the fact that none of you explain jack. The walk was entirely silent, devoid of bickering or any sort of conversation. He can see the silence driving both Roz and Anthony mad. You honestly look like you’re going to keel over. The odd thing was that even the birds were silent. Not a single sound penetrated the thick canopy of juniper trees.

You wonder the woods guided only by the thin ribbons of silver light peaking through the thick clouds of leaves. Tim can feel your pulse as it thundered in your chest. No matter what was going on he would keep you safe.

You arrive in front of a rusted gate half a foot shorter than Tim. It was small, easily climbable with plenty of spiraling pieces to stick your foot into for purchase if needed. Your eyes cut to Roz who fished out a key he’d seen perched on one of the coat racks.  Hesitantly, you held your hand out for the key. Roz, on the other hand, all but slammed it into your hand, grinning in a mix of absolute glee and relief. Your teeth click as you worked the lock. He wants to suggest just going over it but you seem quite adamant and he wasn’t about to push your nerves.

Finally, the lock gives in.

You all file in one at a time in a sort of practiced motion. Beyond the gates was a path with its stones polished from a shine from use. The scarce light coming from the canopy of trees rippling against them. It lit the rest of the way still keeping the surroundings in deep shadow.

The path ended in front of a small dilapidated stone structure that seemed too small to house anything.

“Age before beauty,” Martin jeers, bending down dramatically urging Roz to go in. She, in turn, shoves him in with a swift kick. The dark interior of the structure swallows him whole. Her dark eyes cut to you. You swallow but ultimately you shrug off Tim’s hold and relinquish your death grip on Tim’s arm. You let out a shaky breath as you step over the threshold. Just like Martin before you, the shadows leave no trace of you.

Tim reaches for the last bit of your swaying blanket. Roz taking the chance shoves Tim over the threshold, his vision goes pitch black.

“See you there, lover boy~”

The darkness is all-encompassing making his eyes completely useless as much as he tries to adjust them. Instead, he strains all of his other senses. He feels the press of moss-covered walls closing in on him. The staircase only seemed wide enough to let one person pass at a time. The stairs wind in shallow predictable patterns. The scent of moss and burning firewood grew heavy as he made his descent. Distantly, he could hear the soft padding of your shoes against the stone but he also heard the crackle of jazzy music. It was the kind he only heard from the old black and white movies Bruce and Alfred watched. It was oddly familiar but he couldn’t place it. The smooth baritone of the singer rattles in his head. A shiver of mild discomfort travels up his spine.

After what feels like an eternity, Tim emerges. His eyes slamming shut from the sudden brightness of his surroundings. He blinks, eyes adjusting to the light. His eyes take in his surroundings.

He was in a clearing. It was man-made, constructed using the same stones that lined the path you’d taken. The stone walls were covered in moss and ivy, but the stone that did peak out reflected the moonlight freely raining drown from the clear autumn sky. In the center of the space, sit 9 people including yourself. All cast in the warm glow of the crackling bonfire. It is a living thing, raging and casting shadows sharpening and obscuring features.

“I’m so glad you could join us, Timothy,” Your grandmother calls out as she fiddles with the nobs of the old radio perched in her lap. It crackles uncooperatively despite her efforts. He can’t pry his eyes away from it even as he takes his seat next to your shivering form.

Without much thought, Tim pulls you close. You tremble, teeth still clicking eyes wild and fixed on the radio. The radio is a curious thing. It’s an old model. It’s sleek but dotted with various nobs and switches. If he had to guess, it was something out of the 1960s. In the periphery of his senses, he hears Roz and Anthony step out of the staircase and take their places in the circle with Roz sitting right next to your grandmother.

Your grandmother stops fiddling with the radio then turns to Roz who is now comfortably seated. Your teeth chatter and your shoulder hitch as they silently converse. Roz inhales then exhales. Her dark eyes sweep over all of you making sure she had your attention. Based on the silence and the still forms, she did. She sits a little straighter, her shoulders rolling back.

She throws herself into a tale. It was a story she’d heard long ago about a man, a house, and a secret. Her calm voice carries over the soft roaring of the bonfire. It wasn’t the scariest tale Tim had heard but Roz told it well. Well enough to draw squeaks from several people including yourself.

Tim relaxes catching on to the turn of events. He lets you press into his side as you make your feeble attempt to get away from the story. Tim chuckles at the amount of theatrics you’ve all put into building up to this little gathering. However, all his smug skepticism vanishes when Roz finishes her story.

The static from the radio vanishes. Its various nobs move without assistance and its switches click into place.  The same baritone voice carries from the radio. Tim doesn’t hear what it says as his mind reels. He turns to you and opens his mouth to ask but Anthony begins his tale before Tim can even formulate his question. Beside him, you fidget with his sleeve shaking hands clenching and unclenching on the fabric.

Tim remembers how much you hate ghost stories. You’d once gotten sick with a fever just from watching horror movies. At this point, you were on the verge of tears. Your breathing slowed abnormally as Martin finished his story. The radio predictably did not whirr to life after his story. Through your chattering teeth, you give your cousin a vicious smile which he volleys by sticking his tongue out petulantly.

It’s your turn.

You squeeze Tim’s hand twice before worming out of his grasp. You flutter your long lashes, lightcatching in them looking golden as the fire flickered urging you to delve into your story. You roll your shoulders and let your blanket and apprehension slide away in one smooth action.

You tell your story.

 Your countenance still and grave as you tell a story of crossroads and terrible choices.

The radio huffs, seemingly amused by your effort.

“Well, y/n,” The radio coos. Your name drips like molasses from its speakers. It’s unsettling how crisp it sounds. Its voice absent of static as it addresses you. “You sure do know about bad choices. I believe so does that young thing- Pardon me. Young things swimming in the harbor. They’re just a tinsy bit cut up about it.” The radio teases almost sounding gleeful. You nod gravely, stomach reaching the floor.

Harbor?

You settle back down into your seat. Tim nudges you, cocking his head to the side to question you. Your fist clenches and unclenches in your lap before you look him in the eyes again.

“Case,” You mouth silently.

It clicks.

The harbor.

 The bodies.

That’s what the radio meant.

Someone clears their throat urging Tim to tell a story. He stumbles through a half-remembered urban legend he heard from Steph awhile ago. His mind far too preoccupied with the new information to really devote to any theatrics.

 His turn passes.

And the stories continue as he mulls over the information.

It’s your grandmother’s turn. Your hand grips Tim’s arms white-knuckled. You attempt to swallow down the fear but it catches in your throat constricting your airway. The flames dance casting her face in sinister shadows that bring out all the sharp angles in her features. Her smile curls cruel. Her bony fingers trace the seems and delicate patterns embossed on the old radio. Static erupts loud then dies down just as quickly. Her smokey voice fills the air. Heavy and commanding. The story spills from her lips smooth and velvety slick with gore and unspoken horrors. None of you dare to speak. Some don’t even breathe. Your hands scrabble for purchase on Tim’s shirt as you bury your face in his chest. You feel him wrap himself around you shielding you the best he can. Ear pressed to his chest, you can hear Tim’s pulse hammering. The terror soaking through to his bones. He remains steady. Unflinching even as the story reaches its climax.

The flames flash, fade, then flicker.  

The radio crackles.

The smooth baritone of its voice distorting into something undeniably inhuman.

Shadows dance.

Their hands reaching out as the flames did. A hard yank from one of them nearly topples you out of Tim’s arms.  He shifts you both away from their grasp. He glares fiercely at them making sure you’re safe.

Sorrowful moans fill the air but your grandmother is undeterred.

With a shrill cry from the radio, everything dies down.

The shadows retreat.

The fire simmers down now small and tame.

Everyone lets out a breath. Both of you could feel everyone unfurl. Tense muscles, locked jaws, tight chests all loosen with the end of the story.

For a long moment, the entire circle is still. Then your grandmother stands up. The rest follow her in a mostly quiet procession up the steps.

“Roddy was harsh this year,” Martin whines.

“Nope, you’re just terrible at it. I mean hell even y/n got an answer. It was creepy as all shit but they got an answer,”

“Uh- Is it a good time to ask what just happened?”

