#trying to grapple with present tense in long form

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Gaz and Soap use Nikolai as attitude adjustment.

cw: canon typical violence, mild sexual content towards the end.

If Gaz and Soap really want to humble a new trooper that's got a bit arrogant, they won't escalate them to Ghost or Price, because any fresh recruit would expect to be obliterated by fully trained operators at some point during their training; it would be viewed as a privilege to be crushed by the one and only Bravo Six, and Ghost is legendary.

Instead, they put them in a room with Nikolai.

It was Gaz's idea originally. Nik isn't SAS, he's precisely the type of unhinged, formidable opponent these little fucks are going to have to face in the field. In fact, he was one life decision away from being one of their actual enemies. Every time Soap and Gaz have to go toe to toe with the Russians they're sure to thank whatever higher power that they haven't got Nikolai running rings around them rather than waiting to bail them out.

They have one particular scrote who has been pissing them off all week. He thinks he's Billy Big Bollocks and, while he follows the letter of an order, he always likes to think he knows best and... interpret. The sergeants told him to focus on endurance and cardio in his workouts and he continued to build strength, he navigated a river crossing wrong and ended up stranding his crew. Lots of little things that mean if he doesn't shape up then he's gonna fail.

Gaz and Soap take him, and the friends that are beginning to get ideas, to Nik's hanger where he's working.

"Nik, fall in," Gaz calls at the Black Hawk.

Nik drops from the top of the heli where he was doing some maintenance on the main rotary engine, and Soap has to work hard to keep his face serious, because fuck does Nik play his part well.

He's shirtless, sweating from the exertion of turning the big wrench in his hand, and there's grease spattered on his stomach, up his arms. That gold chain really tops off the look, nestled in the fur on his chest, and he looks every bit the Russian mobster. Gaz can see why the captain thirsts so much.

(Not that there's anything wrong with that, sir. You hit that, uh... man, umm..)

"Sergeants," Nik greets them respectfully, and then those dark eyes turn to the trooper standing at their side. To his credit, the kid squares his shoulders and meets Nik's eyes, which is a pretty big ask given Nik's reputation on base. "Between one and ten?" Nik asks, still the very picture of affable civility.

"Four," Soap says, pulling a baton and a coil of rope from his belt. He throws them both to the floor in front of the trooper they've brought for a lesson in respect and listening skills. "Subdue and apprehend."

"What?" The trooper asks, stunned.

"Subdue and apprehend the target," Soap repeats, and then juts his chin after Nikolai. "'E's yer target."

Nik places his wrench down and uses the rag on his workbench to wipe his hands. He is completely unarmed, dressed only in his combat trousers, belted low on his hips, and boots. He glances at the baton and rope on the floor, and then to his intended adversary. "When you are ready, comrade."

The trooper picks up his weapon, glances at his sergeants, the rest of his troop and then flicks the baton out. Nik stands there placidly, hands down by his sides as he flicks his fingers in a little come on gesture. The trooper runs in.

The slap Nikolai lands across the lad's face echoes around the hanger. Even Gaz and Soap grimace, while the other two troopers flinch, their shoulders rising around their ears. The trooper recovers after being forced into the work bench with the force, and leans in for a swing to the gut, which Nik swerves, shoving the incoming shoulder down.

With each failed or blocked attack, Nik retaliates with precision, administering openhanded slaps to the jaw, shoving away or ducking poorly timed swings, before landing a gut punch and then swiping the trooper's boots out from under him. The lad recovers with a decent enough roll and dives in for another, but Nik grabs his shirt and slams him into the side of the Black Hawk. He makes it look easy.

The trooper groans and staggers. Nik growls, irritated. "Pochemi ty tebya ne perestat vyyobyvat’sya, eh?"

"I wouldnae take tha' rookie, he called yer ma a bitch," Soap calls over.

Gaz huffs. "No he didn't."

Soap shrugs then forms his mouth into a grimacing 'ooh' when Nik lands a knee to the bollocks, proceeding to dissect their trainee's defences with brutal efficiency now that he had run out of patience. He grabs the wrist holding the baton, twists and throws his opponent like he's nought but a cheap stuffed toy from the local carnival.

When the lad scrambles to his feet, now without defence, Nik is already waiting with a right hook that sends him down to his knee and three swift kicks to the ribs that takes him the rest of the way to the floor.

Nik rests a boot on the trooper's face, and reaches for the spanner on his workbench. Gaz clears his throat, flashing four fingers with a single shake of the head to remind Nik of the agreed scale, and Nik nods, lifting his hands apologetically before clasping them before his hips. He tuts down at his felled opponent. "Ah, it appears you have been killed, comrade. A shame."

Soap swaggers over, his hands tucked inside his carrier vest, and crouches down by his trainee's head. "An' that was him at a four. Can ye imagine wha' 'e woulda done to ye at ten, eh, hen?" Soaps answer is a groan and a gurgle.

"Nikolai!"

Soap stands abruptly, Gaz straightens and the two intact troopers smack their boots together, backs rigid. Nik looks up more leisurely, his placid, Labrador eyes, now empty of malice, settle on Captain Price, who stands in the shadows of the hanger door, his arms folded. "That's quite enough. I think Reynolds has learned his lesson. Let 'im up."

Nik steps back and tucks his hands behind his back. The way he stands at ease reminds Gaz and Soap that their favourite Russian arms dealer used to wear a uniform instead of a leather jacket, and they're again thankful he bats for their team. Ha, in more ways than one, as it goes.

Reynolds climbs to his feet slowly and rejoins his mates as Gaz dismisses them.

"Get them to mess. It's dinnertime," Price says to his two sergeants, and then looks at Nik. "My office."

Someone unfamiliar with the captain might have missed the way he looked Nik up and down before he turned his back, from scruffy boots to sweating, grease-slick chest, his blue eyes aflame like pilot lights in a bloody gas boiler, but Gaz didn't. He smirks as Nik swaggers past, his jacket slung over his bare shoulder. "You dog," Gaz mutters.

Nik winks at him before he disappears with the - his - captain.

"Really?" Price asks, with a kind of tired exasperation, as they step across the threshold into the pokey little cubby hole he occupies on base.

"I was teaching," Nik says, shoulders rolling in a shrug.

"Yer take far too much joy in slappin' 'round my soldiers, Nik." Price leans against his desk, arms folded, his eyes raking over Nik's body with a white hot desire roiling in his gut.

"You must enjoy your work to perform it to a high standard." Nik strolls up into Price's personal space like he belongs there, nudging the captain's boots apart to make room, gaze dropping to his crotch. "And, perhaps, you enjoy my work too?"

Price chuckles low in his throat. "Yer sick bastard," he growls, reaching to wind his hand through that golden chain and yank Nik down.

The kiss is fierce, tongue licking possessively into Nik's mouth as Nik slots between his legs. Nik's filthy hands find Price's waist and then slide down to his arse for a greedy squeeze, moving to Price's thighs when his knees hook up and over Nik's hips.

"Hng, bloody 'ell, get those fuckin' kecks down and fuck me," Price snarls, still keeping Nik in place by his chain even as he yanks open his belt and fly.

Nik had wanted to finish his repairs, but railing Price over his desk when he looks about ready to devour him feels like a far better use of his time.

[spectersgirl]

if ur taking requests!! harvey and reader getting into a heated argument and harvey being his usual self takes it too far by saying something he didn’t mean and it ends up real angsty but then they make up somehow cuz i don’t like sad endings lol

if ur not don’t worry abt it :)

I'm always taking requests! I may not do them but I'm always taking them 🤪

Regret

Harvey Specter x Reader

--------

The New York skyline really was beautiful, and maybe you could've appreciated it if you were standing in Harvey's office under different circumstances.

The air crackled with tension as you and Harvey fought, the biggest fight you'd had in your entire relationship.

"You can't just bulldoze your way through everything, Harvey!" your voice cut through the silence, blazing with frustration. "One day you'll realize you need to listen to others instead of assuming you have all the answers, and it'll be too late."

Harvey's features hardened, his gaze unwavering as he spoke coldly. "And sometimes, you need to understand that this is how it works. I've been doing this a hell of a lot longer than you have. You don't get to lecture me on how to handle my cases, if I wanted your opinion I would've asked."

The words, sharper than intended, hung heavy in the air leaving a bitter taste in both your and Harvey's mouths. You tried your best to hide it, but he saw the flicker of hurt that flashed across your face, a mix of betrayal and anguish clouding your expression.

"You know what, Harvey? Maybe you're right. Maybe I shouldn't bother trying to help if you're just going to throw it back in my face," you replied, your voice trembling ever so slightly with restrained emotion.

For a moment, regret crossed Harvey's eyes, but his pride took over once more, replacing the regret with a coldness. "Fine. Maybe it's better this way."

The harshness in his words reverberated, a feeling of finality rippling through the room. You hated this, but there was nothing left for you to say. You stormed out, leaving him with nothing but the click of your heels on the tile floor. The door sealing shut made Harvey sigh, immediate regret over his words hitting him like a wave.

The hours that followed were agonizingly slow, each minute dragging on as Harvey remained seated at his desk, getting nothing done as the weight of his own words bore down on him. His usual confidence faltered as he replayed every word of the argument in his mind, grappling with the realization that his pride had cost him the most important thing he'd ever known. He swirled a glass of whiskey he'd poured absentmindedly.

It wasn't until a soft, hesitant knock broke the silence in his office that Harvey stirred from his thoughts. you stood at the threshold, your shoulders tense and eyes glistening with tears. He saw every emotion you felt plain as day on your face, and his heart lurched.

"Y/N, I didn't mean what I said," Harvey began, but you raised a hand, interrupting him.

"I know you didn't. And neither did I," you admitted, your voice cracking with vulnerability.

A fragile silence loomed, a moment of uncertain energy between you, before Harvey closed the distance, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice laced with genuine remorse. "I'm so, so sorry."

You nodded, hugging him back and resting your head on his chest, the tension evaporating as you both relaxed for the first time that day. "I am too."

Harvey gently pulled away, cupping your face with a tenderness that said everything he didn't know how to. "We make a good team, you and I. I can't lose that."

A small smile formed on your lips, unable to hide the fact that you shared the sentiment. "Me either, Harvey."

With this admission, he gently leaned down to kiss your lips, a longing present there as you kissed back.

[buckleydiazmp4]

okay so. episode 6 huh

- we open with such an important conversation and it's so. simple. few words exchanged. and yet. it's so monumental. the body language, the lack of eye contact, the casually passing the bottle between them. little insults in a tone we had never heard izzy speak to ed in. tired of his bullshit and not afraid of showing it. but also not pushing it the way he did when he was trying to bring Blackbeard back. just tired.

- don't even get me started on the "sorry for your leg". one phrase and it contains multitudes. in the way he says it so flatly and quickly, almost exaggeratedly so, like he's trying to subtly run away from his own words.

- which brings me to. the guilt. guilt everywhere, stored in a room in the form of treasure, in the long stares, in the immediate shock after a ruthless kill. it weighs on them like lead.

- and yet all of this is cushioned by softness?? by events that seem pulled out from a sitcom special?? dancing and drinking and bonding. izzy doing drag and singing his heart out?!?!? while everyone else stares in awe and cheers him on and dances softly to the tune????

- it drowns out the truly grim stuff that is to come, almost uncanny valley-ish, the way we can get so focused on the found family of it all that the ned low torture plan and the ricky and zheng yi sao alliance and stede purposefully killing a man are just easy to dismiss as something to worry about later??? instead of the way these tense moments have been presented with more urgency in the past??

- i mean there's a whole sequence that feels like a bit from the office, and it's such a Gentleman Pirate™ fuckery that you simply don't expect the next few moments to be about stede grappling with the fact that he just threw a man overboard out of his own volition

- so like?? the moment after it all. when ed expects to have an open conversation with stede about it. and then he's met with something else entirely. was it the right moment?? maybe for them it was, maybe it's just a way to rationalize everything else?? it's so complicated to navigate and yet!! it's such a poignant moment that they've been building anticipation for that when it finally happens the circumstances stop mattering for at least a second and it feels like floating on air!!

[justfor2am]

(i couldn't help myself)

(also yes there's a cut this got so long lmao i promise it gets fluffy)

There were times in those years of sprawling chaos that Scar forgot he had a voice.

It happened often, first days into weeks, and eventually months without saying a word. In the early days he couldn't help the occasional yelp of fear or muttered frustration, but those accidents always ended up costing him.

Years in a world by yourself with nothing but monsters for company will teach you the value in silence. So much so that when finally the hoard grew too many, and he couldn't manage another culling with his aching bones, Scar died without so much as a squeak.

His voice was locked inside his mind, screaming for someone to save him, but there was no sound that came from his throat.

Then again, his death only meant that he was taken from that world, but his code was by no means broken. He would have to find a place to start anew.

The void took one look at him, a once mischievous, talkative Player that had grown subdued and mute from years of fighting, and offered him mercy.

That mercy took form in the shape of a new server. One without health locks, rich in respawns and golden carrots and potions a plenty. Somewhere safe, a forever home.

Scar was silent before the Admin, scribbling out in chicken scratch that he didn't want to talk. (Not that he could, his vocal cords were so under used that even a normal room volume voice would be painful to muster up.)

It was hard to believe that here you could make noise all the day long and be safe by the end of it. Sure, this world had it's own monsters to grapple with, but these zombies were slow, and burned in the daylight.

Weapons and armor were much easier to come by too, though the only projectiles allowed were a bow and arrow. (A considerable oversight, in Scar's opinion.) But a diamond sword with sweeping edge and flame enchanted to it was more than enough to help him get by.

Enchanting was new to Scar as well, and he fascinated himself with the magic of this place.

He was sociable to a degree in those early days; more Players together meant more noise, but it also meant more supplies, a night watch, and someone to pass the time with. So, as quiet as he was, Scar made his way across the server with a journal and a beaming smile, trying to make allies as far as the world could reach.

Scar loved how wasteful these Players were, constructing grand monuments and intricate, sprawling gardens just for the fun of it. He envied their ease with using valuable things carelessly, how generous they were with rare things like diamond and gold, and how their homes were designed for comfort and fun, not dull, grey fortresses for safety.

He started to let his own creative gears whirl once more, and Scar had forgotten how much fun it was to open a fresh blueprint and drag a pencil across new paper. He made his own mark amongst these Players, and they delighted in his wastefulness, too.

And when comfort turned him soft, his ribs no longer jutting out harsh against his skin, his face full and pink again, his body gradually grew less tense. Without the constant adrenaline of death hanging over his head, Scar was free to be clumsy. While initially embarrassing for someone coming from a hardcore world, it wasn't as though anyone knew that part of himself.

All the other Players knew was Scar was still a bit new, he turned a little green in the eyes when offered something rare, and he was mute. None of this seemed to bother them, so Scar accepted the fact that his awkward gait would be welcomed, too.

As time dragged on, and those first few days turned into years, Scar remembered what it felt like to laugh. A quiet, muffled giggle, but a laugh all the time. His voice was rough and worn, and he couldn't make a sound above a whisper, but it brought him so much joy to make noise again.

There had been times he had feared silence would be his forever reality.

These things and more combined bring us to the present, a new season with new friends and a whole other sever to explore. Scar spent his time in between seasons planning his new builds, yes, but also talking.

Granted, he was only talking to his cat, but that was a big deal for him. The rare times he uttered more than two words at once was always cause for celebration, but in between season five and six, Scar set himself and his slowly returning voice a goal: to mess with as many people as he could.

And with a brand new Player on their world, it could not have been a more perfect opportunity.

(But not before Scar faced a very embarrassing death drowning in shallow water.)

After insisting in the chat that Scar pop over to Grian's base to give a thank you gift for saving his things, Scar packed up a few early game gems: iron and gold and all the wood logs he could carry.

Scar fumbled his way into Grian's remodeled shipwreck, giving a broad smile and wave once he was inside. The two sat down in the rather cramped base together, Scar passing over items and Grian making idle small talk.

Once his hands were free, Scar finger spelled the word M-U-T-E and pointed to himself. At best most people could pick out a few letters, and he wasn't expecting a British person to know the American form of sign language.

"Ohh, right, X did mention that during introductions," Grian affirmed, nodding along. "I'm sorry I don't really know any sign language, I can pick out the alphabet if you go slowly though."

Scar waved him off, at this rate that was the least of his worries. (His normal spelling was atrocious at times, forget sign language.) Ever prepared for his master trick, he pulled out his journal and scribbled Grian a note.

I usually write things to people, so you're fine! But I've been here for about three seasons now so don't expect me to be chatty anytime soon :)

"Got it," Grian said, and the two shared another hour or so together, Grian filling the air with noise and Scar scribbling notes as fast as he could. (It was a good way to guilt the other hermits into learning ASL anyways.)

Once Scar was certain Grian was comfortable, he made his way to leave, standing up and making a whole show of reaching the bubble elevator exit. He knocked on the wood pillar to catch Grian's eye one last time, and Grian glanced over at him with a slightly confused look. "Everything alright, Scar?"

His teeth bared in a wicked grin, Scar cleared his throat. In a low, gravely voice, he muttered, "no one will ever believe you."

Grian's jaw fell slack, and he gave him a look of disbelief. "I'm— wait, sorry, I just— you can talk?!"

Scar coughed, grinning all the same. "A little," he said, pinching his fingers together. He signed a quick G-O-O-D-B-Y-E, before stepping back into the bubble column, letting the air push him upwards until he broke the water.

He swam back to shore, a warm laugh rumbling in his chest the whole way there.

Here have a fluffier idea to compensate for all the angst (beware its still got a bit of sadness):

When Scar was in TCD he started to learn that silence was the key for survival, So when he firsts joins HC he doesn't realize he even can speak without thousands of zombies attacking him,

Now imagine someone hearing him speak for the first time,

"MUMBO I'M TELLING YOU, HE'S AMERCIAN"

"X literally nobody can know that"

Then he realizes the hermits think he doesn't speak at all, And using it to play tricks on them, Imagine the convex sneaking up on a hermit, And Scar simply saying "Nobody will believe you,"

This goes on for months, Until every hermit actually knows he can speak,

IFHASDGFUD ZGB YESS OMGGG

[lightsinthedistancee]

Under the Cover of War: FO!Poe Dameron x Resistance!Reader

Pairing: FO!Poe Dameron x Resistance!Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Summary: “‘Let’s go,’ he murmurs. ‘Let’s run.’ His gaze is fixed on you, begging for this. He needs you—he needs you to be there for him so that he has a place in the galaxy, a place he would never have otherwise. ‘Please.’”

Following the destruction of the Hosnian System, a promise and a dire decision are made by you and Poe.

Warnings: Language

“Why?”

The single word is clipped, volatile, dangerously soft in nature. It’s a question, a plead, an accusation, all at once. It seems to scream in the silence, to imply a million other queries that Poe doesn’t want to answer.

He simply remains quiet as he stares at your back turned to him. You sit on the edge of the bed, breath shaking, refusing to even look at him.

He inhales, blinking rapidly. “Sweetheart—“

“Why?” This time, it’s a scream. The sound is ragged, painful, your voice cracking. It makes him flinch, makes him draw into himself.

The loud cry echoes, disintegrates as the seconds pass.

He wishes he could transport himself back to five minutes ago, before either of your holos had rung. Before the First Order had reported a victory to him, before the Resistance had reported a devastating, unfathomable loss to you.

He wants to return to when he’d laid beside you, running his fingers down your sides, when the memory of pressing you into the sheets was still fresh in his mind.

But somehow he knows that whatever the two of you have will never return in any way.

“How could you?” you whisper, the shock of five of the galaxy’s most populous planets being obliterated in mere minutes still in the process of shattering you to pieces.

Poe wants to shrink into the air, disappear in moments. He knows you’re crying, that you can’t handle it. He’d be lying if he said he himself was handling it at all.

“I…I don’t know what happened.” He stares at the sheets, tears running down his own face. He can’t imagine it. The deaths of tens of trillions. Their screams, the pain they must have felt in the blinding light of imminent death.

Your hands tighten into fists as you shake. Your form is locked in tension, perhaps about to abruptly turn around and strike him, perhaps about to break and collapse into a distraught pile of bone and flesh. “You’re a liar.”

The words are akin to a strike itself. He near hisses, unstable in his new knowledge. “Why the fuck would they tell me? I’m not even a colonel.” His volume rises, swirling in the atmosphere, ready to completely burst free. “I didn’t have a damn thing to do with it—“

“But you certainly have something to do with those who ordered it!” You finally turn to him. You’re livid. Eyes red with tears, lips in a tight line, a glare that threatens to break him.

And your statement is not something he can deny. He deflates, silent. He can feel your eyes on him expectantly, but nothing comes.

When enough time passes, you stand from the bed, grabbing your things from the bedside table. As your fingers delicately wrap around the blaster you regularly carry around, he briefly thinks that perhaps you’re about to turn around and shoot him.

But you don’t, and something new finds home beside your anger: a heartbreaking sense of disappointment.

It’s on instinct when his hand shoots out, grasping your arm. “No, wait…please. Don’t go,” he says quietly.

You’re all he has. There’s nothing more to say other than that. Life in the Order is a cold one, always has been. While he may not agree with the side you’ve chosen, you’re the sole warmth in his life, the sole radiant light.

You jerk in his grip, but he tightens it, eyes unashamedly pleading with you, begging you to not leave him.

Even in the place you always meet him, buried beneath layers of rock, surrounded by passages of clandestine activity necessary in your illicitness, his meetings with you never fail to be the only times he’s truly happy.

“Please…,” he pleads once more, thumb running over your knuckles.

A debate takes place on your features, and he can read you better than he can anyone else. He’s the person you’d let into your heart, the person you’d revealed every personal secret to. He’s the one who’d whispered ‘I love you’ one fateful night, the one to whom you’d whispered it back. He’s the one that had challenged your blind loyalty to any ideology, the one to whom you’d done the same.

He can see all those things viciously, ruthlessly grappling with the horrifying events that had just transpired: bodies being ripped to shreds, building being reduced to dust, life being annihilated in fire.

And in an act of emotional obscurity, the two opponents are shockingly close.

It’s evident which wins out when you limply fall back to the bed, body slumping to lie down, eyes tiredly closed.

“Then tell me why,” you whisper, barely audible.

“Why what?”

“I want to know why you joined the people who did…this.”

And at that simple request, he feels his walls rise. Even if they’d fallen long ago when he was around you, they’d never truly disappeared.

“I thought we don’t talk about stuff like that,” says Poe quietly.

“Well, I changed my fucking mind.”

He gazes around the room, reminded of the sole thing that prevents full, unconditional commitment to the other. The space they are in is a brutal reminder of the fact, for it presents itself in sets of two, an embodiment of duality.

Two blasters on top of the bedside table. One polished and new, the other dull and thoroughly used.

Two sets of boots clumsily scattered by the door. One shiny, lacking a single scuff mark, one that’s appearance suggests it’s been passed through several owners.

Two jackets. One with the hexagonal, sixteen-rayed symbol of the First Order, one with the starbird of the Resistance.

It’s a glaringly horrid representation of the two of you, never destined to be the same.

“Did your tongue also vanish along with the five planets?”

He slowly comes back to the present with your words, forcing away his disconnect.

It’s not something he can afford right now. Maintaining his privacy, hiding the events of his past, concealing the cause of his motives—he can’t afford any of that if he wants you.

And somehow, all he does want is you. You, you, you—to the point that he wonders if it’s unhealthy, if it’s even real and true, but that’s something he refuses to consider in the moment.

Even though you’d seen some of the darkness through him, he is certain that your loyalty to light is stronger, if only marginally, and that means he has to tell. He has to reveal.

“My mother,” he simply says, gaze unfocused. “She was a rebel pilot. She died.”

The slight stirring of your body freezes. He’d never talked of his family’s loyalties; he’d always given the impression that they’d passively existed in the deluge of light and dark that had overtaken the galaxy.

“She’s why I joined.” He flinches at the memory, grimacing at the pain he’d felt as a boy. “She died because of rebellion recklessness. Because of belief in blind hope.”

The anger—it’s simmering once more, bubbling higher, inching further and further to the edge of his chest.

And he can tell yours is too. Your fingers grip at the sheets as your eyes narrow. “Reckless…blind…hope?” He’s questioning your belief, accusing it of something dangerously irrational, and you yearn to lash back on instinct, to defend the beliefs you’d lived your life by—even as your own doubts of it conceal themselves in the background.

He laughs bitterly, his voice rising again. “Don’t kid yourself. That’s what the New Republic lived off of, and it was a fucking mess.”

You tense up, practically shrieking your next words, wholly, viciously attacking him back. “Who are you to say that—“

“There were people revolting in the streets!” he yells, his voice perhaps even louder than yours had been. “There were people in the Outer Rim starving! It was chaos—“

“And the First Order is what? Orderly?”

“They’re better than you and your—“

And he falls silent all of a sudden. He stops himself.

He knows where this is going. It’d happened and been resolved before, but he has a sneaking suspicion that that won’t be the case if the two of you continue down this road.

“Fuck,” he groans under his breath, his back slumped as he rubs his face with his hands.

“Me and my what?” you ask quietly.

He just shakes his head.

You fall back to your laying down position, head burying in the sheets, trying to block everything out. He’s right. He’s entirely right. The flaw in the Light, the flaw in the Republic, but you can’t bring yourself to denounce the loyalty you’d inherited.

He sniffles, hiding his tears behind his hands, and his figure—he knows it’s one of pure pain. As good as he’d gotten at hiding his emotions, they always seem to show themselves in your presence, no matter how hard he tries to defeat them, and it’s undeniable that you feel them to the fullest.

“You say ‘mama’ in your sleep sometimes,” you whisper all of a sudden.

At the revelation, he goes still. It’s an unsettling thought…that perhaps you’d known of his weakness long before he’d willingly showed you, long before he thought you deserved to know.

That maybe you’d heard the words of him crying out for his mother before you’d even known the slightest deeply-personal thing about him, when you’d only known the feeling of him inside you and the feeling of his lips on yours and the weight of his body as he slept beside yours.

His reluctance to look at you only increases tenfold when the shame floods in. The shame of a lifetime at this point—of weakness regarding his family, of putting blaster bolts in people who didn’t deserve them, of not being able to let go of his past, something he’d been striving for his whole life.

It all externally devolves into a mere fit of subtle trembles.

“Poe?” Your tone is soft now, gentle. You’re on your knees, sitting up, a single hand on the side of his face joining the space between the two of you. A certain mixture of concern and inquisitiveness finds home in your eyes, and for a second, he thinks your expression reflects one of a person staring at a beaten-down, once-aggressive animal.

“I regret it—joining the Order,” he simply says, voice cracking. The gas, plasma, fire, flesh, and bone of the destroyed system fill his imagination. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“Only if you mean it.” There’s still no sympathy to your voice, but there’s a softer edge to it, the kind that’s always existed but disappears in every fight.

“I do.” He leans back into the pillows, forearm over his eyes. It feels as if this has been going on for far too long, for he’s exhausted.

Your hand finds its way into his curls, tracing from his hairline to the base of his neck. It’s hauntingly reminiscent of what he’d felt so passionately and tenderly before the conflict had even begun.

“All darkness dies in the light,” you whisper.

It’s an ambiguous statement to many, but he automatically knows what you’re asking of him—you want his darkness to die in your light.

And while part of him begs and yearns to submit to your wish, something about your words perturbs him—the words unsaid. His darkness…the one he’d held for so long, you don’t want it to disappear, you don’t want it to transform, no, you want it to die. You want him to kill it.

“I can’t,” he says softly, fingers fumbling with the sheets, almost hoping to blindly find you.

“The Light Side’ll—“

“I’m done with the fucking sides,” he interjects, his words lined with a sharp edge. A puff of air leaves his lips as he desperately wishes for calm, one with at least some semblance of permanence. He finally looks at you, eyes now completely devoid of any anger or menace they’d held before, just the sadness of someone who’d made one too many wrong choices. “It’s just pain either way, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” you admit, a brief expression of hesitance crossing your face. “But you have to choose.” The hesitance turns to anguish, a revelation in its most subtle form. “There’s more pain if you don’t, and perhaps…perhaps that’s why I chose my side.”

He props himself up on his forearms at the mere implication—the implication that your unwavering loyalty to the light is not so unwavering, that you’d gone head in like he had with his loyalty and was now beginning to doubt things.

“Some don’t choose—“

“And they suffer for it,” you interrupt, finishing his statement with your own thoughts. It’s something you’ve seen your whole life: those who don’t choose being made to do so—often in violence.

He laces his fingers with yours, delicately wrapping each of your digits around his palm.“We’ve suffered our entire lives, darling,” he muses. “Born into a galaxy at war, a brief respite, and then yet another one…just suffering, suffering, suffering…within us, around us…what’s a little more?”

The whole room seems to freeze as you peer at him, part curiosity, part doubt, part disbelief. “What are you suggesting?”

“I think you know,” he says softly. The warmth staring back at you is undeniably something you would die for.

“Say it.” Your whisper is said with the deepest conviction, awaiting the words that would cement your decision, perhaps a decision you won’t know until you hear the offer leave his lips.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs. “Let’s run.” His gaze is fixed on you, begging for this. He needs you—he needs you to be there for him so that he has a place in the galaxy, a place he would never have otherwise. “Please.”

Your breath shakes, just barely, contemplating, debating. There’s an inevitable weight to war, the kind that crushes people to pieces, and the temptation to run from such a force—it feels right. It feels right to be free, to live safer, to be with whom you want. “There’ll be sacrifices to make.”

“There’ll be sacrifices either way,” he insists, and you’re certain he’s right. “Darling….” His words fade off, and he surges forward, gently locking his lips with yours. It’s tender and pleading, the ultimate question asked once again through touch.

“Poe….” The way you say his name is filled with something decisive, something deliberate. The seconds pass. He waits. “Let’s go.”

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

Taglist (for everything): @dark-academics-and-florals @theultimateslashgirl @princessxkenobi @djjarins @jitterbugs927 @whovianayesha | Taglist (for Poe): @synical-paradox @paper-n-ashes @spider-starry | This fic: @silkandribbons (i believed you expressed interest once; hope you don’t mind!) @spicemaidenfic (this just seems like your jam tbh)

If you’d like to be added to my taglist, let me know or do the form on my masterlist. If you’d like to be removed, don’t be afraid to ask!