Your cousins turn to you.

“You really didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

“How do you propose I bring up the demonic radio?”

“Pffft,”

“Pirst, it isn’t demonic. Do you really think Nay would have kept it if it was?”

“She lets Martin hang around,”

“…….”

“Dis is a good point,”

“HEY”

Tim clears his throat.

“Raaayt, Ok so… once a year we tell the spooky radio stories so we can get answers or our future told,”

“Was the whole creepy walk necessary?”

“Nope,” You answer in chorus.

“It’s just our way of psyching up for it,”

“It’s your guy’s way. Tita at least let’s me hum songs,”

“Well excuse me for not wanting to listen to you sing,”

“Is there anything else you guys want to tell me?”

“Aside from y/n really not wanting to tell-”

You snarl at your cousins, red-faced and bearing your teeth. Martin and Roz cackle as they run. Anthony has the decency to at least look slightly apologetic as he runs.

“Y/n… What aren’t you telling me?”

“Tim, I- I’m- Damn it- I-” You put your hands on your face. You try to calm your breaths. “Look Tim, I-”You take another breath. “I’m sorry. I kissed you but you were drunk-”

“Wait that wasn’t a dream?” There’s a flicker in Tim’s chest.

You look at him mortified. You want the ground to swallow you whole. “Yeah, I- Tim, I know it’s- I’m sorry.”

He remains silent.

Your stomach feels like it’s going to burn up.

“I-”

“I want a redo,”

“A what?”

“A redo,” 

a/n: I will rework the ending at some point but thank you for reading! 

 taglist:   @batarella, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @idkmanicantenglish,@birdy-bat-writes,  @boosyboo9206, @americasmarauders (I wanna drag you into Terry hell), @l-horizon11

[swanslieutenant]

a place in time - chapter xiii

Summary: Emma’s an agent working to reunite missing people with their families when the biggest missing persons case of all time appears in front of her in a flash of bright, white light. Thousands of missing people from throughout history, including one particular pirate, appear on the shore of a lake in the middle of winter: none have aged a day since their disappearance and, with no memory of their missing time, must venture into a strange and uncertain future. Loosely based on the TV show “the 4400.”

Rating and Warnings: Teen. For now.

Catch up: ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4, ch5, ch6, ch7, ch8, ch9, ch10, ch11, ch12

Read on AO3

Note: *shows up nearly 2 years late with a Tim Hortons hot chocolate* - apologies for the length it took for me to get this updated. It has been a hard/chaotic two years for me and this fic is a hard one to write, but things are settling a bit, so I will try not to leave it for that long again. 

thanks to all the folks over at the @captainswanmoviemarathon discord channel for welcoming me in and helping me get this finished with the many many writing sprints it took!

___________________________________________________________

Neither Killian or Emma speak as they march back to her office, their steps quick and staccato against the polished floors. The world seems to be on a tilt, like Emma is walking through a funhouse with slanted floors, with the glass doors of the offices lining the hallway like the twisted and bendy mirrors of the carnival house, warping and distorting reality all around her. 

Emma supposes she should be used to this feeling by now. After all, her entire world has been on a tilt since that night down at the lake, with the sudden appearance of thousands of people.

But this time it feels different. Like her normal life, or what has been her new normal at this point, has been shattered once again. What she thought to be true, who she thought she could trust and rely on – broken, once again.

I know him from my time. 

When they reach her office, after unlocking the door, she gestures Killian ahead of her. He hasn’t said a word yet, and his face is solemn, the utter shock now an icy grit. His jaw is set, his eyes steel, the cold-hearted pirate that lurks beneath his charming veneer returned full force.

“This is his doing.” His voice is shaking with rage, the words more a growl than a sentence.

“This is crazy,” Emma says, swallowing the growing bile rising in her throat as she shuts the office door behind herself. She grips the side of her desk, her knuckles turning white, as she falls heavily into her desk chair. “How – are you sure that it’s the same guy?”

“Absolutely.”

He is still sanding by the door, hands curled into fists at his side, almost vibrating with fury. There is clearly some history here, and Emma remembers the vile that Gold spoke of Killian with when the returnees first arrived, how he had demanded for him to be locked up and kept away from the others.

“Who is he, Killian? How do you know him?”

“He’s a monster.” He spits the words, and then lifts his left hand, shaking his sleeve up his arm and rubbing at the scar that encircles his wrist, ragged and rough. “See this scar, Swan? He did it to me.”

She has wondered about the scar ever since she first saw it weeks ago, and now the shadow that had darkened his expression when she mentioned it then makes sense. She is truly sick now, her stomach twisting at the thought of her boss, the man she has sat across from in meetings and who controls this entire goddamn situation, literally attacking someone to the point of leaving such a horrific scar.

“He – dear god, Killian. That looks like he tried to cut your hand off!”

“It was no mere attempt,” Killian replies hollowly, eyes darkening. “He did cut it off.”

Emma blinks at him, and then stares at his hand, clearly attached to his arm. Now fair enough, she doesn’t know a lot about surgery or how re-attaching a limb would work, but Emma sure as hell knows there is no way Killian would have had his hand re-attached or be able to use it with 1700s medicine.

“He – what? I don’t understand. But your – your hand? How was it … fixed?”

“Magic.”

Emma’s heart stutters at the word. She leans back in her chair, stunned as if she’s been slapped.

“What?”

“A witch,” Killian continues, oblivious to Emma’s reaction, and he waves his right hand airily. “Or a fairy or some other manner of creature. I suppose I never actually asked her. My crew and I had come across her once before ever meeting Gold, and we retreated to her after his attack. She was a bit prickly, but she re-attached it for me after my crew begged her to. She had only a little magic left after running into trouble of her own, and she was no expert, hence the scar, but she did her best.”

Magic, witches, fairies. Her superpower remains silent, indicating Killian is telling the truth as he sees it, but Emma can’t believe it. Abruptly, Emma feels on the edge of tears. A hand re-attached by magic?

What?

Killian seems to finally notice her thunderstruck expression. “To you, Swan, magic is a myth. In my time, it was as common as your light switches. And clearly,” he adds, holding up his hand and flexing his fingers, “it worked.”

Seriously, what the hell is her life these days? Magic? Fine, she has no explanation for why Killian is standing in front of her, two and a half centuries after he should have died. But magic? No way. Aliens or scientific advancements in time travel make more sense than magic. But then she thinks of the video Anna had shown her of her sister controlling snowflakes as naturally as could be, and well, hell, magic at this point may make as much sense as anything else.

“I don’t understand,” Emma manages finally, wrenching her mind away from the literal concept of magic to the problem in front of her. Gold, Killian, time travel, his hand. “How – why did Gold cut your hand off?” 

“I stole something from him.”

… Of course he did.

Her mind starting to burst at the seams, she can only gape back at Killian as he explains his history with Gold, utterly lost for words. In Killian’s time, Gold had been a powerful landowner in England, who ventured to the New World after making a bad deal and losing his fortune. He didn’t know how long Gold had been in America before Killian heard of him, but he did know was already successful and rich in his new surroundings, a dangerous businessman who no one dared cross.

Except Killian.

“As you may remember, Swan, at that time I was a wanted man by the English Crown, having stolen and burned many of their ships. They had done their own damage to me, and it was my utmost desire at the time to ruin them in any other way I could. So, when I heard rumours of an enchanted object that Gold had brought over from England, the last of his previous fortune and a gift from the king and royal family themselves, naturally, I wanted it. Besides, my crew and I hadn’t had a good heist in months. It was a hard, cold winter, and the stormy weather had kept many ships trapped in European harbours, and my men were itching for some action.”

Even amidst her shock at this whole situation, Emma has to resist the urge to roll her eyes – pirates.

“My crew and I were moored in a town called Newport, near where his new estate was. We were restocking the Jolly Roger when I heard he’d left the town for business and would not be back for a fortnight, leaving his mansion unprotected.”

“So, you of course just waltzed in and stole it. What even was it?”

He flashes her a devious grin, a glimmer of his charming, mischievous self breaking through his dark demeanour. “I’m a hell of a pirate, love, even on land. It was only too easy to sneak into his manor. We took everything we could get our hands on, and then I found this object, the king’s gift.” Killian cups his hands, as if he was holding several apples in his palms. “It was roughly this size. I couldn’t tell you what it was called, for I’ve never come across anything like it before. I thought perhaps a music box or a small chest at first. It was circular, with the sides plated in pure gold leaf. The top of it was beautiful, no doubt painted by the finest artist to represent a dark indigo sky with white stars emblazoned upon it. I wondered if it was only the case for the true treasure within, but I could never get the damn thing to open. My crew and I tried everything we could think of – prying it, smashing it, hammering it. Nothing. It seemed empty inside, too, for when you’d knock on it, it was hollow. After all the efforts for seemingly nothing, I thought about simply selling it. But, then I heard Gold was desperate to have it returned, that he had ripped his manor apart looking for it, so I knew it was something valuable indeed.”

Emma is trying to picture the object Killian describes, and she has no idea what it could be either. Sounds to her like a little box, like something you’d find in an old antique or knick-knack store. “Okay, so what did you do with it then?”

“I buried it, somewhere safe where I knew Gold couldn’t find it.”

The entire tale is the most Killian has spoken about his past as a pirate since appearing in this time, and Emma supposes she shouldn’t be surprised it ends with a tale of buried treasure. Typical.

“Besides that,” Killian continues slowly, and he rubs one of his upper arms absently, as if recalling a past chill. “My crew didn’t like it. Once we realized we couldn’t do anything with it or allow Gold to have it again, we needed it off the ship as soon as we could.”

“Didn’t like it?” Emma echoes, her skin rippling with goosebumps. “What do you mean?”

Killian frowns, and he rubs at his chin thoughtfully. “I know you don’t believe in magic, Swan, but if you saw this, you would. Even though we couldn’t get it open, the damned thing seemed to suck the energy of the area around it. People were grumpier near it, more prone to anger, and more likely to need hours upon hours of sleep after being around it for a long time. As if it pulled their energy into itself and made them weaker, less honourable versions of themselves.”

He’s right, she doesn’t believe in magic. The thought of a strangle little box, gifted to her boss in the 1700s that caused hardened pirates to want it out of their sight, is something out of a movie. But … after all Emma has seen and all she’s heard, even just in the last few minutes, perhaps she better start believing.

“In any regard, we buried it and forgot about it for a few months until we returned one day to Newport. Gold knew my ship – hell, everyone knew my ship, then – and he was watching for it. He surprised us and thought to kill me and my crew, but realized rather quickly if we were all dead, he’d have no way to find out where the object was hidden. So instead … he thought to teach me a lesson.” He holds his left hand up again. “Hence, this.” 

Emma leans back into her desk chair, sinking into the old cushion and letting out a deep breath. She’s starting to get a tight, fluttery feeling in her chest she gets when she’s becoming overwhelmed, the feeling that usually spurs her to run, run as fast as she can.

But there’s no running from this. This, this twisted world with time travel and now apparently magic, is her reality.

Killian falls silent, finally taking a seat opposite her instead of standing, fuming, by the door. But Emma doesn’t know what to say back to him, so they sit in silence for several long minutes. After all, what do you say back to someone who is telling you about their adversarial meetings in the 1740s with your boss, who was the one to cut off his hand that was then re-attached with magic?

Emma has always been a logical person; she’s had to be. There was no room for whimsy or belief in the unknown during her childhood, not when she was burned too early by a world that only showed her its dark and cruel side. Her mind is so overwhelmed, she’s not even sure how to begin processing all this. If Killian wasn’t between her and the door, she may have started running. 

“So, you buried this object,” she begins, forcing herself to focus on the tangible parts of Killian’s story, though it’s not enough to not notice the irony of discussing ancient buried treasure with a pirate. “Probably in a place built over by a parking lot, or so deep underground that its lost to history, or found by a random person and sitting on someone’s grandma’s shelf –”

“That seems unlikely,” Killian muses. “I would hazard a guess it has never been found. After all, that must be why I’m here, in your time. He’s after the object again. He couldn’t get it from me then, and for whatever reason, he’s brought me here to find it.”

Emma has come to the same conclusion herself now, but she shakes her head in dismay. “I just don’t understand. If he wants this thing back so bad, why not get it from you back then, not invent time travel and wait nearly three hundred years for it?”

He shrugs, but his eyes flash. “Only the devil himself knows what madness lurks in that monster’s mind.”

Emma sighs and rubs at her eyes. If ridiculous was a line crossed back when Killian first said he knew Gold from his time, this situation is so far gone, Emma’s not even sure what to make of it anymore.

“So where is it buried? The object?”

Killian doesn’t answer, idly tracing the scar around his wrist. She watches him, wondering if he’s simply trying to remember, but when the silence stretches on, she realizes he has no intention of answering her, and for whatever reason, that hurts.

“Killian … you know you can trust me.” 

“I do trust you, Swan,” he says, and his voice softens as he meets her eyes. “It’s Gold I don’t. This object, whatever its value to him, has been safe for nearly three centuries. Its secret is safest with just one person.” He pauses briefly. “For now.”

Though still stung, Emma nods. “Okay. For now.” She lets out a deep breath, and runs a hand through her hair, combing out the tangles. “Well, if this object is really what Gold is after and you’re the only person alive who knows where it is, it makes sense why Gold wanted you arrested at first.”

“He what?” Killian’s voice is sharp, his eyes flashing with anger again, and Emma winces. She supposes she hadn’t told Killian that part yet.

As his expression darkens, Emma explains how Gold had first wanted Killian detained more formally than all the other returnees due to his reaction down at the lake where he first fought and argued with the Storybrooke agents, along with his past as a pirate and wanted criminal. How, now that she knows this history, it was most likely just a ruse for Gold to be able to keep a closer eye on Killian than the others.

“That slimy bastard.”

Silently, Emma agrees. She doesn’t know what Gold is planning, but she already knows whatever it is, it isn’t good. At her last meeting with him, when he’d asked her about ‘anything odd’ with the returnees, she’d left the conversation with a pit in her stomach, the root of doubt and suspicion that has now blossomed into fully fledged mistrust and, frankly, fear.

“We have to get you out of here. Out of Storybrooke, away from Gold. It’s not safe for you here anymore.”

“I concur.”

But then Emma frowns. Regina is away today, attending meetings offsite in regards to the returnees’ release, and Emma knows there is no way she is going to get Killian discharged from here without her permission. Any other returnee, maybe, but not Killian the media magnet.

She could attempt to sneak him out, but if they are caught … well, it was bad enough that Emma was seen by the media near him during his previous escape attempt. If they are caught again when she’s aiding him in an escape attempt … she’d be re-assigned to another returnee at the very least or fired at the very worst, and Killian will be kept here, in Gold’s clutches, for even longer.

“I can’t get you out of here tonight,” she says, swallowing down the anxiety that comes with the thought. “We have to wait until Regina is here, and do it all by the books or … well, I don’t know what will happen. She’ll be back tomorrow.” Emma sighs, and rises to her feet. “Come on. I’ll walk you back to the barracks. I think you may be safer there with the guards all around.”

They leave her office, walking carefully around the corner leading to the foyer where the media conference had been. But it’s over now, all the chairs and the podium cleaned up.

The walk to the barracks is mostly in silence, both of them lost in thought. When they reach the lobby, Emma grips Killian’s arm, pausing him in his tracks.

“Don’t get into any trouble,” she warns, her voice a whisper. “I’ll be back first thing tomorrow to talk to Regina about your release.”

“When have I ever gotten into trouble?” he replies teasingly, and he rests his hand over hers briefly before moving towards the staircase. “Goodbye, Emma.”

She watches him head upstairs to his room, until he’s gone through a door and out of sight.  Emma should go back to her office and get some semblance of work done, but she pauses instead. The cafeteria is just ahead of her, buzzing with the hum of conversation. It’s lunch now, and the returnees are free to move about as the media are gone. An idea has occurred to her, and instead of heading back to her office, she walks into the busy cafeteria.