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Thanks for reading!

[flyingkiki]

I Do? (1/?)

NEW #TIMRAE SERIES ALERT, my lovelies!! I couldn’t help myself. This came to me and I needed to get this going. Steam up ahead! Celebrating a steamy Valentine’s Day month for our favorite little birbs!

Full chapter 1 one now up! All the chaotic goodness is below the line. As promised - multi-chaptered, multi-chaos, and multi-steamy.  

Hi! @athenadione!!! hihihi.  

~

When Tim woke up the next day, he felt like a 10-wheeler truck had run over him. His head was pounding, quite literally close to exploding, and he could barely see through the haze of pain. Blindly pushing his blanket off his naked torso, he silently groaned at the movement and willed the world to stop spinning. He silently wondered just how tired he was from last night’s mission.

Rolling to his side, Tim groaned at the movement and felt his world cant dangerously to the side. His stomach lurched and he closed his eyes in a silent prayer top stop the treacherous motions. His world seemed to take another dip again, in a soft up and down motion, before stilling as he pressed his eyes tighter together. Pressing his face into his pillow, he gathered every ounce of his willpower to pull himself up into a seated position and grab the glass of water he usually would leave next to his bedside table the night before.

With a soft groan, Tim heaved himself up and pressed his bare back against his headboard. He was mildly aware that his rather naked legs and ass easily slid against his sheets – he must have been so tired last night that he just stripped out of his clothes and tumbled into bed. Wiggling his toes to get some sense of alertness back into his body, Tim cracked open his eyes, wiped his left hand against his face, and blinked blearily at his bedroom.

He immediately noticed several things:

There was no water next to him on his bedside table.

The ugly vase that Dick gave to him as a birthday present all those years ago was broken in one corner of the room.

Clothes were strewn all over the room – some of it definitely not his own.

There was someone in his bed.

Tim’s stomach churned and he momentarily broke through his delirious haze and stared at the painfully familiar asleep face that had turned to him. His chest tightened in panic and he felt a million warning bells go off in his head as he searched for at least one memory from last night. Last night’s debrief came to mind and that was it. Tim silently panicked – what exactly happened last night?

He watched in slow motion as the woman shifted next to him, bare shoulder peeking through his comforter as she curled towards him, making Tim all too aware that she was naked. He felt her feet brush against his right leg and he heard her sigh in content.

His gaze drifted to her small hand splayed over his pillow, familiar shoulder length black hair tangled into her fingers. Tim felt his panic immediately rise to this throat as his gaze dropped to the gold ring on her ring finger. Married. His pain addled brain told him she was not married because he had reread her files before she came to Gotham for the mission. So –?

His heart felt ready to explode as his eyes flew to his left hand. Through the haze of pain and panic, he inhaled sharply and stared at the identical gold ring on his left ring finger.

Holy fucking shit.

Tim felt his stomach take another painful lurch and his mind swam through the fog of last night, trying to make sense of what exactly happened in the last – he checked his watch – 7 hours. He could hear his ears ringing and he felt his chest tighten.

Next to him, Tim felt the bed move again followed by a soft sigh. He wondered if he was going to have a heart attack as his heart beat pounded in his chest and watched familiar deep blue eyes open slowly and blink blearily into his pillow.

“Your emotions are so loud,” she croaked into his pillows.

Tim watched a little breathlessly as his bedmate sleepily pressed her face into his pillow before slowly uncurling next to him. Dark blue eyes blinked up at him and he watched as her brows slowly drew together in confusion, and probably pain, as she finally registered him next to her. In bed.

“Oh shit,” Raven breathed.

Holy fucking shit indeed, Tim thought. His breath caught in his throat as he watched Raven slowly wake up and realization dawned in her eyes. She shrank into his bed, her blue eyes catching his own. “Tim,” she whispered, drawing out his name breathlessly as she stared at his chest then back at his face. Her fingers instinctively drew around her and pulled his blankets closer to her naked chest.

“What happened last night?” she whispered harshly, pulling herself up to sit in bed next to him and she glared. She sounded exhausted, her voice rough and cracking. Raven tugged the blanket around her chest tighter as her mind caught up with her and Tim had to hold on to his end of the blanket to avoid losing it around his waist – not that it really mattered any more, since they both obviously had sex at this point. Tim mentally groaned. Dick was going to kill him. Dragging his hand across his face again, he sighed. Scratch that – Bruce was going to kill him, Tim realized as he became all too aware again of the foreign press of a ring against his cheek. Fuck.

Tim offered her a pained look as Raven stared openly at the mess in his bedroom. His chest tightened as he watched her, things definitely should not have turned out this way. “I don’t know,” he said earnestly. He watched Raven sigh in frustration, drawing her eyebrows together and run her hand through her black hair – a tick he had observed her do over the last couple of days while she and Cyborg were helping out in Gotham. She swept her long hair over her right shoulder with a frustrated sigh. He caught sight of her slender neck and suddenly felt like he was punched in the throat. Hickeys. Lots of them ran from her shoulder to her neck – a rather large one prominently stood out just at the base of her neck.

“You don’t know?” Raven asked incredulously with a frown. It was honestly a bit surprising how well she took the whole situation, waking up naked in bed with him after a long night of sex both obviously could not remember. He figured there were stranger things that had happened in their lives. But still – this was terrible. “I cannot remember anything after last night’s debrief,” she paused as she tried to recall last night’s events. “And coffee?”

Coffee. Tim blankly stared at his hands on top of his comforter as he tried to recall going out for coffee at two in the morning. Yeah – they somehow did end up getting coffee at an empty dinner. But what happened after? His mind whizzed, trying to blindly grapple through the fog when his heart stuttered to a halt as a whisper of a memory slipped through his mind – a breathy laugh, a small hand pressed into his arm, a kiss to the cheek, a soft body pressed into the corner of the booth.

Holy hell. Tim inhaled sharply and ignored the warm jolt that spread through his body. He backpedaled from the whispy memory because this was certainly not the time to get morning wood. Oh god.

“What the fuck is this?”

Raven stared at her ring finger, her hand raised in front of her face and she gapped at the gold ring. Her eyes flew to Tim, who winced at the glare she sent him. “What the fuck did we do, Tim?!” she snapped and her eyes widened at the sight of the identical ring on his finger.

It was a stupid question, Tim thought, because if by the soreness of their bodies and the visible bruising and bite-marks along the just the right places were any indication, they both knew exactly what happened last night. “I’m trying to figure that out,” he replied, a little tense.

“Did we get married?!” she asked in bewilderment. He listened to her release a string of curses as he shifted in bed. Did they get married? Maybe the wedding rings were just that – rings. Without any legal documents, they were not technically married. Tim could check. Yeah, he thought to himself, if there was no legal document they could just sweep this – whatever this was – behind them.

Ignoring Raven, Tim groaned as he rolled himself out of bed and stood up. He was vaguely aware of the soft intake of breath and her eyes boring into his naked form. At this point he could care less with propriety – they already had sex anyway. Walking across his bedroom, albeit a little wobbly, Tim picked up his boxers and pulled them back on. He groaned, bending down made his muscles ache. Fishing through the discarded (torn) clothes on the ground, he tried to find his phone to use to hack into the civil registry system to cross check their names.

“What are you doing!?” Raven hissed watching Tim walk around naked. Tim finally found his phone in his discarded jeans. As he pulled out his phone a haphazardly folded up piece of paper fell out with it. His muscles ached as he instinctively bent down to pick up the folded piece of paper. Unfolding the piece of paper, Tim felt immediate dread pool low in his stomach. Ignoring Raven as she called his name, Tim’s heart dropped and he realized it would have been much better to have been hit by a 10-wheeler truck than find himself in this current clusterfuck they were in. Oh, Dick and Bruce were going to skin him alive. Tim blinked and stared at the cheap gaudy curved script that stared back at him.

This certifies that Timothy Jackson Wayne and Rachel Roth were united in marriage on…

“Fuck.” Tim felt like he was getting lightheaded.

He barely noticed Raven shuffle towards him, heavily bundled up in his thick comforter. Under different circumstances, he would have thought she looked cute. He sighed in resignation as he held out the crumpled paper for her to read. He watched as sheer horror crossed her face.

“Elvis officiated our wedding?!”

~

They were infected by Ivy’s pheromone pollen. Sex pollen. A pollen that lowered inhibitions, played with their desires, and made people generally horny and stupid. Raven was not sure how exactly they missed the pollen last night but she vaguely remembered the pollen did not come up when Cyborg scanned her for any injuries last night.

Raven knew that coming to Gotham for this crazy Doctor Light manhunt with Cyborg was a terrible idea. Doctor Light was in Gotham to ransack Wayne Tech and somehow ended up teaming up with Poison Ivy and Harley. Everything was fine until last night, after they apprehended their little circus. Fuck her damn life.

Raven bounced her leg absently, another nervous tick she really was not proud of. Tim and her were in back in the Batcave, they immediately drove over after this morning’s rather surprising discovery. Seeing the hulking form of Bruce Wayne dressed in a business suit had her just a tiny bit intimidated. Bruce had returned to the manor immediately after receiving a call from Tim that morning that he was unable to report to work and they had to meet back at the Cave immediately. Code Zeta, apparently – code for probably “I had a one-night stand and I got married last night in Vegas. Help.” A look of total bewilderment and sheer disbelief crossed his face after Tim explained what happened – glossing over most parts though.

Cyborg looked just about ready to blow a fuse as he all but glowered at Tim. Tim shot him a dark look as well, patience obviously drawing thin. No one in the cave was a fan of the recent developments.

“You are what?” Bruce asked, voice raised and blue eyes blown wide. Raven shrank in her oversized t-shirt and sweatpants – both Tim’s because whatever clothes she wore last night to Tim’s place were in shreds. Both seemed very eager last night to consummate their marriage.

“Married?” Tim snapped, tired of repeating himself over and over. He sat slumped on the medbay bed, sleeve rolled up for where an amused Alfred drew a blood sample earlier. Raven watched Tim scowl darkly at Bruce, who returned the scowl with equal intensity.

“What exactly happened last night?!” Cyborg growled. He stood in the middle of the Cave and glanced at the large BatComputer screen where they had scanned and uploaded Tim and Raven’s marriage certificate (Raven’s stomach heaved) and confirmed that yes, that shit was authentic and yes, Elvis officiated their wedding. His cybernetic eye flashed dangerously and glared both at Raven and Tim, though largely at Tim.

“I’d rather not give you a blow by blow,” shot back Raven, glaring back at Cyborg. Tim winced at her poor choice of words and Cyborg returned her scowl. “Because all of us in this this shitty Cave know exactly what happened last night,”

Bruce sighed loudly, swiping his hand over his face and loosened his tie. He needed to breathe. “This is a nightmare,” he grumbled and turned towards the computer.

“You’re telling me,” Raven breathed and glared at Bruce’s back as he began typing into the computer. She just wanted to go back to the Tower and forget this entire thing happened. She wanted her single status back.

“O?” Bruce called after patching in Barbara.

“Hey, B,” Raven watched as the redhead appeared on the screen. A look of surprise crossed Barbara’s face as she saw the rest of the occupants of the Cave. “I thought you guys would be back in Jump by now, Vic?”

“Looks like someone might just stay here much longer,” Cyborg grumbled and shot Raven a dirty look who quickly glared back.

“What’s going on?” Barbara cocked her head curiously.

“We have a bit of a situation,” Bruce said with a strained voice. (“Bit?!” huffed Cyborg.) “Look,” he said and sent her the scanned marriage certificate. “Could you do something about this?”

Raven watched as Barbara’s eyes widened and a look of sheer surprise crossed her face. “What the fuck,” Barbara breathed. She stared at Tim, who had walked up to Bruce with an annoyed expression. “Tim!” she hissed, drawing out his name.

Tim sighed, “Can you do something about this? Erase the files?”

Barbara hummed, typing into her computer. She made a face and looked back up at them. “You guys are definitely legally married. You even have a marriage license – how on earth did you even get a license at 3 in the morning?”

“When you’re drugged and horny anything is possible,” Raven said sardonically. Cyborg shot her pained look. Tim released a strangled groan.

Barbara made a face and returned to her typing. After a few minutes, Barbara looked up and her look was a beautiful mix of amusement and apologetic. “So,” she breathed. “I could totally erase the files, that’s easy enough,” she said.

Raven’s eyes narrowed as she caught Barbara’s tone. She watched Tim tense and cross his arms defensively. “But?” she asked.

Despite sounding apologetic, she shot them a highly amused look. “#WayneVegasWedding is currently trending number one on Twitter worldwide,” She made a face. “I don’t think there’s a lot I can do at this point to make that go away,”

“These cuties came in and got married today! Best wishes to Tim and Rachel! <3 #WayneVegasWedding,”

Raven stared in horror as Elvis’ tweet (@HoundDogVegasBoi) flashed on the screen. His ugly Elvis hairdo took up half of the picture, but there right next to the grinning Elvis impersonator was a very clear image of Tim and Raven, pressed into her each other. Tim was grinning broadly at the camera, arm slung over Raven’s shoulder while she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Is that Tim Wayne?! #WayneVegasWedding????”

“OMG. Hottie no longer on the market! #WayneVegasWedding!”

“WHO IS SHE!? Why did she take my boi? #WayneVegasWedding”

Raven glowered and several lights exploded over their heads. “Well, fuck.”

[rocorambles]

As promised, have some Alpha Bokuto x Omega Kuroo omegaverse headcannons since it’s all my brain can think of this week~ (In reality, this ended up just being a short fic that’s broken up in a headcannon format LOL)

Warnings: NSFW, Dub-Con

- It’s so obvious to everyone around him that Bokuto is an Alpha through and through, his charismatic and bright presence loudly making itself known no matter where he goes or who he’s with, his strength and domineering personality leaving everyone in awe and instinctively wanting to follow him to the ends of the earth. 

- Everyone assumes Bokuto will end up with a cute and adorable omega. It just makes sense and it seems like it’s just a matter of time as omega after omega throws themselves at him. He dates some here and there and he can admit that their sweet scents and dainty builds incite some interest in the Alpha inside of him. But none of them fully capture his attention and he shrugs his shoulders after every breakup, focusing on the sport he loves most. 

- His family ask if he gets lonely without a mate, but he’s always confused by the question. How could he be lonely when he has his MSBY teammates, Akaashi, all his old Fukurodani teammates, and most importantly, Kuroo? And he can’t help the radiant smile that spreads across his face at the thought of that hideous cackling laughter and messy bedhead. 

- Bokuto’s never really thought too much about mates, bonds, or alphas, betas, and omegas, never bothered to classify the people around him unless they decide to reveal what they are to him of their own choice. And to this day, he doesn’t actually know exactly what Kuroo is. Alpha? Maybe Beta considering how he never seems to have a scent around him? But it doesn’t matter. Kuroo is Kuroo. Kuroo is smart, mischievous, caring, pretty...

- Pretty??? Bokuto freezes, wondering where that thought had come from and he tries to push it down in the back of his head, but when Kuroo comes over for their weekly movie night, it’s all he can think of. Golden eyes roam over the long and lean body purchased on the couch beside him, trailing over endless legs, scanning slender wrists that reach over for a handful of popcorn, lingering on a vulnerable arched neck and Adam’s apple that swallows. 