Near one of the wide windows at the opposite end, Emma spots David and Mary Margaret. As she’s walking over, Mary Margaret notices her first, brightening with a wide smile and shining eyes.

“Hi Emma!”

Their enthusiasm still makes her a bit uncomfortable, but she tries to smile genuinely as she takes a seat opposite them. They are smiling widely at her, clearly thinking she’s here for a friendly chat or at least a step in the right direction for their relationship, and suddenly Emma wishes that was all she was here for. A pleasant, light conversation with the parents she lost for 28 years, returned to her miraculously by (as it’s truly appearing to be) magic. 

And yet here she is instead, a dark cloud of fear and suspicion hanging over her. She glances around before speaking, not really sure who she should be on the lookout for, but in any case, the other returnees and agents are pre-occupied with their own meal or conversation. And, besides, she supposes she has an excuse to be sat here talking with David and Mary Margaret – they are, after all, her parents.

“We’ve been wanting to tell you,” Mary Margaret starts brightly, before Emma can get up the nerve to speak. “Graham told us that once the first group of returnees start to be released, he thinks David and I will be allowed out for more visits. We were hoping, well …” she trails off suddenly, uncertain, and David grasps her hand tightly, squeezing it for support. Mary Margaret smiles at him, and continues, her voice much stronger now, “Maybe we could meet you and Henry somewhere for a meal one day?”

“Oh,” Emma says, taken aback. “Um, yeah, that that would be great.”

They smile in delight, and Emma finds she does truly mean that. If they had said something like this even a few days ago, she probably would’ve scowled and made up some excuse as to why it couldn’t happen, but instead, she is already imagining them at Henry’s favourite restaurant, with him showing them his favourite dishes and desserts. “Um, Henry will be so excited to hear about that. And I want to hear more about it too, but first – I came here to ask you for a favour.”

They nod, exchanging a glance with each other, plainly thrilled that whatever this is about, Emma has decided to ask for their help. Their willingness makes Emma’s heart twinge; they’re so happy to have anything from her, even if it’s an indication of a grain of trust, that it lights up their whole expressions as if she just agreed to start calling them mom and dad.

She gives herself a quick mental shake, and focuses again. She leans forward slightly, lowering her voice so they can only just hear her. “There’s something … weird going on around here, I’m still trying to figure it all out, but I need your help in the meantime.”

David and Mary Margaret trade worried glances at her tone. “Of course,” David says firmly. “What’s going on? What is it about?”

Emma hesitates. She wants to tell them what Killian told her, but it’s not her story to share. Besides, the less people who know about Gold, the better. Instead, she says, “Can you keep an eye on Killian Jones for me for the rest of the day? Make sure he’s doing okay and keeping himself out of trouble?”

David frowns, and crosses his arms across his chest. “The pirate?” he demands, and Mary Margaret glares at him.

“It’s important,” Emma continues, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “I – can’t really say much else, but it’s important.”

“Of course, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, and she elbows David, who, reluctantly, nods. “That’s no problem at all. We’ll ask him to have dinner with us tonight.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.” She then gets to her feet, and disappointment flashes across their faces. She winces. “Sorry, I have to get back to work. But, I – uh, well I’m looking forward to that dinner one day soon.” 

The disappointment fades a bit, and they say their goodbyes. Emma returns to her office for the rest of the afternoon, trying to get through her stack of endless paperwork, but it’s pointless. She gets nothing done, her mind on Gold and buried treasure and even when she gets home, she’s a nervous wreck all night, unable to focus on anything at all.  

Henry is his usual chatty self, but Emma can’t keep focused on what he’s saying. She has no patience for cooking tonight either, so instead orders in pizza, much to her son’s delight. As he’s munching on his fourth piece of deep-dish pepperoni, Henry pauses mid-bite, glancing at Emma’s untouched first slice.

“Mom? Are you ok?”

“Sorry, kid,” she replies, and she forces herself to smile reassuringly. “Just distracted by work. Want to play a game tonight?”

He is satisfied with that answer, and playing Clue with Henry does help to pass the time, but her heart isn’t in it and she is soundly beaten in each of the three rounds they play. When it’s finally her son’s bedtime and he’s sound asleep, peaceful and warm in his bed, Emma herself gets ready for bed.

Sleep, however, has never seemed so far away. Her mind roils with the revelations of the day, her stomach turning with nausea and anxiety. With no wink of sleep in sight, Emma sits up in bed instead. She leans against the solid wood of her headboard, and hugs her knees into her chest, watching the tree outside her window sway with the cold wind.

It’s so simple, to watch the trees, illuminated by the street lights below. They are just as they were yesterday, unchanged by the revelation of magic such as controlling snow or re-attaching hands or transporting hundreds of people through time. 

She watches the trees for a while, and at one point, Emma finally drifts off, her dreams a jumble of pirate ships and bright white light.

Those dreams, however, are abruptly broken by a shrill ring of her cellphone.

Emma jolts awake, and grabs the phone from the nightstand, answering it without reading the caller ID.

“Hello?” 

“Emma, it’s Anna!” Her colleague’s voice is frantic and harried, and Emma sits up, her heartbeat accelerating.

“Anna?”

“You need to get back here to Storybrooke right away. It’s – it’s about Killian Jones. One of the returnees was found dead and –”

Emma swings her legs out from under the covers, the floor cold beneath her bare feet, as icy as the shot of pure panic running through her. “What? Is – is Killian –” 

“No, no, he’s fine,” Anna says hurriedly, as if just realizing the implication of her words. Emma’s heart stutters again, her emotions of fear and relief in whiplash. “Well, I mean he’s not hurt, he’s not quite okay as you would say, but –”

“Anna, what the hell is going on?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean – okay, like I was saying, I was staying here tonight with Elsa, and then – well, there was a commotion maybe an hour ago and when I went to see what had happened … well, one of the returnees is dead. It’s pretty clear they were attacked … like, with a sword.” 

Emma’s heart sinks though she’s sure she already knows. If he’s not the one dead, and the victim was attacked with a sword …

“And what does this have to do with Killian?”

“He’s been arrested for the murder.” 

_______________________________________________________

The drive back to Storybrooke is a blur. She’d woken up her neighbour across the hall and half-dragged her over to watch Henry and get him off to school in the morning, only telling her there was an emergency and she had to leave right now.

When she makes it onto Storybrooke’s grounds, she careens into an empty parking spot, half out of the vehicle before she’s stopped the engine. The main returnee barracks building is bright and illuminated, and Emma marches towards it, her heart pounding heavily with each step she takes.

On the steps leading to the building, outside the main doors, stands a group of several individual Emma recognizes as police and FBI officers from their emblazoned jackets. As she approaches, one holds her hand up to block Emma’s path.

“Hold up! No one is allowed entry right now. A federal investigation is underway.” 

Emma’s hands curl into fists at her side, and she digs out her identification badge from her jacket pocket. She has no time to argue. “You don’t understand, I need to get in there.”

The officers’ frown at her badge, and she opens her mouth to furiously continue, when a voice calls her name from within the main doors.

“Emma?” The guards move aside, revealing Kristoff Reinsdyr, one of the guards at Storybrooke, looking pale and frazzled. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

One of the FBI officers scowls, and looks Emma up and down. “We have orders to not let anyone else in until Commander Hua says –”

“Emma needs to come in. She’s Jones’ agent in charge of his case here.”

Kristoff gestures her forward, and Emma doesn’t wait to see if the officers complain again, though they do move out of her way finally. She and Kristoff hurry inside, where the brightness of the fluorescently lit building makes her eyes sting as he leads her towards the back staircase.

“Glad you’re here, Emma. Anna told me she called you,” Kristoff says, as they take the steps two at a time up to the fourth floor to the isolation and interview area. Emma is reminded sharply of the first time she had come up here, when she’d met Killian the first night, when he’d been belligerent and thrown in here to cool down.

The thought sets her teeth on edge. “Kristoff, what the hell is this about? Anna said there had been a murder?”

He hesitates. “Yes, it seems like it. There was some commotion around midnight in the residences. We thought perhaps it was a fight, but when we got there to see what had happened …” He trails off, and shakes his head once. “It was awful, Emma. Truly horrific.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and Emma decides she doesn’t want to know. “And – they think Killian did it? Where is he now?”