- It’s hot. Why does it feel so hot in here? Why does something feel like it’s stirring and building uncomfortably inside of him? Bokuto doesn’t realize the overwhelming possessive and hungry scent he’s releasing as he gazes at the man beside him, but he’s wrenched back to reality by a high pitched whine that has every primal instinct honing instantly on the source. And suddenly the whole world comes to a halt as hazel and gold clash, as Bokuto finally comes to a stunning realization as he truly sees and smells Kuroo for the very first time. 

- Omega. Omega. Omega. The Alpha inside of him is roaring in a way he’s never felt it react before and he can feel every muscle inside of him tense, ready to pounce, can feel how his mouth salivates, fangs urging him to bite and mark. Kuroo’s an omega. His omega. His. His. His. 

- And that’s when Kuroo makes a fatal mistake, fear and confusion hindering his common senses, omega instincts he’s tried so hard to ignore going haywire in the presence of such a prime Alpha going into rut. He runs, staggering and stumbling away, fighting the way everything inside of him is pleading and begging him to bare his neck, to let Bokuto claim him like he’s always secretly wanted. But this isn’t how he wants it. Not when both of them are both driven by animal-like instincts. 

- The Alpha inside of Bokuto howls in excitement, practically salivating as he watches the gorgeous creature sloppily try to escape, leaving a trail of his intoxicating scent in his wake. And then the chase is on. Bokuto sighs in disappointment, wishing they were in a bigger space, wishing he didn’t have to end this so soon. But Kuroo is getting close to the exit and the professional athlete growls at the thought of anyone other than him getting a whiff of the Omega, easily lunging and catching the lankier man in his arms, throwing Kuroo over his shoulder like he’s a sack of potatoes and not a full-grown man. 

- The Omega pounds his fists on the broad back he has access to, but he yelps when a hand comes up and roughly pinches his ass, automatically whimpering in submission when Bokuto growls at him to calm down and behave, his Alpha voice breaking through the naturally warm timber of his voice, adding an edge that orders for obedience and that has slick leaking down Kuroo’s thighs. 

-  It’s a tangle of limbs and torn clothes once the two make contact with the bed and Bokuto doesn’t think he can ever get enough of Kuroo’s desperate moans, the hazy lust-filled look in normally sharp eyes, the addicting entangled mix of their scents entwining together so perfectly. It’s like Kuroo’s body was made for his and a feral grin spreads across his face at how sensitive the other is, how easily he melts and succumbs to even Bokuto’s slightest touch. 

- He takes his time exploring every inch of the writhing Omega, calloused fingertips roaming across toned muscles, teeth biting patterns into the blank canvas, lips greedily wrapping around perky buds. And he smiles as nails dig into his skin, back arching in a beautiful angle, a lewd wail escaping past kiss swollen lips as Kuroo’s hips frantically buck up and down, begging for more stimulation. 

- Bokuto’s heart soars as he sees Kuroo in a state he’s never even dreamed of seeing before. His strong, naughty panther reduced to a needy kitten because of him, only for him. His lips come crashing down on a panting, drooling mouth and he swallows the moans as he coats his fingers in the pool of slick forming between Kuroo’s thighs, easily sliding and stretching the warm tight hole. 

- He sees the flicker of hesitation and uncertainty hidden deep behind the throes of pleasure and he wills himself to slow down, to take his time, cooing gentle loving words of reassurance to the man beneath him, coaxing him to relax, to let his Alpha take care of him. And he smiles when the body underneath him fully relaxes, when Kuroo’s wiry arms wrap around his neck and timidly bring him down for a kiss, letting the feline-like man take the lead as he continues adding more fingers to the puckered hole, twisting and probing, groaning in satisfaction when Kuroo pulls away with a broken cry, eyes blown wide in arousal as he finds that spot inside of the Omega that has him begging for more. 

- Neither of them remember many details after that as they succumb to their inner natures. All Bokuto can remember is the image he’s seared in his mind of how gorgeous Kuroo looked on all fours, presenting so beautifully and obediently for him, the feeling of bottoming inside of drenched tight walls, the broken cries as Kuroo screamed Alpha, Alpha, Alpha as Bokuto ruthlessly thrust in and out of him. All Kuroo can remember is the feeling of being almost impossibly stretched open and stuffed full of cock and cum, how right it felt to have Bokuto on top and inside of him, how perfect it felt to call him Alpha, to be called his Omega.

-  And all both of them can think about as Bokuto gently cradles the exhausted raven-haired man, both their hands protectively cradling his cum-filled stomach, their lower halves still connected by the knot buried inside of the Omega, is how perfect it feels to be with the other. 

Bonus Epilogue:

Bokuto smiles as Kuroo shyly hides the bottom half of his face underneath the rumpled bed sheets as the sunlight filters into the room, both of them completely back to their senses and exhausted after a week of non-stop action. 

“You- you didn’t mark me.”

He hates how sad and insecure Kuroo’s scent is, how soft and shaky the words come out, how watery tears build up in tear ducts. But he doesn’t let Kuroo hide, doesn’t let him turn his back on him, doesn’t let him wriggle out of his grasp, only holding him tighter to him in response, releasing a calming, soothing scent that has him settling back besides him, peering up at him in confusion. 

“Of course I didn’t mark you. I want that to be something we talk about, something that happens after I officially court you. And you looked so scared-”

“I wasn’t scared!”

And how can Bokuto not love the feisty kitten glaring indignantly at him, only to go stock still, an adorable rosy embarrassed flush gracing his cheeks as he stares wide eyed at Bokuto. 

“C-court me???  You want to court me?! You want to be my mate?” 

A warm excited scent floods the room and Bokuto deeply breathes it in, chuckling as long legs and arms are suddenly wrapping tightly around him, as messy black hair tickles his face when Kuroo tucks his head under his chin. 

“You’re so cute.”

“I’m not cute!” 

And both of them laugh as they grapple and wrestle each other on top of rumpled bed sheets. 

[teatimecrumpetsandsugar]

a decade a century long

Heyo! This story is based on a request from @keefsteefs​ !

How about klance where future Keith and Lance get shot into the past in the castle of lions? Like future Keith and Lance would be married by that point and both would be in the BOM Keith and Lance would be co-leaders Past Keith and Lance wouldn’t be together by that point and maybe they don’t notice they’re together at first but everyone else notices

I’m not sure how well I’m gonna be able to do this, but I really hope I can do it justice for you! I now have an actual ask box on my page now, as I’ve been aided in setting it up by a few very kind people.

Anywho, feel free to let me know if I didn’t hit the prompt correctly- I don’t mind rewriting or adding another part if you feel it necessary because I really want you to enjoy the result of your request! Thank you so much for requesting!

For reference, I imagine this takes place 

/                                                                                                            \

Lance isn’t quite sure how to breathe when Keith is around. That sounds... worse than it is, but it’s definitely really bad in some way, form, or fashion. He isn’t quite sure when it started- when he started to look at those smug, blue-gray eyes and see the entire galaxy reflected back at him, or when he started wondering idly what it’d be like to braid the long hair decorating his broad shoulders.

He just knows that he finds himself transfixed on the battle-hardened, scarred face of the older boy, and it annoys him more than anything in the world. Slacking in his duties and instead watching the way Keith rolls his shoulders stiffly to correct his posture isn’t what he should be doing.

He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until he realizes there’s a blip on his monitor, moving at warp speed and heading straight for the castle- he calls out to Allura a second too late, the entire ship rocking with the impact.

He looks up frantically at Allura, distress drawing his features tight as she scowls at him admonishingly, “Lance, how many times have I told you to keep your eyes on the screen?” He flounders for a response, gaze flitting to Keith’s face to gauge his reaction before he remembers it’s not the time, “I-”

The bridge begins to flash with bright red lights, a system alert flashing in Altean on the monitor- he knows just enough to make out that it’s a breach warning, heart lurching as he realizes the severity of his error.

Allura heaves a sigh, eyebrows pinched together in irritation as she turns to stare him down, “The breach is down in the shuttle bay. Go find out what crashed into us- take Keith with you.”

He hesitates for a second, deflating as she narrows her eyes at him, daring him to say anything back, “...Yes, princess,” He mutters, shame curling against his stomach as he trudges towards the door.

He grabs his helmet on his way out, slipping it on- Keith strides out ahead of him, spurring him on to walk faster.

It’s quiet- awkward, really, if you were to put a name to the loud silence between them.

Keith doesn’t say anything for a while, lips pressed into a straight line. Eventually, he opens his mouth to speak, before closing it again uncertainly. This goes on for a little while longer, Lance watching quietly as he grapples with the words, letting him work it out without pressure. Finally, he speaks up, voice softer than Lance was expecting, “We all make mistakes sometimes,” He says tersely, eyebrows drawing together as he considers his next words carefully, “Don’t worry about it.”

Lance stops to look at Keith for a moment, face carefully neutral, before a short snicker forces its way from his chest, “...That’s it?” Keith physically recoils, lip curling upwards defensively, a hot flush burning at his collarbones, “...Maybe! I-I don’t know!”

Lance shakes his head frantically, doubling over as his laughter grows louder, easing loose the guilt that had knotted itself in his chest, “I didn’t- I didn’t mean it that way!” Keith relaxes a little, still tense as Lance’s bright, raucous laughter paints the air in shades of blue and gold, a sound as rich as royalty.

Lance isn’t quite sure what he’d been expecting when Keith started speaking, but it was probably something along those lines if he’s being honest. It’s so unmistakably a Keith thing to say, and Lance finds himself laughing airily as he finally starts walking again, knocking his shoulder against Keith’s playfully, “Thanks, Keith. I can always count on you to cheer me up.”

It surprises them both for a second how honest and bold the statement is, before Lance clears his throat, laughing uneasily, “Your attempts at comforting me always make me laugh!”

Keith doesn’t respond, the air between them growing thick with tension as another uncomfortable silence falls between them, both boys trying to will away blushes- failing, unfortunately, but still attempting to anyway.

Before long, they reach the shuttle bay- it’s quiet and dark, the air still and cold and pressure skewed from the large, gaping hole in the side of the room that exposes them to the darkness of space.

Lance catches sight of a pod buried in the wall, hitting Keith’s arm to get his attention and gesturing to it wordlessly. Keith looks at him for a second, nodding his understanding as the two lower themselves in perfect unison, Keith pulling his sword as Lance sets up behind a nearby shuttle, sight aimed towards the pod to monitor any movement. Keith creeps towards spacecraft uneasily, gaze flitting around in the dark before sharpening as he spots a sudden shifting to his left, turning to brace himself to block as he hears a blade slice the air behind him.

Lance grimaces when he hears the blades clash together, quietly sending an SOS to the rest of the paladins- and then a weapon clicks behind his head.

“Hands off the rifle.” A voice sounds from behind him, sounding eerily familiar and yet all at once too wrong and distant to be what it sounds like.

Slowly, he removes his hands from his bayard, watching as it topples over the shuttle and clatters to the floor- the safety of the weapon behind him clicks off, and, counting off from three, he waits until a finger starts to tick softly at the trigger before turning around, knocking the weapon from his assailant’s hands and swiftly turning it on them, narrowing his eyes as the shuttle bay doors slide open just in time for Keith to hit the wall beside them with a grunt.

Pidge turns the lights on the moment she enters the room, her bayard at the ready in her hands as she looks down to check on Keith-

Only it isn’t Keith.

They all pause in confusion as they take in the hooded figure dragging himself up the wall slowly, and Lance barely turns around back in time to catch the sudden movement from his assailant, lean figure tearing across the room to brace the other against their shoulder. It’s oddly endearing to watch as the taller of the two fusses over the one Keith threw against the wall, the other barking “I’m fine!”

They all freeze at the familiar cadence of the words, a hush falling over the room as they turn to look at Keith. He looks more confused than they do.

Oblivious to the tension in the room, the other replies, matching the tone of the first, “If fine is dragging yourself up a wall to get up then yeah, you’re fine!” Everyone turns to look at Lance, now, but his eyes are on Keith’s, the two watching each other confusedly-

Then the other pair look up and suddenly realize the situation they’re in, the four making uncomfortable eye contact for what is definitely way too long before Shiro speaks up, “We... should probably have this conversation away from the hole that leads to dark, empty void of space.”

/ /                                                                                                        \ \

The moment the... other Lance and Keith, he supposes, took off their helmets had to have been the strangest moment in Lance’s life. 

The other Keith had longer hair and looked.. a lot older, really. Both of the other pair looked older, but Keith looked like he’d seen conflict and a lot of horrible things, even moreso than the other Lance. The other Lance, on the other hand, was a lot softer looking- he reminded Lance of one of his Tias back on Earth, probably having grown a lot less severe to accommodate how gruff the other Keith was.

And the two of them seemed close, comfortable, even- it was odd, especially considering that Lance and Keith often can’t sit in the same room for too long without it being awkward.

The other Lance has a softer face than the other Keith, whose face seemed to be all harsh edges and scowls. He sat with a passive and warm smile on his face, even as the entire team stared him and the other Keith down.

Allura is the first to speak, despite how utterly uncomfortable she seems, “Where did you come from?”

The other Keith merely grunts, and the other Lance laughs a laugh that reminds everyone of a melody they’ve never heard before, “Sorry, Keith isn’t much for interrogations. Time with the Blade of Marmora will do that to ya.” Shiro quirks a brow at that, “You came from the Blade of Marmora?”

The other Lance smiles kindly, “Yup! And the future, too, from the looks of it.”

The other Keith doesn’t say anything, just eyeing Keith with a dirty look as Keith eyes him back. If Lance didn’t know any better, he’d swear Keith was glaring at a mirror.

The other Lance seems to notice, too, glancing between the two Keiths shortly, “Keith, honey,” Both of them snap their gazes to him, Keith recoiling at the pet name whilst the other Keith just grunts impassively, “Stop glaring at the child. He doesn’t have any more answers than you do.”

The other Keith huffs in response, looking away before replying, “I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.”

Lance stifles a giggle at that, knowing that the other pair noticed when the other Keith glares at him. There’s a strange, awkward charm to the way the other Keith speaks- not quite as obvious as the lilting, musical tone the other Lance presents, but still there, showing that he really is like their Keith in some way.

Keith scowls, stepping in between Lance and the other Keith defensively, “I don’t like the way you’re looking at me either, old man.”

To everyone’s mild shock, both Lances burst into laughter at the same time, almost identical blues and golds painting the air in the room and melting the tension completely as both Keiths turn to stare in surprise and total reverence.

The parallels are uncanny, at least until the other Keith speaks softly, “It’s been a decade a century long and I still don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that laugh.”

Lance chokes on a small, surprised giggle as Pidge casually speaks up, “So, how long have you two been married?”

Keith whips around to face her so quickly Lance swears he hears a crack, but Lance covers his face as blood rushes to his face, staining his cheekbones and the tips of his ears a bright red that he prays no one notices. Now that he considers it, it makes sense that the two are married- how close they are, the pet name, the way the other Keith listened to the other Lance- but he can’t understand the how.

That is, until the other Lance winks at him, another lilting laugh falling from his lips as it suddenly hits Lance like a freight train that he’s hopelessly in love with Keith.

Well, he wasn’t expecting that at all.

[sonatanotwo]

Reconnecting

Bro wrote me this years ago... I still love it so much. I wrote this kinda based off it... including my attempt at matching the style a bit... though I am awful at present tense, so uh yeah. I never posted it, but came across it again recently and realized it was perfect with Day 3′s theme, SO. Here it is. lol There’s some headcanons here Bro and I have toyed with too... like the Academy... which is located in Colorado Springs (where I lived for awhile XD)... which is just a little over an hour drive south of Denver. :Db There’s a lot more about this headcanon’d time I’d like to write one of these days. XDa ANYHOO... 

It hasn't been since Christmas that Virgil's spoken to his brother. It's not really surprising as they haven't really spoken a whole lot over the past few years. Once almost inseparable, it now feels a bit like there’s a chasm between them.

It seemed like life had conspired to draw them apart ever since Scott had been accepted into the Air Force Academy. The last years of high school weren't the same without Scott being there. His brother called him every day at first, but days became weeks and weeks stretched to months. He came to hear more about how his brother was doing secondhand. Scott was busy. Scott was top of his class. Scott wasn't coming home for the summer. He never heard these things from Scott.

Then Virgil went to the Denver School of Advanced Technology.

He saw Scott a few times then, but couldn’t forget the first visit when he'd first been settling in. It had been then that he'd realized that the something that had always existed between them felt like it was missing. Perhaps it was one of those things that became lost when childhood came to an end or maybe the time apart had something to do with it. He hadn’t been sure, but either way he mourned it’s absence. He buried himself in his studies, concentrating on graduating and his plans for the future.

Now here he is, in Dad's jet with Scott at the controls, flying them home. All of Virgil's belongings from Denver packed in the hold, because he’s moving back home. He's a mechanical engineer now and will soon be a member of International Rescue. He's excited to finally begin to learn to fly the ship he'd long ago told their dad he’d pilot one day, but that’s not what's on his mind as he sits in the cockpit.

He'd been surprised it was Scott waiting to take him home instead of their Dad. The reunion had been happy at first, but now an uncomfortable silence had dropped over the cockpit. Attempts at conversing just feel awkward. It’s all so wrong. It had never been like this before.

Here he is finally having to face what he couldn't years before. Soon they’re meant to be partners, going into dangerous situations together to rescue those in need. How can they pull that off? They feel so disconnected from each other. It barely even feels like they’re best friends anymore, at least to him. Virgil isn’t sure if Scott has felt it too. Could it be just him who feels this way? He can’t bring himself to broach the topic, deciding instead to hope it just needs time.

He just doesn’t know what to do or say the whole rest of the trip home. Things feel a little easier once they arrive, but their dad, unsurprisingly, seems to catch on pretty quickly that something isn't right. Virgil notices the way he watches them. They've been home only a few days before he suddenly has them pack up and sends them off to the family ranch for training — just the two of them.

Their first exercise set out for them has them not in the training rooms, but outside, scaling one of the large rock formations not far from the ranch. 'No talking,' is the one rule their dad has imposed. Once that wouldn’t have been a problem at all, but that's not the case now; he’s barely able to read his brother.

Virgil’s now absolutely certain their Dad knows as he pauses his ascent, trying to interpret the slightly worried look Scott’s throwing down at him. He can’t work out what Scott’s worried about.

They’re using new gear Brains sent with them to test. Virgil's been pretty impressed with the multifunction version of the grapple gun Scott's making use of several yards above him — at least he is until unexpectedly the pack releases from the tool, sending Scott falling backwards with an unusually startled cry.

Their panicked gazes meet for the briefest second and Virgil knows Scott needs him. Virgil doesn’t think, he just moves, reaching out and grabbing for his brother's wrist as he falls past. With no chance to brace at all, growing shoulder muscles are put to the test as they're wrenched from the sudden weight of his falling big brother.

Suspended by Virgil’s own grapple line, they simply breathe for a moment, trying to recover from the scare. It's Scott who breaks the rule of silence first.

"So... what do you say we pause this exercise?"

"Agreed," Virgil responds eagerly.

Finding Scott a purchase, he's able to climb down a short ways to a wide ledge and Virgil soon joins him, sitting down beside each other, both still shaken.

"I'll pull the grapple apart when we get back," Virgil offers, worried since it's not often something Brains creates has a flaw.

"Good plan," Scott agrees distractedly, blue eyes locking with his suddenly. "Virgil..."

Virgil raises a questioning eyebrow, but doesn’t get a chance to respond. A hand hooks around his neck and Scott closes the distance between them, forehead pressing against his.

The last time Scott did this — when his brother left for the academy so long ago — is what first comes to mind. Then all the feelings and words come like a rush. The flood of relief, gratitude, trust and love. 'You saved me,’ ‘You’re amazing,’ and 'Thank you.'

He hasn't felt their bond like this in so long; suddenly it feels stronger than ever. Overwhelmed in the best of ways, tears form in Virgil's eyes. 'Anytime,' he replies, echoing his brother's feelings with much the same.

Scott pulls away only long enough to briefly get a look at him before closing the gap once more, this time to draw him into a tight hug that Virgil returns just as tightly. Tucking his face into his brother's shoulder, he feels for a moment like a boy again, finding comfort and safety in his brother's arms.

"I've missed you, Scotty," he admits out loud, knowing Scott can feel just how much, just as he can now sense how much Scott has been missing him. It’s like the door that had closed between them has been thrown wide open. He hopes it never closes again.

"Me too, Virg."

They sit on the ledge a little longer before mutually agreeing their done and head back to the ranch. Sitting on the porch side by side after dinner to watch the stars appear in the darkening sky, Scott makes the executive decision that they're going to head home in the morning.

They're already halfway home when they finally contact their Dad to let him know they're on their way home. At first he doesn't seem very happy with them, but as they try to explain, there's a change in his expression as he watches them talk — he knows and Virgil can see he’s relieved. 

Taking over the controls for a while to give Scott a break, a silence falls between them, but this time it could not be more comfortable. While they still have a lot of catching up to do, every one of Virgil's doubts are gone. He has his best friend back and something feels complete in a way it hasn't in a long time. They aren't back at the island yet, but now he really feels like he's home.

[listentothelittlebird]

Today I bring you: an alternate Super Sons meeting! (This is a scrapped scene from my Code Bat series on ao3, but I think this is still enjoyable without context!)

The rewrite of this is here!

“I told you, coming with me would be boring.”

“Tt. Whatever, Drake.”

The nickname had long lost its malicious tinge. Tim rolled his eyes, trying to quell the fond smile that was twitching at his lips by ducking his face back down towards the paperwork on his table.

He was in a usually vacant office, at the Wayne Enterprises building of New York. Damian was playing a video game of some sort on his phone. Tim leaned over to peer at the boy’s screen. Damian tried to jerk away from his view, but Tim had already caught sight of the display.

Tim snorted, “Is that Dragonvale?”

“Shut up,” Damian snapped, his emotions betrayed by the reddening of his cheeks. Tim laughed lightly before returning to his work, the office descending into companionable silence, the only sounds coming from Tim shifting around the papers and clicking and unclicking his pen.

Damian had insisted on coming along for Tim’s business trip to New York. Not because he wanted to have a hand at the business, no, but because the young artist was interested in sketching the streets of the city - especially from the more illegal perches they could find on the tall buildings.

A ping from Tim’s phone caught his attention. He frowned minutely, enough of a change for Damian to raise an eyebrow from where he had positioned himself in the corner of the office, right next to the window overlooking the street below. Damian had already grown bored of the same view, having sketched the same perpsective for three days straight.

“So much for a peaceful business trip,” Tim murmured, signing quickly to Damian from behind his desk, where the camera in the room was unable to see, “K-O-N is in town. Pursuing T-O-Y-M-A-N.”

Damian tilted his head to the side, a silent question of “How?”, because New York was not exactly a neighbour to Metropolis. Tim shrugged with a disgruntled look, “Let’s go. I’m pretty much done with what I have to do right now. The rest can wait until later.”

Damian kept pace with Tim as he made a quick detour to access his spare costume before exiting the building. They were becoming more and more like real brothers each day - just the fact that Damian was here with Tim, without any of their other family members, already spoke volumes on their improving relationship. “What do I do?” Damian wondered curiously, “I know you’re intending on meeting up with him. Would my presence be distracting?”

Tim pursed his lips in thought. He had to admit, Damian’s new costume - the robe dyed with faint colourings - was pretty neat, but also very easily located. Damian would definitely stand out, if he did suit up. Not to mention that Damian had little to no exposure to any metas besides Duke, and would struggle to hide from Kon’s super senses.

“If you’re ready to make your debut, then I’ll see you at the destruction zone,” Tim clasped his hand briefly on Damian’s shoulder before ducking into the nearest alleyway. Damian would take more time to make it to where Toyman was currently wreaking havoc, since he had left his robe in their hotel room.

Sure enough, when Red Robin swooped down from the nearest rooftop to land a direct hit on Toyman’s newest creation, the flash of Damian’s white costume was still nowhere to be seen.

There was, however, another tween present. It did not take a genius to realise from the boy’s red cape and blue Superman tunic that this was Kon’s younger brother, Jon.

“How did Toyman get all the way to New York?” Red Robin aimed the question at his teammate, electing to ignore the presence of the younger boy for the time being.

Superboy huffed, visibly annoyed. “He let loose a ton of smaller toy robots, miniatures of the one he’s currently on,” Kon pointed to the UFO-like contraption that was zipping about the skies. He then directed a glare at his younger brother, “And somebody decided to ditch homeland, so that their Pa has to do all the work taking the robots down himself.”

“Pa can take care of the robots just fine!” Jon yelled, angry tone still dangerously close to a whine, “And I can help you! It all works out!”

Kon looked ready to argue back, so Tim cut in with a quick, “Less talk, more work. We can deal with family squabbles later.” Both Superboys instantly fell silent.

Toyman was rather irritable, Tim realised. Particularly so for him, since he was unable to fly and was restricted to the rooftops or fire escapes along the sides of the buildings. It was one of the few times that he wished he had incorporated his gliding wings into his Red Robin suit instead of his Gotham suit.

The villain also seemed to have a shield around his robot, preventing them from inflicting much damage on the UFO he was in. Tim was also constantly weary of the civilians - they were unable to properly clear out of the way, since Toyman kept switching streets and running off in different directions.

Jon tried to punch straight through the shield, but the shield deflected the force of his blow right back at him with a displacing wave of energy, sending the boy hurtling into a nearby building. The boy growled and got back to his feet, aiming to punch the shield a second time. The buildings around them were already unstable from the force of the first blast.

“Kid, don’t!” Red Robin called, but Jon had already flown straight into the shield, forcefully flinging his fist into the barrier.

-

Damian arrived on scene just as the buildings began to crumble. He stayed crouched a distance away, just shy of the main impact zone of the concussive wave.

Damian first noted the failing infrastructures of the buildings nearest to the blast. He was moving before his thoughts had fully formed, diving quickly through the sizable hole in the building and sprinting towards the unlucky civilians that were caught up in the chaos. He had to clear the building fast, before they were crushed under it.

He lowered the last person to the ground with his grappling hook, only to look up and note the presence of not one, but two Superboys. The smaller one looked to be around his own age, which was both intriguing and concerning.

The second Superboy now looked down at him from where he was holding up the upper half of the building he had just exited. “Who are you?” the boy asked in bewilderment. Damian backed away before ducking into the alley beside him, making his way onto the rooftop of a stable building.

“I could use some help!” Red Robin yelled from one street over, where Toyman had retreated to. Red Robin was using what looked to be electrified bird-a-rangs, which were just barely able to get through the shield, but were not doing much in terms of damage.

Damian slipped a small throwing knife into his hand, aiming his shot carefully. Toyman was facing away from him, and his control panel was on full display from where Damian was crouched. He waited until Red Robin readied another bird-a-rang, before throwing his knife in sync with him.

The shield malfunctioned for a split second once more, and it was all that was needed for the knife to slip through at the same time as the bird-a-rang, planting itself neatly into the controls. The wiring fizzled for a brief moment as Toyman cried out, whipping his head back to meet Damian’s blank mask.

The shield disappeared, and then Superboy - Kon-El - was delivering a sharp punch that crunched through the robot’s metallic body easily. The younger Superboy came soon after, hanging back as Red Robin and his older brother subdued Toyman properly.

The boy wrinkled his nose briefly, before looking directly at Damian, his expression brightening. Damian took a cautious step away from the edge of his rooftop even as Superboy flew up to him, landing heavily enough to crack the concrete slightly.

“You’re the guy from earlier!” Superboy enthused, and extended a hand, “Hi! I’m Superboy!”

Damian gazed warily at the boy’s hand. “Will you crush my hand if I shake yours?” Damian blurted out. This was his first time holding a conversation with one of the Kryptonians, he realised.

Superboy froze, and his face fell as he retracted his hand, “Ah, maybe. Sorry, I- I’m new to the hero gig,” he smiled hesitantly, glancing around him, “This is the first time I’ve been Superboy in any city other than Metropolis, actually. It’s… different.”

“I can imagine,” Damian commented, shifting tensely on his feet. Superboy frowned at him, “Your heartbeat’s going kinda fast. You know you don’t need to be afraid of me, right?”

Damian huffed, wondering belatedly how his brothers dealt with their own teammates. “I’m not afraid,” he clarified, “But it isn’t every day you meet an alien.”

“I’m not- okay, fair,” Superboy paused abruptly to glance down at the street. Kon-El and Red Robin appeared over the rooftop’s edge.

“Who are you?” Kon-El questioned, more forcefully than his younger brother’s harmless query. Damian shrugged. “Canvas,” he offered, “That’s what I would prefer to be called.”

The older Kent’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t exactly explain who you are very well,” he stated slowly, “What were you doing in the area?”

“Passing through,” Damian quipped easily. Kon-El’s frown deepened, but lifted as Red Robin pulled up several news articles on his holo-glove.

“His appearance matches reports of a white-robed traveller in numerous countries,” Red Robin summarised, and Damian knew immediately that the older boy had planned this statement, “Reports say that he was always found returning something, like an artefact or valued possession, to the communities he visited. He was also reported fighting off supernatural beings and protecting civilians from them.”

When the two Superboys looked back at Damian again, their expressions were contemplative. “So you’re a solo vigilante who’s even more nomadic than Red Robin,” Kon-El concluded, earning a disgruntled noise from the aforementioned person.

The younger Superboy suddenly lit up in an excited grin.

“Bro!” the punch that he gave his older brother made Damian wince slightly, “Teen Titans! Let me join!”

“I’ve already said no, countless times,” Kon-El stated in exasperation, “I’ll only let you on if-”

“If I’m ready, I know, but what if I go through like, a trial period, you know? Just in case I really am ready,” Superboy pointed towards Damian, “And Canva can accompany me, because he’s experienced already, then he’ll be able to tell if I am ready!”

“It’s Canvas,” Damian snapped, before the boy’s words sunk in. Teen Titans?

“You need to ask him for permission,” Kon-El scolded, before turning towards him, “Well? Are you interested in joining a team?”