“In one of the interview rooms upstairs. He was with a few of the other guards for a bit, until the FBI got here about an hour ago. Now he’s in with their commander.”

They reach the top floor, and Kristoff leads her down a cold, empty hallway to the cluster of interview rooms at the end of the corridor. Kristoff opens a small side door, into a small observation room that faces the larger interview room through one-way glass. Three FBI officers are in the room already and they frown at her, but she simply flashes her identification badge in their direction before looking through the one-way glass at the scene ahead.

Killian is seated in a similar room to the one she first met him in, his face smooth and impassive, as cold as she’s ever seen it. His wrists are bound with handcuffs, chained to the table in the centre of the room. Mulan Hua, the commander of the Boston FBI who Emma recognizes from the lake, is seated across from him, watching him with a careful, quiet gaze.

“Let’s go over this again,” she is saying, her voice strained with patience. Emma isn’t sure how long Killian has been talking to her, but by his sour expression, she knows they’ve already been over this conversation several times. “Tell me exactly what happened this evening.”

“As I have told you a thousand times since I was dragged from my bed by your deranged guards,” he snaps, drawing the words out so they are each peppered with a near growl. “I have no idea what happened. I was in my room all evening, save for dinner. All I know is what you’ve told me: a man has been found dead, and you suspect I had something to do with it.”

“Murdered,” Mulan corrects, her face solemn. “He’s not only dead, he was murdered.”

Killian rattles the handcuffs pointedly. “Not by my hand. If I’d done it, I’d bloody well confess. I may be a pirate, but I’m no coward. I’ve committed my fair share of atrocities, but I will not confess to something I did not do.”

“How do you explain the fact that your sword was found discarded nearby, stained with blood?”

It could be a damning statement, but Killian laughs, rumbling and low. “You think me fool enough to leave a murder weapon lying about where any bumbling twit can come across it? Not to mention that I haven’t had my sword since I arrived in this bloody time when your guards confiscated it, so how, pray tell, do you think I managed to get my sword back?” 

Mulan sighs, irritation flitting across her features. “Well, we know how you did it. We have evidence. Video evidence of you removing the sword from the Collection Room.”

Emma’s eyes widen, and she feels abruptly like she’s been punched in the gut. They have what?

Killian, however, isn’t fazed by this bombshell; after all, he probably has no idea what a video is. “I don’t care what evidence you say you have. It’s all false, I didn’t do it and I haven’t had my sword in weeks. So, either arrest me and throw me in a dungeon, or let me go for I have nothing more to say to you.”

 And at that, he falls silent. Mulan tries to get him to speak again, but to no avail. Eventually, she sighs and gets to her feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor and making Emma flinch. “Okay. You think about things, and I’ll be back with something for you to eat and drink.”  

As she heads for the door, Emma sees her chance to speak with her. She darts past Kristoff and the other FBI officers in the observation room, out into the hallway, catching Mulan just as she’s shutting the door behind her. 

“Commander,” Emma calls. “What the hell is going on?” 

“Oh, Agent Swan, I’m glad you’re here.” Mulan breathes out heavily. Now that she’s out of the interview room, she appears tired, her face pale, her eyebrows pinched together with stress. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you. Do you have any idea why Jones would want to kill Henry Jekyll?”

“No!” Emma replies vehemently. “Killian wouldn’t kill – who the hell even is that?”

“He is another returnee. Or rather, was. He was one of Jones’s roommates when he was released from isolation. He was found dead earlier by his current roommate. He’d been stabbed several times.”

Emma stares back at her, lost for words, as Kristoff peers out of the other room, as if making sure everything is okay.

Mulan nods at him. “Officer, can you get me a sandwich and water bottle for Jones?”

He agrees, and disappears back down the hall the way he had come with Emma. Mulan turns back to Emma, and at her expression, lets out another deep sigh.

“Emma,” she says gently, almost understandingly. “I know you must have gotten close to Jones while he’s been here –” Emma inhales sharply, but Mulan doesn’t seem to notice “– since you’re his agent and all. Obviously, you don’t want to believe he could have done something like this. But you have to remember that he’s a criminal. He was an outlaw and a pirate, wanted by the British Navy at the time for treason and murder. And that’s just the recorded crimes. We really don’t know anything about him, or what he’s capable of. I’m not surprised something like this has come up, honestly.”

“I am,” Emma replies bluntly. “There is no way Killian killed someone, not when tomorrow – I mean, we are trying to get all the returnees out of here not keep them locked up longer!”

Mulan pinches the bridge of her nose, and gestures for Emma to follow her. “Come with me, take a look at what we found.”

Emma follows her into a second interview room, empty save for a steel table with a laptop on it. Mulan opens the laptop, entering her credentials to log in. It seems to take an exorbitant amount of time, Emma’s nerves fraying further with each passing second. The screen opens to a generic Federal Bureau of Investigation backdrop, and Mulan clicks on a video saved to the desktop, labelled simply ‘surveillance footage.’

“This is from back in early February,” Mulan explains, as the video loads up to reveal a room Emma recognizes as the Collection Room in the basement, where she visited once before to collect Mary Margaret, David and Killian’s belonging, with its shelves upon shelves of boxes and plastic containers.

“Security pulled it for us once we identified the sword. Watch.”

The recording is of the deserted collection room for several moments, blurry and shrouded in shadows, the time blinking in the corner of the video as 3:30 a.m. Then, grainy white light floods the room, the main door swinging open to let in the hallway light.

Through the pixelated footage, Emma recognizes Killian as he strides into the room, confident as ever. He walks to the back of the room without hesitation, to a small area behind a chain link fence which reaches to the ceiling. He disappears off camera as he steps into the fenced-in area, but he’s only hidden for a few moments before he steps back into view.

In his hands, is a sheathed sword, its handle black and simple, apparent even in the poor footage. He removes it from the sheath, and holds it up to his eye level, admiring the blade. He then re-sheathes it and slips out of the room, the light fading from the room as the door swings shut behind him.

The video stops, and Emma stares at it, dumbfounded. There it is, plain as day. Evidence of Killian retrieving the sword.

But she shakes her head as she remembers her own visit to the Collection Room more clearly. “No, no, that’s not possible. Listen, I know he couldn’t have gotten the sword. It was checked out, I remember because I went and got his other stuff and saw it on the list.”

“The list?” Mulan frowns. “What list?”

“There was a list in the Collection Room, a list of each person’s items which weren’t allowed to be checked out, but his sword had a note that it was taken out. So he couldn’t have done it, because you needed special permission to get those restricted items out. I remember because I was –”

Emma trails off, because Mulan is watching her with a skeptical frown. She clearly doesn’t believe Emma, and after all, why would she? There’s video proof of Killian getting the sword himself.

Kristoff knocks on the door to the interview room then, opening it to show the water bottle and wrapped sandwich in his hand. “Here you are, Commander.”

“Perfect,” Mulan says, closing the laptop and striding towards him. “Thank you, officer.”

She’s already back in the hallway, food in hand, marching down to the Killian’s interview room, before Emma, still stunned by the video, springs into action.

She hurries out into the hallway and, before Mulan can open the door to re-join Killian, blocks her path. Killian may be her … well, Emma’s not sure if she could even call him a friend, but whatever he is, he’s her responsibility. Returnees are always given legal counsel if they require it for any reason, including an active criminal investigation whether they are defendant or plaintiff.

“Does he have a lawyer on their way?”

“No, he declined one.” 

Mulan says it calmly, but something about it is the last straw for Emma. The last twenty-four hours have nearly broken her – the video of Elsa, the knowledge that Gold is from the 1700s too, that magic is the most probable reason why all these people have shown up here, and now this: her … returnee arrested for murder and being questioned without legal counsel.

“He’s from the 1700s!” Emma shouts, and Mulan flinches in surprise. Even Killian glances over to the door, as if he heard her too. “Of course he declined one, I don’t know if they had lawyers back then. He has no idea about our laws or processes or anything. Killian doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into, he needs a lawyer!”