“I…” Damian was at a loss as to how to respond. This was not what he was expecting.

“How about this,” Red Robin suggested, pulling a communicator from one of his pouches and tossing it over. Damian caught it on instinct.

“Contact us if you’re interested. The offer is open.”

Damian pursed his lips under his mask and nodded mutely, pocketing the device before taking off.

[alisarb]

Thoughts on Frenchie and Kimiko (deleted scene + 2x04)

Okay so tHINGS have happened since we last saw each other, folks, so let’s get cracking immediately. 

Spoilers for The Boys season 2 until 2x04, stop reading if you haven’t seen it yet!

Before I delve into last episode’s events, I’d like to talk a bit about two deleted scenes that I think still play a vital part into context for the kiss scene in 2x04. Get for a LONG meta post.

The events that lead up to that kiss are influenced by everything we saw last season and that I talked about in a previous post: Kimiko opening and sharing her trauma with The Boys because she trusts Frenchie, Frenchie telling her and only her about his dad and his traumatic childhood, how their relationship is defined by freedom and absolute liberty to choose without judgement, etc. 

Then, on season 2, we see that Kimiko has begun to interact with the other members of the gang a lot more (Hughie approaches her from behind to praise her on her writing practice and she smiles), and that everything has been going a bit roughly since Butcher left, holing up in the back of a store with some sketchy guys that Frenchie knows. 

It’s obvious from the beginning of the season that Frenchie has been stressed and frustrated since everyone is highly wound up, but the moment Kimiko goes to him to show him the origami piece he stops to pay her attention and smiles. 

One of the main points of this season is that Kimiko is finding a voice, a way to communicate. Unfortunately, another main point of this is that Frenchie is struggling to understand her. 

He doesn’t get what the paper means, or why she keeps talking about “a boy and a girl.” 

This boy, as it turns out, is her brother, who was also taken from the terrorist group into America and injected with Compund v, turning him into a Supe like her sister. 

The conversation between the two of them is very telling. At one point, she asks if it hurt when they injected him, and he says: “I wanted to die.” She replies: “Me too”, and goes on to say that Vought had turned her into a monster. 

A few scenes earlier, Kimiko goes into the store with Frenchie and brutally murders one of the employees. Frenchie looks completely horrified at the excessive force and shocked at Kimiko for “returning to her old habits”, in a way, but then realizes that he belongs to the Shining Light Liberation Army.

These two things help us understand her personality: when we first meet her, she’s locked in a cage and is completely feral and savage (understandably so). She’s only able to form a bond with Frenchie, and uses violence towards people without much remorse. 

However, this season she doesn’t seem so prone to it, and I think the change in her character is what surprises Frenchie at the store. 

Now, before we go into 2x04, let’s talk about the deleted scenes.

The first deleted scene: Cherie

I’ve tried to record the scene but to no avail, so I’ll describe it for those who don’t have Prime Video since I can’t find it uploaded anywhere else.

The scene is presumably set at the beginning of 2x02. We see M.M working on his dollhouse when suddenly some voices can be heard arguing in the background: Frenchie and Cherie. Frenchie sounds angry and tense and Cherie talks in a playful, passive-aggresive manner. 

Frenchie: You’re getting on my nerves. You need to shut up.

Cherie (laughing, playful): You shut up. Just fucking say the truth then.

Frenchie (tense): Bye-bye...

Cherie (now visibly angry too): That’s all I’m asking. Say the fucking truth.

Frenchie (shouting): Okay, you can stop right there, okay?

Cherie: You wanna fuck her? Fuck her! Just (I didn’t get that part lmao)

Frenchie: We are not-! I would never sleep with her!

Cherie: Why!? Then what does she do, then? I mean, I see the way you look at her!

Frenchie: It’s difficult, it’s difficult to explain, okay? She’s special!

Okay, I won’t transcribe the whoooole conversation because IT’S LONG but I’ll describe the rest and quote the final part:

Cherie gets offended because, oh, Frenchie can fuck her hard and rough just fine but she’s too “magic and special.” Then Frenchie tries to explain (through C.I Joe characters wtf Frenchie) that him and Kimiko are like soulmates: they can “read each other thoughts”, and they think and feel the same, they are the same. 

This mirrors what Karen Fukuhara, who plays Kimiko, said in a recent interview (posted a week before 2x04) when asked about the nature of their relationship:

“It could be love, romantic love. It could be like paternal love, because in the comics, she is portrayed as a younger girl, I think, when you first see her. Or it could be something deeper than friendship, something that we call “twin flame,” something that ties two people together kind of like a magnet, soulmates, if you will.”

Cherie grabs him and asks him how does he know what the fuck she’s thinking if she doesn’t say a word. Maybe he’s just projecting what he wants to believe into her for this very reason (VERY TELLING OF THE KISS SCENE).

Then, she turns around to leave and runs right into Kimiko. Cherie touches a strand of her hair and tells her: “I don’t think you’re too magic to fuck” before she leaves.

Kimiko looks at Frenchie confused as fuck, ofc.

The lovely @daddy-winter​ asked me what I thought because they’ve been announcing for a while now that their characters will drift apart this season, and I think this scene is key in understanding that.

Their relationship has been interpreted in many ways throughout the show, and this scene marks it clearly as romantic, as it shows Cherie being jealous or at least annoyed with how much attention he’s giving Kimiko. This also resembles a scene in S1 when she demands to know when he’ll be with her again. Then it takes a turn when Frenchie tells her he’d never sleep with her (which seemes to be disproved when he later tries to kiss her).

The way I see it, this scene was too open-ended, and at the same time, gave away too much of what’ll happen with them. I also don’t think it’s truly fitting with Cherie’s character since she later learns Frenchie tried to kiss Kimiko and is not excessively annoyed nor surprised (CHERIE KNEW FROM THE BEGINNING AND I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL).

We don’t see all the glimpses into their relationship and everyday life. In fact, when S2 begins we’re taken already into present day with no clarifications as to how much time passed (it doesn’t seem like more than a few weeks) or what has happened in that time (except for Butcher disappearing and them hiding with the gun smugglers). But we get this scene, which, as another user commented, is incredibly romantic in the way Frenchie straight-up affirms he would never sleep with Kimiko.

And now we get to the dreaded 2x04 and the terribly terribly timed kiss.

2x04 and dumbass Frenchie’s fucked up timing

The third episode ended with the death of Kimiko’s brother by Stormfront (played brilliantly by Aya Cash, btw) and her staring at the TV with boiling anger and grief. 

The fourth episode begins pretty much the same way, and it reminds us of an earlier version of Kimiko: disheveled, huddled up under a table and staring at the TV in a dark room. 

Frenchie, who was first introduced as a character way too comfortable with taking pills, stops getting high in S1 (coincidentally when he meets Kimiko). Then, all of a sudden, we start 2x04 with him snorting coke and getting high as a kite (Butcher’s words, not mine). The stress of the situation could be triggering enough on its own, but as we talked about at the beginning of this post, he’s seen relaxing instantly when Kimiko is around. However, the minute they start drifting away even the slightlest (them not being able to communicate, her isolating herself to grieve her brother) he feels the need to consume again. 

That’s how he finds her: high, tense, and emotionally destroyed. An explosive mix, to say the least. He goes up to her to comfort her, but does the stupidest thing he could do: he goes in for a kiss. Of course, she pushes him away swiftly, and is shocked and angry. 

The timing is terrible: she’s grieving her brother and the last thing she needs is to deal with this right now, especially when the show has already established that she’s emotionally fragile and not ready for more than slight contact (and just with Frenchie). 

Once again referring to Karen’s interview, when asked about her brother’s death and whether or not it will be a setback in her character’s development:

“But then because of this loss, it’s going to create rifts within her relationships, especially with Frenchie. In a way, it’s not necessarily Frenchie’s fault or anything he does. Actually, scratch that. He does do something. But Frenchie’s not the source of the pain, you know? The source of the pain is the death, and she doesn’t deal with it. I mean, nobody deals with death the right way. The rest of the season is her grappling with how to deal with loss and grief”.

Later in the episode, Frenchie goes to Cherie (for the first time in presumably a long time) and they sleep together. Afterwards, she asks him to tell her what’s wrong and he admits to trying to kiss Kimiko. He affirms he was just “trying to make her feel better.” I’ve seen some discussions about how this means the relationship could still be platonic and he didn’t know any other way to do it, but I want to offer a different approach.

We already know Kimiko is inexperienced. I mean, it’s not explicitly said but we can all assume she probably doesn’t know a lot about normal, functional relationships apart from the one with her brother. Everything she’s known outside of that is violence, abuse and cruelty. 

But we forget Frenchie is just as inexperienced.

They both come from abuse, and even though he prides himself in being succesful with women, Frenchie has never been in love. He doesn’t know how to properly love someone or communicate with them. Yes, he has had sex, but he doesn’t know anything about intimacy (sexual or otherwise). Kimiko was the one to show him, and the only way he can think of to comfort her is sexually, as it seems to be the thing that works for him (that, and drugs). This is confirmed when he later goes to sleep with Cherie to drown his sorrows, probably still high or drunk or both. 

His face in Cherie’s bed as he tries to convey his feelings is heartbreaking. He just doesn’t know how to function in such a situation, and he’s terrified that he destroyed their bond by going too fast. 

There’s another deleted scene set in 2x04 where Kimiko is in her room watching Stormfront’s speech and she finds a mouse wandering about. She feeds him, as it probably reminds her of her brother (her nickname for him was Mouse because he used to feed mouses in the camp that didn’t have a mom). Then later, she tries to feed it again and finds it dead under her bed, caught in a mousetrap. She breaks down and goes to Stormfront’s rally as Frenchie keeps pounding her door, pleading her to let him in. He hears the noise and forcibly opens the door, only to realize she’s gone.

The next we see of them is already at Stormfront’s rally, where he saves her from literally killing herself. As Frenchie says, she will not survive. Stormfront is more powerful and dangerous and she’s probably too weak anyway to fight her again. She looks at him and it’s clear there’s no resentment from before in her eyes. Kimiko feels safe with Frenchie, and she feels love for him:

Look at this and tell me they don’t love each other, I DARE YOU

But her grief and her vengeance are too much of an obstacle right now. She needs to leave and sort it out. It’s a clever, intelligent move for her character and for once I’m so glad the writers are aware that female characters are more than their romantic interest. She gets annoyed at him when he tells her “let’s go home”, for the simple reason that he’s not understanding her. He does it out of pure concern for her, but also comprehensible selfishness: he loves her and doesn’t want her to die. But by doing that, he’s belittling her need to get revenge for her brother. In this matter, Kimiko feels alone for the first time, and it mirrors the S1 scene where he offers her a choice to leave and find her brother. Now, he just can’t bear to see her go (of course now she’s in a lot more danger, but still).

This episode is so perfectly described in a post by @pineapplesperhaps​: it is about love. From the title (Nothing Like It in the World) to the whole plot: the women talking about it and relationships in a ‘When Harry met Sally’ style (about communication, which is sorely lacking between them this season); every character’s story this episode is marked by love in this, in all of its forms: Hughie and Starlight, Butcher and Becca, Homelighter and milk. And then himself. Thinking about it, let’s not bring that up ‘cause it was too disturbing. Also please stop writing scenes about Homelander and milk I can’t bear it anymore wRITERS-

Karen mentions in the interview that there’s an episode this season about Frenchie’s background story that will also cause another shift (not rift, mind you) in their relationship. I’m so excited about it. 

I think their drifting apart was inevitable and necessary to a degree for them to be able to come together in a healthy way. Kimiko is learning who is she as a free person, as a Supe, as a member of The Boys, and it’s hard to do so while figuring out the complex relationship with Frenchie. I don’t think she didn’t want him to approach her romantically, but the timing, as everyone has pointed out, was terrible to say the least. They are both new to this kind of bond and need to find the common ground necessary to get closer. 

I am hopeful that this rift will only make their bond stronger and help them move forward with their relationship. The show has already established that Frenchie feels attraction towards Kimiko (as much as you want to comfort someone you don’t kiss them if you see them as a little sister or a daughter; besides, in the deleted scene with Cherie, she asks him if he sees her as those things and he denies it), and I think it’s pretty clear those feelings are returned, just expressed differently. The way all their physical interactions in the show have been initiated by Kimiko prove this. 

To conclude this essay about the pairing that will probably kill me, I want to recommend a fanvid of them with a song that perfectly describes them: x&y by Coldplay. The lyrics talk about a lover the singer tries to comfort after a terrible loss but being ultimately unable to do so.

Trying hard to speak And fighting with my weak hand Driven to distraction It's all part of the plan When something is broken And you try to fix it Trying to repair it Anyway you can

I dive in at the deep end You become my best friend I wanna love you But I don't know if I can I know something is broken And I'm trying to fix it Trying to repair it Anyway I can

This is the video, it’s perfect and beautiful. 

Thank you for coming to my TED talk and please keep up the fanfiction, you’re the ones that keep me going till Friday arrives.

[affcgato-archived]

Anon: What about his sexuality? How did he come to terms with how he felt, and did being more true to himself affect how he made his decisions from them on?

IN TRUTH Alec is still coming to terms with it. I think the biggest thing for him is that he didn’t just come out to everyone two months ago in the timeline of the show, he fully came out to himself, & he’s still grappling with both that as a fact & the repercussions of that decision.

Alec is & always has been very concerned about the opinions & feelings of others. He’s been raised in an environment that’s highly structured; he knows what is expected of him, & he knows that he’s been set very strictly on a path to fulfill those expectations. Family, duty, honor are three important pieces that make up Alec’s mindset. Aside from the reference to ASoIaF, these words are deeply entrenched in him & influence him & his decisions greatly.

Knowing what his family expects of him (if not necessarily knowing why his family - particularly his father - is less than accepting initially of his sexuality), Alec was initially fearful of admitting such a thing to himself – much less acting on it.

This is why his perceived feelings of love for his Parabatai were so significant in the books – he chose to potentially avoid getting into any form of relationship by letting himself believe that he was hopelessly in love with Jace. Jace was safe since he wasn’t allowed to fall in love with him, ergo perceiving himself as in love with Jace was easier than facing the full consequences of embracing his sexuality.

Jace goes as far as to point that out himself in CoG;

“I know how you think you feel about me,” Jace said. “You don’t, though. You just like me because I’m safe. There’s no risk. And then you never have to try to have a real relationship, because you can use me as an excuse.”

The show & the books handle him embracing his sexuality very differently, & I will not get into a debate here about it. Instead, I want to explore this:

“Isabelle.” Magnus’ hands loosened; he looked a little wide-eyed, as if his outburst had startled even him. “I am sorry. I forget, sometimes … that with all your self-control and strength, you possess the same vulnerability that Alec does.”

“There is nothing weak about Alec,” said Isabelle.

“No,” said Magnus. “To love as you choose, that takes strength.”

A key thing I feel needs to be kept in mind is that while Alec is not just his sexuality, is sexuality coupled with his upbringing & the surrounding environment & attitudes of the Clave all have major influences on him, & his decisions. Magnus hits the nail on the head, & this is extremely important because – delving into book canon once again, Alec initially believes himself to be without accomplishment, but strongly wants to make his family proud.

To do that, he takes on responsibility & pushes down his own pain or discomfort to meet those goals. It’s not until life throws him a curveball in the form of Magnus Bane, someone who is so confident in his sexuality, it cannot be ignored. Magnus himself cannot be ignored in the way he interacts with Alec.

In the show, he leads with telling Alec to take care of himself. While that’s likely not a foreign concept to the other, the idea that self care could include his own happiness - both in the short term & in the long run - is probably something Alec’s never TRULY considered given his proclivity to put the needs & expectations of others first. Hearing it from a non-family member was likely also a factor.

This got really long & I didn’t mean for it to so I’ll try to wrap it up.

I adore the idea of once, fiercely for Shadowhunters, & you see it so easily with how he falls fast & hard for Magnus. One of the things I think I love the most though is seeing how his confidence blossomed & grew as he came into his own. He’s nearly outed by the Fearless rune in City of Ashes, but then later, in City of Glass, he consciously makes the decision to kiss Magnus, thus outing himself & accepting those consequences. You see that sort of confidence slowly permeate through him & his decisions moving forward, & it’s a beautiful thing.

To finally wrap this up, I want to just touch on what is my favorite exchange in the entire series. While it doesn’t seem directly related, I feel very strongly that it is. Given what I mentioned about Alec – his insecurity, his jealousy, his initial lack of self confidence, & how all of that grew & changed as he discovered & accepted vital pieces of himself– I want to reflect on this exchange between him & Jace in CoHF;

“I never thought I wanted to be the best warrior,” he said. “I always thought I was happy being the dark star to your supernova. I mean, you have the angel’s gift. I could train and train … I’d never be you.”

“You’d never want to,” Jace said. “That’s not you.”

Alec’s breathing had slowed. “I know,” he said. “I’m not jealous. I always knew, from the first, that everyone thought you were better than me. My dad thought it. The Clave thought it. Izzy and Max looked up to you as the great warrior they wanted to be like. But the day you asked me to be your parabatai, I knew you meant that you trusted me enough to ask me to help you. You were telling me that you weren’t the lone and self-sufficient warrior able to do everything alone. You needed me. So I realized that there was one person who didn’t assume you were better than me. You.”

He says, present tense, that he’s not jealous - & that he’s accepted that he will never be like Jace. I feel that that is an exceptionally powerful & poignant remark because one of the most significant bits of character development he goes through DIRECTLY involves his jealousy & insecurity.

To me, this brings his character development full circle. At the beginning of the series he believes himself to without accomplishment, in love with someone who can never love him back & who he is disallowed from loving. Because of the love he’s experienced, because of the GROWTH he’s experienced, over the course of the series Alec Lightwood has learned to accept himself, to have confidence, & here, near the end, he is at peace - or will be eventually - with himself. He has settled into & if not fully accepted, then mostly settled into himself comfortably. That, in & of itself, is quite possibly one of his greatest accomplishments.

And the irony of all of it is that in learning to love himself, & in loving Magnus, Alec has also discovered that he does love Jace - as he deserves as his Parabatai, which is just as important if wholly different as his bond with his family, & his love for Magnus, & equally crucial to him as a whole.

So Alec Lightwood comes full circle.

[antique-traveler]

your hand in my hand, so still and discreet

sequel to this post

Jaskier had gone to bed that night feeling rather queasy, to be frank. Although, to be even franker, he usually felt queasy after leaving a town the way they just had. In fairness, how was he possibly to know that that woman was married? And how in the world was he supposed to intuit that her husband would be 2 metres of solid muscle and ale stench? Really, he had no idea why everyone was so upset about the whole ordeal, it was only three nights, and only eight rounds, what was the big fuss? Especially Geralt. Jaskier didn’t have the slightest inkling as to why Geralt was angry with him (beyond the usual, of course: talking too much, touching too much, being a general nuisance). It wasn’t like Jaskier hadn’t had affairs before, or rather, like Jaskier hadn’t been the subject of the affairs before. Greta, or Nadia, or whatever her name was was merely another woman added to his long, long, oh-so-long list of conquests. Nonetheless, he, Geralt, and Roach had had to leave the village in a rush, no doubt leaving several things behind. 

 They ate their meager supper in silence, as they often did after departing in such a rush, and set up their bedrolls on opposite sides of their roaring campfire. Jaskier could feel Geralt’s eyes on his back for the entire night, and oh, such eyes. Such glimmering, smoldering, sparkling golden eyes that lay beneath his brows like nuggets of gold ore deep in a dwarven mine, surrounded by coarse stone and gravel, yet begging to be unearthed and shown to the world. Jaskier often wondered if Geralt noticed how much time he spent looking at those eyes- at all of him, really. True, he had those tricky Witcher senses that could hear two mice fucking three kilometres away, but he was also the most oblivious idiot to ever walk the Continent. 

 That night he revisited an old recurring dream, one that he hadn’t had in a long while, years, probably. He was a child, no more than a toddler, and his mother was placing something around his neck. Just as she finished, she was grabbed from behind and dragged into the flames surrounding them, screams echoing in his ears for what felt like months, clutching onto the token on his neck like it was his heart, like it was his life.

 He woke up to his name. 

 “Jaskier!” 

 He opened his eyes with a grumble to see a very sharp sword pointed straight at his nose. He saw that Geralt was attached to the other end of it, and he recognized the hilt and the knuckleguard, but something was off about the blade itself. It was radiating this, this warmth and energy like it had just been pulled out of the forge. It scared Jaskier. Not quite as much as the look in Geralt’s eyes, though. 

 “Woah, Geralt! Don’t you think it’s a little early for this?”

 “Fucking get up.” Something was wrong. As blunt and severe as Geralt was prone to be, he was never commanding to Jaskier. Never spoke to him as if he were a piece of livestock with a tendency to leave the herd and meander amongst the grasses of another shepherd’s pasture. 

 “I- I don’t understand what’s going on...” 

 “I said get up!” Okay, right, he means business. Jaskier pushed a hand under himself and tried to roll onto the balls of his feet, but something was immediately off. Instead of springing up with all the grace of a newborn giraffe as he usually did, he promptly fell backwards onto the ground, a strange new weight having attached itself to his back. As he let out a poignant and dignified “ow, shit!” he craned his neck to peek over his shoulders as best he could in his prone position. 

 Yeah, definitely something wrong. There was a large brown mound connected to each of his shoulders, each weighing twenty pounds at the very least. He pushed himself off the ground (compensating for the extra weight this time) and realized the only possible explanation: he’d been attacked by some vengeful monster attempting to wreak havoc on a Witcher and his poor bard as repayment for the slaying of his brethren. Jaskier, ever the poet, cried out, “What the fuck? Geralt, Geralt, get it off of me! What is this, a fucking drowner?” as he tried to rid himself of the pest by spinning himself around in graceful, nimble circles. 

 Geralt, stoic as ever, merely commanded, “Jaskier, shut the fuck up and look.”

Twirling himself around a few more times for flair and flair alone, Jaskier finally stood still and really studied the attachments to his back. Sure enough, it wasn’t a drowner (to be completely honest, Jaskier still didn’t quite know what a drowner looked like, even after all those years), wasn’t really anything he could identify before he tensed a muscle in his back. By the gods themselves, the thing moved with it. He tensed it some more, hardly even sparing it a thought, and the thing unfolded itself into a broad, feathered wing. He didn’t even realize his hands had drifted to his face until his hot breath reflected back into his already steaming eyes. He looked over the other shoulder and, sure enough, another wing unfolded itself entirely in accordance with Jaskier's will. He shuddered as he felt the breeze rush through the feathers and flow around the massive limbs expanding themselves from his back. His ear twitched and he noticed Geralt shift. 

 He lowered his hands and looked at his Witcher, not even bothering to hide the fear in his eyes. “Geralt, what happened to me?” Surely this had to be a curse, or a hex, or a jinx, or whatever other word there was for magical vengeance. Surely this had to be someone acting unfairly in anger and damning him to this freakish fate.

 Geralt softened, rather uncharacteristically. “I was hoping you could tell me.” 

All Jaskier could do now was keep doing what he could with these new wings, seeing if maybe they’d go away if he’d just flex hard enough. “I- I- I-” 

 Geralt dropped his sword and approached him tenderly. “Are you in pain?” Jaskier wasn’t expecting any sort of question like that. Accusations of lying? Certainly. Swearing and blame for this curse? Most definitely. But concern? Worry? Very bottom of Jaskier’s list of possible outcomes, that was for sure. 

 For a moment he pondered the question. Was he in pain? Was the adrenaline of this surprise clouding his senses and shielding him from agony? Or did this weight actually feel comfortable, familiar even? Did moving these wings come just as easily as dancing his fingers along his lute, or spilling nonsense words out into the air in the hopes that Geralt would take enough notice to even tell him off? Was not the feeling of the wind between his feathers an intimate, natural sensation? Jaskier searched for the words with which to present his thoughts. “I… no…” He looked up at Geralt in unashamed desperation. “It feels as if I’ve had them my whole life, really.”

 Geralt sighed and ran a hand along his face while Jaskier trembled where he stood. “Did you make anyone particularly angry recently?” Like that was at all a helpful question. The day no one was mad at Jaskier was the day that Hell froze over and Geralt laughed. “Are you- are you missing anything?”. 

 Jaskier felt himself pale as he grappled for the medallion that once hung around his neck. He felt pieces to a puzzle revealing themselves in his brain, but he couldn’t connect them, couldn’t quite define their shape or what they might form. “Yes… yes, I had a- a medallion, my mother gave it to me.” He gave up all pretense of grace and composure and searched frantically amongst his and Geralt’s things. He looked under bedrolls, between doublets, within pockets, trying to remember its weight around his neck and its cool smoothness between his fingers. 

 “Jas- Jaskier,” Geralt coughed and looked away, showing embarrassment that Jaskier rarely got to see, “you might want to check your… arse.” 

 Exactly what he needed right now. An arse joke. The one time Geralt cracks wise and it’s during a time of significant emotional turmoil. “Geralt, I hardly think this is the time for joking-” He humoured Geralt by reaching onto his bum, but dropped his offended disposition as soon as he felt what Geralt was referring to. He reached down the waistline of his trousers and pulled out, inch by inch, a long brown tail, equal in length to his legs and covered in the sort of short hair that covers a horse, only with a graceful tuft of fur at the tip. He flexed the muscles in his lower back just as he had when he realized his control of his wings, and felt the humanity drip from his body onto the forest floor below as the tail swished and swayed behind his legs. 

“Holy shit.” Just like before with his feathers, the brush of his tail against his calves was disturbingly familiar, unearthing emotions not quite yet remembered, but carrying with them a sense of yearning for a home long lost. 

 Geralt spoke up with astounding gentleness. “I’d guess there are two possible explanations here: either you’ve been cursed by some poor victim of your exploits, or that medallion was more important than you thought.” 

 “What are you saying, Geralt?” 

 “I’m saying that that might have been a glamour.” 

Jaskier tried his very best to be threatening by unfolding his wings behind him and swishing his tail about. “A what?” 

 “A glamour. Like a… magical disguise.” 

 “A magical disguise for being what, a fucking bird?” 

 “No way to be sure for now, but we’d better find a mage to see if that’s the case.” The nerve on this man, insinuating that he was anything less than human. Although, in fairness, what little humanity he had left seemed to be disappearing before his very eyes. 

 Jaskier stood nearly frozen while Geralt packed their things. A breeze blew from behind him and brushed through his fingers and onto his recently-exposed bottom. He realized that half of his arse had been left hanging out of his breeches after he pulled his tail out and flushed with embarrassment. He meant to move swiftly and with grace as he pulled his dagger out from his pack, but he could feel how slowly he was moving, as if every hair- and feather- on his body had been chained to the ground, weighing him down with the reality of his predicament. He sliced into his breeches along the seam of the seat and pulled his tail through, hardly even registering his actions as real. Jaskier could feel Geralt’s eyes burning into him from where he crouched, shoving things haphazardly into a leather satchel. He was probably contemplating ways to kill this new monster he’d discovered. Imagining how he would wear a necklace adorned with feathers from the rare species Jaskier bardum. Whatever he was plotting, Jaskier didn’t want those eyes to leave him. He wanted to savour being looked at for once. No matter Geralt’s definite ill will, Jaskier was willing to bask in his attention. Appreciated while it lasted. While he lasted. 

 Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, and Jaskier whipped around to see those gold, gold eyes staring into him. “Are you okay, Jas?” 

 Jaskier knew that Geralt would see (and smell) through his facade in an instant, but why not at least pretend to have some dignity left? “Yeah! Tip-top.” He had felt his teeth growing and sharpening in his mouth as he waited for Geralt to finish packing, and now only feared that Geralt saw them as he grinned a farce. 

“We should start on the way to the next town if we want to make it there before nightfall.”

“Right. Yes. Of course. Lead the way.” 

 ... 

The road to Milgrove was long and uninteresting. Jaskier thought that he might be able to write a song about the flowers on the trees if only he had an ounce of happiness in him. He didn’t bother trying to hide his crying every time he bit his lip with those new sharp teeth of his, or felt his tail brush against his calves, or tickled himself with his feathers. He felt Geralt look at him awkwardly every time he sniffled or gasped, and treasured each accidental touch on a wing, however uncomfortable it made him. A few hours in (Jaskier didn’t bother trying to keep track of time, he knew he would probably be killed once they figured out what he was, and he wanted to savour his life while it lasted), Geralt cleared his throat abruptly. 

 “Um, Jaskier, you…” He touched his temples, looking just above Jaskier’s eyes in confusion and disbelief. Jaskier’s heart pounded as he reached a hand up to his forehead, afraid of what he might find. His heart dropped as his fingers brushed against something smooth and solid protruding from his temples, curving slightly and coming to a point a few inches up.

He stopped walking and let himself collapse onto the dirt road, holding his head in his hands (careful not to touch his horns for fear of making them real) and sheltered himself with his wings. This was it. He’d reached his breaking point. He might as well drop his walls and let it all come out in heaving, wet sobs. 

“What’s happening to me Geralt? Why me, why now?” There was silence for a moment before Jaskier felt a gloved hand come to rest solidly upon his back, just between his wings. This was new. Geralt had touched him plenty of times, pulling him out of rivers, dragging him away from monsters, punching him in the fucking bollocks, but never gently like this. Never with so noble a goal as comforting a broken, deformed bard such as he. 

“Jaskier, it’ll be alright. We’ll fix this.”

He only cried more, forcing words out of his throat with great difficulty. “And if we can’t?” 

 He felt the silence between them as Geralt paused, contemplating his next sentence. “If it’s not something we can fix, then it must not have needed fixing in the first place.” 

 … 

 Jaskier stood in the forest, fully aware of the elven mage’s eyes on him. He had said his name was Enleim a few minutes before, not even bothering with a handshake as he began to survey Jaskier with a twinkle in his eye. 

 “Hmm… and you said you lost a medallion, yes?” 

 Jaskier tried to imagine its weight around his neck and its texture upon his sternum, but he couldn’t. “Yes, it was my mother’s. Haven’t taken it off since she died.” 

Enleim made another low circle around Jaskier, ducking under his wings and stepping over his tail before bringing himself back up to eye level. He squinted slightly, “How old are you, Jaskier?” His thick, runny accent hung in the air with the strangeness of his question. 