Mulan regards Emma quietly, and she shrugs. “Well, I’ll speak to him about it again, but I doubt he’ll change his mind.”

She opens the door with the food, and as she does, Emma leans slightly around her, to peer into the room. Killian is watching Mulan enter, stony-faced, but for a moment, a single moment before the door slams shut behind Mulan, he catches Emma’s eye.

If only magic was real; maybe she could send him a telepathic message to ask for a lawyer. But, Emma’s no magician, and the door swings shut, the breeze catching her in the face and rustling her hair. 

“Here,” Mulan says, her voice muffled by the door, and Emma hurries back to the other room, to the one-way glass so she can hear better. The other agents are glaring at her now with open hostility, but Emma ignores them, moving past them so she is standing directly in front of the one-way glass.

Mulan has resumed her seat, the water bottle and sandwich on the table between them, but Killian doesn’t move to reach for them.

“Listen,” she says, casting a pointed look to the one-way glass. “Before we talk anymore about this, I’m going to remind you one more time that you are allowed to have legal representation before speaking with me.”

Killian remains silent.

Mulan huffs a sigh. “Alright. Okay, so let’s go over this again, shall we?”

Killian leans forward, the handcuff chains jangling loudly against the steel table.  “Commander,” he says, intently staring now at her across the table. His tone has changed, the defensive snarls replaced with a charming lilt, soothing and persuasive. “You are a smart woman, smarter than those oafs who were in here before you. You know I didn’t do this. Even if I was so idiotic to kill a man I had met only a handful of times on the eve of being released from this prison, you know as well as I that any criminal worth their salt wouldn’t leave a bloody murder weapon tied to them and them alone near a massacred body should they hope to get away with the crime. Whoever did this wanted you to find that sword, to know that it was mine so you would come to me right away and keep me locked up here.”

Mulan narrows her eyes, and she asks, only half-jokingly, “So what? Someone is setting you up?”

Killian’s gaze flicks over to the door, to where he had seen Emma, before he shrugs, as if the suggestion is ludicrous. But it’s enough to clue Emma in.

Of course. He’s right, he has no motive to kill Jekyll. But someone else does. Someone else, who has something to lose if Killian is released from Storybrooke with the rest of the returnees.

Gold.

He must’ve seen them at the news conference, must know Killian would’ve told Emma everything about their history together. Know that, of course, Emma would try everything in her power to get Killian out of here before Gold could do anything like lock him up like he had always wanted to. So he moved faster, found a way to keep him here, in his grasp where he hopes to get the location of the mysterious object out of Killian, once and for all.

“Emma?” Kristoff asks, reaching out a hand to her in concern, and Emma realizes he and the FBI officers are staring at her.

She waves them away, realization and horror roaring in her ears as loud as thunder. She is still trying to process this, when in the interview room, Killian leans back in his chair, his expression dark and cold.

“Perhaps it is time I speak with an attorney.”

[fernnette]

fern’s (obnoxiously long) list of ships and otps—in absolutely no particular order, okay?

Evan Buckley and Eddie Diaz

This one should be obvious to ANYONE that has sought my trash blog out. You’re probably here because of Find You, so it’s only right that my first ship share is Buddie. Like my heart was weeping when I almost mentioned another ship first. What is wrong with me?

If you’re new to the 911 fandom or have no idea what the actual fuck I’m talking about, you should check it out. I’m a fan. There’s some drama with it that sucks, but otherwise I enjoy the SHOW—just want that fact to be clear...the show...

Evan ‘Buck’ Buckley is everything to me. He’s a little baby with a heart of gold and muscles that could crush you, though he’d never do that because he such a genuine person. He’s a self-diagnosed sex addict, loves kids and would die for a certain small child that wears glasses, and knows without a doubt he’s supposed to be a firefighter. He loves his chosen family at the one-eighteen more than anything, and he would do anything for the people he cares about. If there’s one person he’d sacrifice for over and over again, it’s Eddie. Thank you for your service, Firehose.

Edmundo ‘Eddie’ Diaz is dripping in charismatic, single-dad, I’m-a-Top energy twenty-four-seven. He’s hardened and guilt-ridden, maybe a little lonely in his perils as a single father, but he would do anything for his son, Christopher, which he proves time and time again. He’s a proud man with a past that’s shaped him into the man he is today. If you asked him, he isn’t saving Chris. Chris is saving him. He’s not the hero. Christopher is, and always will be to him. He’s made a home at the one-eighteen with his chosen family, and if there’s anyone he’d sacrifice for aside from Chris, it’s Buck.

Just best-fucking-friends, my asshole.

Fucking lovers, okay? These two are... Okay, you know when you read or watch a good friends-to-lovers trope, and it just flows so well. It’s natural and real, something palpable that you can’t imagine ever being another way. Buck and Eddie are like that. Such a natural progression from friends to best friends to lovers. Their lives are so intertwined and cemented together that it’s just right.

In season two, we see that ‘bromance’ come to life. Buck is fresh from a breakup, and Eddie is still mourning his crappy marriage thats kind of in the air. It’s almost like two magnets pulling together. Buck just throws himself into Eddie’s life, helping him care for Chris and being there when everything goes to shit.

In season three, it’s almost like catalyst that propels their relationship into canon for me. Like in season two we see that foundation being built. It’s realistic and necessary as they’re both grieving the loss of a relationship. But in season three, there’s tragedy and anger and raw emotions. There’s hurt and pain. Season three we see the beginning—the love they share for Chris, the trust between them. Then the eye of the storm—the lawsuit, the hurt feelings, the anger, the rawness of not having each other for the first time. Which is so necessary honestly. Relationships are hard, and more times than not, there is that hurricane of fucked-up-realness that humbles the parties involved. It comes in, throws things around,a nd disrupts the perfect harmony you’d gotten comfortable in.

The fighting storyline... I won’t say much about it. Just that it seemed...fitting. Eddie has a lot of anger. It doesn’t make sense for him to just fester with it. Maybe it was a little out of pocket, but the aggression he felt was fitting to the story. Thats what I liked, I guess.

Eddie Begins... listen to me, goddamn it! If Tim thinks for one fucking minute that Buck screaming and trying to dig Eddie out with his bare hands isn’t a segue way to love, i dont know what to fucking tell you except stop with the fucking baiting. Yes, totally think it’s right to be upset, but Buck was DIGGING WITH HIS BARE HANDS like a madman! I will never be okay. I cried. I wept like the fucking Buddie whore I am, okay. If you think Buck isn’t in love with Eddie or well on his way, you’re batshit insane and need to be committed.

IT’S THE NATURAL PROGRESSION OF THINGS.

Anyways, thanks for coming to my ted talk. This post was not supposed to be like this, but I got carried away. I’m not fucking sorry. I’m passionate. Jump off my dick.

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

whumptober day 1: restrained

i’m doing whumptober this year! slowly, but i’m going to try to do them all.

summary: dick wishes he were in an actual cage, or hanging from shackles in some dank basement. anything would be better than this.

warnings: some swearing, mentions of suicide. ostensibly set in comics-canon, but uh... set in a nebulous time-line that doesn’t really spoil anything other than the fact that damian is robin.

restrained

There are worse places to get stuck than the Wayne manor’s living room, Dick muses. At least he’s comfortable, people can come and visit him, and there’s limitless entertainment on the TV to distract him. He’s not in some dank basement hanging his entire weight from his arms, and he’s certainly not tied to a cold torture table or to a chair in the centre of a room that’s slowly flooding and he has to slips his knots before he drowns and is that a squid that’s trying to wrap itself around his face, what the fuck—

Okay, so Dick has had more than his share of weird and terrible experiences being tied up. Compared to them, this is a fucking holiday. 

“This is getting silly, Grayson,” Damian says, leaning against the entrance to the living room, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Has it only just, Dami,” Dick mutters. He’s lounging on the sofa, one arm over his eyes. He hasn’t moved from this position for at least a couple of hours. He isn’t sure if ‘moving’ is going to be on the agenda for the near future. He just can’t see the point. 

“Have you tried leaving again today? Maybe the—spell,” Dick imagines Damian’s mouth twisting, the tip of his nose pointing towards the ceiling, “has worn off by now.”

Dick grunts. The truth is, he hasn’t tried in a few days at least. The first few days he couldn’t stop throwing himself against the invisible barrier between this (goddamn fucking) living room and the rest of the world, even if it meant that each time it felt like he was being cut open and electrocuted. It was only a combination of Bruce and Jason bodily holding him back and his own body giving up on him, unable to process that much pain for that long, that made him stop. 

The family’s called in favours with Zatanna, Constantine, Doctor Fate, pretty much anyone who has even passing experience with magic and can figure out what’s going on and why it seemed like only Dick was trapped there. And until they can find a solution, Dick, well… 

I’ve had worse, he reminds himself again.

“That’s not an answer,” Damian says.

Dick bites back on an angry retort and turns so that he’s facing the backrest of the sofa. He means well, Dick thinks, but if he has to look at Damian’s half-concerned, half-contemptuous expression again he’s going to say something he will regret. Again. 

After a long moment, he hears Damian click his tongue against his teeth. “It’s a good thing you’re not in enemy territory, Grayson,” he says, before walking away, “where your utter lack of self-preservation might’ve ended up endangering someone else.”

And that’s the crux of the whole thing, isn’t it? If he’s in enemy hands he at least has a purpose, a readily identifiable objective, something to overcome. Here, he feels like a goldfish in a bowl, able to smell, hear and see freedom but never able to get there. Each little concession to his situation—from the portable toilet that Alfred’s dragged in there, to installing whatever gym equipment that can fit in the space, to the growing collection of books, blu-rays and multiple new streaming subscriptions—feels like a defeat to an invisible enemy he hasn’t even begun to fight.

(that he doesn’t know how to fight—)

He pulls his blanket over his shoulders, closes his eyes, and surprises himself by falling asleep almost immediately. 

-

Dick’s woken by the sound of alarms. He’s up on his feet and running towards the source of the sound before he can even put together a conscious thought; it sounds like somebody’s trying to gain unauthorised access into the Batcave, which can only mean--

He stops short when it feels like he’s run into a wall of electricity. His mind tips sideways, sparks filling his vision, nerves misfiring and his body convulsing in their wake. He falls to the floor, twitching, the impact digging bruises into his skin. He curls into a ball, his muscles taut and pulling impossibly tauter, drool seeping from a mouth that he can’t seem to close and screams locked inside a chest that he can’t seem to move.

The moment stretches for an eternity until it isn’t, and he heaves a shuddering breath. His vision clears enough to see Damian--in full Robin costume--crouched in front of him, pale and frowning. Jason’s standing behind him, shirtless and panting.

“Dick,” Damian says. His voice is small, and scared.

Dick should be trying to reassure him. He should be teasing him about using Dick instead of Grayson or Richard or any number of semi-fond insults. He should be trying to figure out which is way up, honestly, given the way the room is still spinning. Instead he says, “... the intruder?”

“My fault,” Jason says. “Tripped an alarm by mistake. But, Dick, you…”

Dick starts to push himself up on shaky arms. “I’m okay,” he says, even though his voice feels like it’s scraping through the gravel in his throat. “I must’ve gotten farther than I realised.”

Jason and Damian exchange looks.

“That’s the thing, Dick,” Jason says, after a long, silent moment. “You didn’t.”

That’s when Dick notices that he’s barely two feet away from the couch. 

“Oh,” he says.

-

Now that the circle’s started closing in around him, it doesn’t stop. Everyday, Dick discovers that the space that he can exist without pain that feels like his body is being flayed open with a machete is getting smaller and smaller. There’s a point where he can’t move from the couch, even to use the portable toilet--unless he wants to live inside it.

This is the point where he stops eating.

Family and friends come and go, reassuring, pleading, sometimes yelling at him to not give up. Dick wants to be grateful that he isn’t alone in this, but seeing the way they move in and out of the… cage that he’s in with no effort at all brings him to the verge of heart-pounding, dizzying panic. A large part of him is still unable to reconcile the wide open spaces he sees around him with his inability to… be in those spaces. An actual cage would probably be easier to deal with. 

(For a fraction of a moment, Dick considers asking Bruce to build him one. He can’t imagine that desire being treated as anything other than a joke, but he is well past the point of joking now.)

“We’re close to finding the solution,” Tim tells him fiercely. “I know it. That’s why the spell’s accelerating.”

Dick’s supposed to be the hopeful one, and yet it’s always Tim who’s reaching for even the slightest sliver of light and it’s always Dick who’s too afraid to believe him. The words I’ll die before that happens come unbidden to his mouth, but he doesn’t say them; for one, they would devastate Tim, who already looks a moment away from shattering, and two, would he really die? Or would he just be in this horrific pain for all of eternity? 

(would he be allowed to--)

Bruce spends an entire day sitting with him, talking about everything except Dick’s current predicament. He talks about old and new cases, about Damian’s newest addition to his bat-menagerie, about upgrading the Batmobile and the time Alfred tried to teach him to make Bechamel sauce and he ended up burning a perfectly good pan because for some reason when it came to cooking, he lost all sense of time and proportion. 

Dick appreciates the effort, and tries to participate, but at this point he thinks it would be a mercy to be left alone.

-

Dick can’t move. Even the slightest slump in his posture means his muscles seize up in agony, forcing him to find a position that hurts the least and… stay that way. He can’t speak. He can barely breathe.

Damian’s taken to cuddling next to him, bereft of his last shred of self-consciousness. He doesn’t look at Dick, but tucks his head under Dick’s chin, arms wrapped around his chest. The steady stream of visitors has trickled down to just his family, who move around him, silent, slow and haggard. They’re close to giving up, he realises. They’re so close to letting him--letting him--

No. Now that the moment’s here, Dick finds he’s not even remotely ready. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to die!

He tries to speak, but the slightest movement of his jaw shoots white hot pain down his neck and spine, and all he can manage is a whimper.

Bruce crouches in front of him until his face is level with Dick’s. “It’s okay, Dick,” he says. “This will be over soon.”

Dick blinks, tears slipping down his face to soak into Damian’s hair.

[snarkwrites]

-- masterlist -- archived, 2020

[18+ advised ] This is going to be long af. I’m going to do my best to put everything - all my writing on this blog, in one goddamn place, but I make no promises, so forgive me in advance. Below the cut is everything I’ve written and posted, for every single fandom I’ve written for so far. If [mature] or [suggestive] is present in the title/post, 18+ only. If you’re looin for y/n here, you won’t really  find it. I prefer to use oc’s in writing most of the time because it’s easier for me.

** the titles in bold and not linked I either haven’t written or I’ve lost the link for. jsyk. I do that so that when/if I get around to writing something, it’s already got a place. It’s weird, I’m weird.**

If you want to be on the taglist for my writing, you can find that [here]. If you want to know what I write / how often I write and stuff like that, my faq/about post is [here]

--𝔸𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕟 ℍ𝕠𝕣𝕣𝕠𝕣 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

[ 1984 ]

 xavier plympton - cherry popped | spring | mature.

--ℂ𝕊𝕀

[ Miami ]

eric delko - tba | fall/winter | mature.

tim speedle - perfect | spring | mature.

[ Vegas ]

greg sanders - tba | fall/winter | mature.

-- 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕧𝕖𝕝 ℂ𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕔 𝕌𝕟𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕖

[ Avengers ]

bucky barnes - slippery when wet | winter | mature.

captain america - choke me | winter | suggestive.

pietro maximoff - faster, baby | spring | mature.

[ Guardians Of The Galaxy ] 

starlord - eat me | spring | mature.

[ Venom ]

eddie brock - milf isn’t a bad word | spring | mature.

-- ℝ𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕕𝕒𝕝𝕖

archie andrews - tba | summer/fall | mature.

jughead jones - tba | summer/fall | mature.

reggie mantle - yours  | summer | mature.

sweet pea - selfish | summer | mature.

--𝕊𝕠𝕟𝕤 𝕆𝕗 𝔸𝕟𝕒𝕣𝕔𝕙𝕪

juice ortiz - needed me | spring | mature.

--𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕖𝕣 𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤

billy hargrove - tba | summer/fall | mature.

jonathan byers - surrender | summer | mature.

steve harrington - wet | summer | mature.

steve harrington - disaster | summer | mature.

--𝕊𝕦𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕒𝕝

dean winchester - tba | summer/fall | mature.

kevin tran - tba | fall / winter | suggestive.

sam winchester - tba | summer/fall | mature.

-- 𝕋𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥

embry call - tba | summer/fall | mature.

jacob black - found you | spring | mature.

paul lahote - tba | summer/fall | mature.

-- 𝔽𝕣𝕚𝕕𝕒𝕪 ℕ𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕃𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕤

matt saracen, remember you young by thomas rhett | angst & fluff / reunion

-- 𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕖𝕣 𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤

jonathan byers, i think i love you | fluff. two best friends admitting their feelings for each other. an au take on my oc pairing with Steve Harrington, so an au of an au oops rip.

steve harrington, blindsided | fluff and awkward cute first kisses,ftw.

-- 𝟙𝟚 ℝ𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕕𝕤 𝟛: 𝕃𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕕𝕠𝕨𝕟

jon shaw - galentines / be my valentine - ex lovers, drinking tw, intense fluff.

-- 𝔸𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕟 ℍ𝕠𝕣𝕣𝕠𝕣 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

[ Apocalypse ]

michael langdon - moon dance - a witch and her dance under the moon captivates Michael Langdon. sexual tension, ftw.

-- 𝔸𝕣𝕣𝕠𝕨𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕖

[ Legends Of Tomorrow ]

ray palmer - back where you came from - time travel, mutual crushes

ray palmer - bachlorette party gone wrong or right - flirty first meeting at a bachelor party

ray palmer - villainesses want heroes - a good guy with a bad girl? more likely than you think. 

-- ℂ𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕝𝕖 ℝ𝕠𝕔𝕜

 dennis zalewski - photo booth montage - angst / hurt comfort, major character death & mourning, ghosts.

the kid / henry deaver - you were different - alternate universe personas reunite, intense makeout ensues.

--𝔻ℂ ℂ𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕔

[ Suicide Squad ] 

captain boomerang - expecting someone taller - first date / blind date.

-- 𝔽𝕣𝕚𝕕𝕒𝕪 ℕ𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕃𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕤

 landry clarke - if i only had a brain | someday my prince will come - tutor turned friend turned crush. kissing and stuff.

tim riggins - wedding bell blues | so this is love - a wedding brings two people closer and the end result is Riggins, settling down.

tim riggins - voice like honey - tim flirting with a new girl in Dillon? the chances are more likely than you think.

-- 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕧𝕖𝕝 ℂ𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕔

[ Avengers ] 

bucky barnes - girls,girls,girls - bucky’s omega likes to dance. and to offer herself up as bait. bucky doesn’t like this... intense heated conversation ensues.

captain america - no selfies in the bathroom please? - oh, nothing but Steve Rogers and an OC flirting over the phone. Innuendo towards the end if you squint.

[ Punisher]

 frank castle - patient of the week - patching up Frank isn’t the only thing she longs to do. A kiss is shared.

-- 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕖𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕤

lip gallagher - wedding crasher | the nanny and the professor - lip and his girl and their ups and downs. They go from him crashing her wedding drunk to the two having a night of domestic bliss.. and a kid. mildly suggestive the second part is.

-- 𝕊𝕠𝕟𝕤 𝕆𝕗 𝔸𝕟𝕒𝕣𝕔𝕙𝕪

juice ortiz - crow flies | rough rider | treat you as good as my leather - snippets from the relationship between juice and my OC, Hazel Teller.

juice ortiz - glass houses | throwing stones - more from relationship between Juice Ortiz and Hazel Teller, tbh. 

-- 𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕖𝕣 𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤

billy hargrove - let the days go by - flashbacks to a first meeting as an OC mourns Billy’s supposed death post S3.

jonathan byers - should’ve been a better shot - Tommy H’s girlfriend (not Carol, an oc) is getting more than a little sick of being Tommy’s property. Kissing Jonathan Byers seems like a good way to end that and to let jonathan know that she likes him a lot. Fluff/humor, warnings of Tommy H being his usual asshole douchenozzle self.

steve harrington - glass houses | throwing stones, this is set in the now main au timeline I have for Steve Harrington and my original character Charlotte Granger.

-- 𝕊𝕦𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕒𝕝

crowley - the witching hour - just a father/daughter heart to heart with Poppy. family bonding ftw. [ goes with pop goes my heart tangentially]

dean winchester - pop goes my heart - poppy gets under his skin in all the wrong ways AND all the right ones. 

dean winchester - gingerbread family - the boys find themselves waking up to Christmas as a totally normal family. How will they react to the things they find themselves able to do at last?

sam winchester - heaven knows - his guardian angel only wanted to protect him. now she’s been banished to earth and she’s mortal. and they wind up flirting / getting closer.

sam winchester - candy apple kisses | gingerbread family - sam never forgot about her. maybe that’s why as a result of a wish he and dean may or may not have both made, he wakes up to find himself married to her.

-- 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕎𝕒𝕝𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕕

[ The following ones are all part of this huuuuge everchanging universe/storyline that I have with BOTH men, for my OC Evie. In some, she’s with Daryl, in others, Shane. They’re all wildly canon divergent and all over the place, lmao.]

daryl dixon - watch the world burn [married au] | a vision from a sugarplum fairy | garden by the sea  - a series of alternate takes / twists and moments between my OC Evie Grimes and Daryl Dixon.

shane walsh - scream queen [reunited lovers au] | sweet morning rose | you and your high horse - a series of alternate takes/twists and moments between my OC Evie Grimes and Shane Walsh.

-- 𝕋𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥

jacob black, one day more, angst | 

-- ℂ𝕣𝕚𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕒𝕝 𝕄𝕚𝕟𝕕𝕤

derek morgan x -being roommates with | 

-- 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕧𝕖𝕝 ℂ𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕔 𝕌𝕟𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕖

sam wilson / falcon x - dating falcon | 

CSI MIAMI;

tim speedle [ d m y ] | [ b o u ] | [ c e k ] | j w x | l f | 

STAR WARS;

kylo ren [ k l r ] | 

CSI: Las Vegas;

t r o u b l e | greg sanders x Sidle!Sibling OFC, Belle | genres : suspense/action, romance / fluff, hurt comfort, angst, slow burn | chapters : [ one | two | three pt1| three pt2 | four | five | soundtrack: here | warnings: slow burn, attempted murder tw, murder mentions / crime mentions tw, eventual smut/sexual content tw, [ discontinued to be rewritten ]

CSI:Miami;

m i n e | tim speedle x former lover!OFC, Sylvie | genres : suspense/action, romance/fluff, hurt comfort, angst, slow burn | chapters : [ one two pt 1 two pt 2 three three pt 2 ] | soundtrack: here | warnings: slow burn, crime / stalker tw, other themes and eventual smut/sexual content tw, [discontinued to be rewritten]

Riverdale;

gangsta | sweetpea x Andrews!SiblingOFC, Alyssa | genres: teen angst - drama, suspense, hurt comfort, romance, slow burn | chapters: one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten- eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen - | soundtrack: here | warnings: fighting / swearing, sexual tension, awkward situations & eventual smut.. your typical high school overdramatic bs. Bit of an au because I only plan to loosely follow the series. | [ discontinued to be rewritten ]

Sons Of Anarchy;

home | juice ortiz x Teller!OFC, Hazelynn | genres: action / suspense, hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn, romance, smut | chapters: one - two - three - | soundtrack: here | warnings: slow burn, heavy sexual tension, violence and other adult themes, alcohol / drugs / illegal activities, sex worker ofc tw, sexual content eventually | [ being rewritten to be reposted soonish ]

Stranger Things;

upside down | steve harrington x OFC, Jenny | genres: teen angst - drama, suspense, hurt comfort, friendship, fluff, action, | chapters: one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - | soundtrack: here | warnings: fighting / swearing, sexual tension, awkward situations & eventual smut... your typical high school drama + science fiction-y type misadventures,lmaoo. | [discontinued to be rewritten]