 “I’m th- thirty-seven.” 

 “Now, surely you don’t believe that. Nearly forty and yet you still have the face of a babe.” Jaskier looked up at Geralt for some answers, but was disappointed. “No, I suspect you are much older. Who knows? Maybe even older than your Witcher there.” 

He retreated into himself, scared of confronting the implications of the mage’s remarks. “I… what are you saying?” 

“Well, if my suspicions are correct- and they usually are- then I don’t think you’re human. If I were a betting man, I’d say you were a Fae.” 

 Fae. Ff-ay-ee. Jaskier sounded it out in his mind, rolling it over his tongue and tossing it between his ears, not bothering to realize what it meant, shielding himself off from what was happening around him. 

 Distantly, as if he were underwater, Jaskier heard Geralt speak, “Fae don’t exist anymore. They’re a myth.” 

 “Well, perhaps they aren’t being born anymore, but they live a long time, as evidenced by your friend.” 

 Jaskier stared at his hands, tracing their lines with his eyes, with his human-not-human, never-human, never-normal, now-a-monster eyes. He felt something clawing at his throat. Tears? Words? A scream loud enough to deafen everyone in the next three towns? “I don’t understand. I- I’m just…” What was he? Who was he now that he was not Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove? Who was he if not the little boy who played knucklebones with the maids’ children, or the young man who lusted after everyone with pretty eyes, or the bard who decided to fall in love with someone who would never love him back? Without all that, he was just… “Jaskier.” 

 … 

 Jaskier had lost whatever dignity he had left that night, sobbing into Geralt’s armor. He was painfully aware of the weight of the wings on his back, and his sharp teeth in his mouth, and the touch of his tail against his legs. He had spent the whole day praying for a cure, for some potion or surgery that could rid him of these marks of inhumanity, only to be told that, not only was he never getting rid of them, but he’d had them all along. Throughout all of his blubbering, though, Geralt held firm. He stroked Jaskier’s hair, hushed his sobs, tried to lay a hand on his wing, but removed it once it only made him weep more. 

 After a few hours, he stopped crying and resigned himself to merely stare at the stars, trying- and failing- to distract himself from his body. He remembered the previous night’s dream, each moment coming more and more into focus the more he connected the day’s events to his childhood. He saw the shape of his mother’s horns, the touch of his mother’s wings against his, the glint of her fangs when she smiled. 

“Before my mother died, I remember a fire. I must’ve been… three, at most, though who knows how true to reality that is. There were people screaming and running- I think they were family and neighbors- and my mother placed the medallion around my neck. It was a buttercup, encased in this… crystal. And then there were arms around her, and she was pulled away, and she was… screaming…” Jaskier scoured the sky for familiar constellations, trying to remember the nights his father spent showing him the shapes their ancestors had traced in the heavens. “It really all makes sense. I- I mean, I know I’m thirty-seven, I met you when I was eighteen and I’ve been with you nineteen years since, and yet, I haven’t changed, have I? Hell, I still have trouble growing a beard.” He struggled with the mental maths. Had he been eighteen when they met? How many years had he spent with the viscount before he left? How many times had he seen his nannies pregnant, how many grey hairs had his governess grown before she retired and was replaced? 

 He looked at his feet. They seemed to be the only human part left of him. “After that I moved in with the Viscount Pankratz and his wife. And-and I know that Enleim said the glamour could affect my memory, but-but I’ve never been anything but human since! I mean, I get hungry, I bleed, I fuck, I cry, I play my lute... and now all of a sudden… I’m not anymore.” Silence hung between them for a moment, Jaskier massaging his own fingers while Geralt breathed. 

The silence was broken by Geralt’s coarse voice. “Before the Trials I had parents. I’m not sure if they loved me, but I had them. They sent me off to Kaer Morhen, and I… changed. They mutated me, forced me to turn inhuman. After a few years, I returned to Rivia to hunt a bruxae, and my parents didn’t even recognize me until I said my name. They were afraid of me, said Witchers were dirty monsters. After I told them who I was, they didn’t speak to me at all.” 

Jaskier took a deep breath. He dropped his head against Geralt’s armoured shoulder, trying to ignore the way his horns brushed against Geralt’s jaw. Emboldened by Geralt’s lack of complaints, Jaskier unfolded a wing and wrapped it around them like a muscular, feathered blanket. 

 They sat like this for a moment, Jaskier contemplating how he’d say goodbye when Geralt finally decided to unsheath his silver sword, when he felt a hand come to rest upon his thigh. He removed his head from Geralt’s shoulder and stared into those wide, amber eyes. For the first time in nineteen years, Geralt looked almost panicked. 

 Suddenly Jaskier was thrust into the back of his own brain, and watched as his hands came to cup Geralt’s jaw and pull him into a kiss. Distantly, beneath the sound of his pounding heart, he heard Geralt let out a rather soft sound for a Witcher, and he felt hands find their way to his waist. Geralt parted his lips, and Jaskier invited him in, tasting this man with an inhuman tongue and hearing his breath with pointed ears. They moved together, one set of hands pushing their way up a chemise, another tangling themselves in soft white hair. 

 Jaskier came up for air and stared at Geralt, eyes wide and mouth agape. What words could follow that? How could he defend himself, explain himself? “I… I thought you wouldn’t want me because I’m- I was- human.” Jaskier had to stop and remind himself that he wasn’t human, never had been. He pushed that thought aside for later. “I was too fragile, too emotional for you.” 

 Geralt let out a gruff chuckle, “I thought you wouldn’t want me because I’m not human.” 

Jaskier closed his eyes and tried to rest his forehead upon Geralt’s, but settled for mere proximity when he found that his horns got in the way. “What do you know? We’ve both been proven wrong. In more ways than one.”

[the-navistar-carol]

Daminette Songfic — “Stronger” from Finding Neverland

Ok so technically this is a follow-up to my ‘Invisible Thread’ fic because 1) that BROKE 500 NOTES THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH and 2) literally everyone who reblogged or commented requested that to happen. There is a time jump from ‘Invisible Thread’ to here, because they know each others’ identities and are now currently dating.

This is nowhere near as good as ‘Invisible Thread’ and I can say that freely. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!! @ozmav @maribat-archive :)))

Before you read, trigger warning — death, gore, swearing.

In the darkest place is the faintest light

Gives me hope to face the hardest fight

Marinette. He had to get back to Marinette.

Hawkmoth would conquer all of Paris, maybe more.

The only person that stood in his way was Ladybug, was Marinette, his soulmate.

Damian cast a scorching glare around his surroundings. He stood in a cave, the only exit caved in. It was large enough for him to see the cavern around him, and too empty for his liking.

Stalactites thick around as his wrist hung from the ceiling, some of them reaching the floor as columns.

Someone had been elegant enough as to provide one, single, red LED lantern. Or, rather, it had fallen in with him. It sat tipped over five feet away, glowing like a sun.

The mark on his hand, usually pink, silver, and blue, was bathed in red.

Pain delivers me

His side flared, and it was only then that he remembered he’d been clawed.

Right.

Stripping off his shirt (it was too thin for the Parisian weather, anyway, and gray) he tore it to carefully bandage the injury, cleaning what he could.

Damn cats and their claws.

The white claw-tipped gloves had turned crimson and then a ruddy brown as they’d gone through his side.

And now he was here.

No matter. He’d worked through worse.

And he’d work through this.

I don't need their sympathy

Growling, Damian stalked over to the cave-in, surveying it for possible weaknesses.

He could’ve punted me into a place easier to escape from.

The rubble wasn’t evenly sized, all jagged and sharp, which was almost bothersome, but they formed a rough slope.

An endless Cataclysm would create problems.

Which it does.

So he set to work, flinging rocks away from the top by the white light of the lantern. Next camping trip, he would insist on the Coleman brand. They definitely worked.

The hole grew, slowly but steadily, and he worked through his pain and exhaustion.

Gonna have to try better than that.

Cause they can't take away my might

Where I go they will never find

The hole wouldn’t be more than a crawl space between the roof of the cave mouth and the rubble. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but it didn’t need to be.

He’d take a scraped back or battered hands if that was what it took.

Because that was what it took.

And he would take more.

For Gotham, for his family. For Paris, even if he didn’t really like the city.

For her.

The hole grew.

I've got to be stronger

Reach up higher

How far back did this blasted cave-in go?!

No matter how much he removed, hands bleeding on the tips of his fingers, on his palms, wrists, forearms, there was always another rock.

His soulmate mark was crusted in rusty brown. Its pretty colors could barely be seen.

He couldn’t let himself dwell on this. If he stopped to think, he’d be crushed.

Literally? Maybe.

The rocks digging into his spine, the backs of his ribs, they agreed with the sentiment.

Tch. He had had to prove himself to a good many things.

The rocks would be another one on that list.

Dumb rocks.

He’d move a mountain if that was what it took.

Must dig deeper

Find the fire

Finally.

Finally.

Damian had never put any stock into the whole ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ thing. But now?

Now, as he crawled out of a hole in the ground, bleeding and covered in dirt, and into the fresh Parisian air, he believed it.

The young, green trees on the sides of the streets were still tied to their support poles. Rubble covered the paved streets, cars of all colors and sizes had been flung into buildings.

Bodies — bodies — littered the ground. Blood pooled in patches, rivers, trickles. No matter who or where, it was always the same deep red. Almost black, even.

His mouth dried, his tongue felt too large for his mouth. Hawkmoth hasn’t killed people before.

Ironic. The one person in charge of this damn mess was the one person (was he even a person?) he knew hadn’t ended a life.

Be enlightened

Can't be frightened anymore

His legs wobbled beneath him, so he picked up a wooden pole from where it had been uprooted, next to its slender, frail tree (the leaves were still green, but the birds’ nest had fallen, its eggs had cracked) for stability.

The birds wouldn’t return. Not without the Miraculous Cure, if it happened this time.

People had died this time. Maybe this time, Hawkmoth really was holding up to his promise that he would do anything to reach the Miraculi.

People died, he reminded himself with a snarl which was suspiciously animalistic. That woman with blonde hair, her glasses were shattered and blood stained the back of her hideous leopard-print blouse.

That man with the buzz-cut, he stared up at the sky with unseeing eyes as pale as the sky. They would see the sky no longer.

That child — that girl — lay in the middle of the road, half-curled into a ball. Her red hair spilled over her back, blending with the puncture wound through her chest.

Hawkmoth is going to fucking pay.

I can run now, so much faster

Now defeat won't be my master

Damian struggled on, his right hand clutching the pole and his left at his side, putting pressure on his injury. One step at a time.

The sounds of conflict grew now, and he picked up the pace.

Shouts echoed through the quiet streets of Paris (this quiet wasn’t because of peace, not anymore) of determination and rage.

Angel.

He saw a flash of blue and black, and heard a zap of electricity. The familiar whizz of a grapple sounded from above, and he was scooped up off the ground and launched into the air.

With a hiss of pain, he scrabbled in the grip until he realized the familiar person next to him was Nightwing.

“Keep calm, little D,” Nightwing murmured, and dropped him in an alleyway, away from the fighting.

“We’ve got to stop this.”

For to conquer the demons I won't have to wait any longer

I've got to be stronger

He wasn’t Robin right now. There was no cape behind him, nor military-grade boots on his feet. Not even a domino mask, to preserve his identity.

He wasn’t his mother’s assassin, either, perfectly poised and ready to strike with his injury.

He was only Damian Wayne, armed with a splintering garden pole.

But he pressed on, only determination, spite, and willpower left in his arsenal.

No fancy tricks or midair flips.

Just him.

You'll see in time

You will survive

He limped along the streets of Paris, heading straight for the fight. Well, not really. He had to take breaks when he felt like his side was on fire, which was a lot more than he was used to.

A red blur zoomed through the rooftops and he tensed, thinking it was another akuma of Hawkmoth — well, Scarlet Moth now — but when the figure landed before him, it was all he could do to not lurch into her arms.

Ladybug did it for him, squeezing him tight. He didn’t even complain when his side erupted, pole clattering to the ground as he returned the hug, arms twining around her.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered, shaking her head. “But then Nightwing told me he found you. Rena is out of commission, and Carapace’ll follow soon.

“I need you, Damian. Not as Robin.”

She let go of him, standing straight, and held out a hand. In it rested a black octagonal box, red design twining across its facets.

“I present to you the Miraculous of the Tiger, which gives the power of invisibility. Your brothers are already outfitted.”

He took it without hesitation.

Too soon to run

Too late to hide

He didn’t even flinch when the kwami — Roaar — zoomed out in a burst of yellow light. When it dimmed, he spotted a black-and-yellow panjas bracelet, which he slipped on, listening to her.

“Who are you?” the kwami demanded, buzzing into his face, her tiny tail lashing. “You’re injured, you’ll never do!”

Ladybug frowned, shaking her head at the kwami. “Roaar. Leave your personal feelings out of this, he’s the only one who’d fit you.”

She sniffed, tiny fangs flashing, but turned to him anyway. “I assume you know the drill. For five minutes, you will become invisible with the command Hunter. All you have to do to transform is say stripes rise, and to detransform, it’s stripes fade.”

Damian nodded to Roaar. “I look forward to working with you.” At her nod of approval, he tightened his fist. “Roaar, stripes rise!”

In a flash of magenta light, his pain faded and new strength rose to take its place.

It's your destiny

Every pace, every strife

He grinned, feeling the sharpened teeth against his gums. Ladybug closed her eyes, let out a long breath, and unhooked her yo-yo. “Let’s get going.”

Roaar had given him a croquet-like mallet and discs on a belt, the mallet on his back like Chat Noir’s baton. His suit was red, black stripes offset by white criss-crossing his frame. The armor on it was lighter, surprisingly supple, and almost changed shades as he moved into the light. Combat boots similar to his Robin boots laced halfway up his shin, the suit’s gloves retaining the familiar fins.

Damian glanced into a shattered window, taking in his reflection. His hair was now shot through with red, almost like a tiger’s stripes. The domino mask across his face was like so, a deep auburn with the beginnings of white strips at its corners, and unlike Ladybug’s, two white fang-shaped crescents peeled down over his jawbone.

He unhooked the mallet, testing its weight. It was perfectly balanced, made of red material with, of course, black stripes running diagonally across its length.

“I agree. Let’s go.”

And he sprang into the air, super-charged with the kwami’s godlike strength, Ladybug zipping beside him on her yo-yo.

I am stronger

Reach up higher

Rena Rouge and Carapace were nowhere to be seen. A monkey hero wielding a staff had entered the fray aside Queen Bee, who could only have been Tim. An ox hero fought aside them, charging at akuma in his way — Jason. Clones of a rooster hero, however odd, fought with only the acrobatics of Dick.

A smile almost tugged its way onto his face. They were here. His brothers, they were here.

Scarlet Moth and Mayura — or the akumatized Catalyst — were nowhere to be found.

His feeling of something close to pride was shot down as Queen Bee screamed, Ladybug’s eyes widening as a white (and now rusty red) figure shot through their ranks, white claws turning red as they dug into her side.

Chat Blanc.

Fury twisted his insides, and he leaped down, hefting one of the discs. Trusting in the Miraculous, he tossed it into the air and whacked it with the mallet, sending it flying.

The disc shot through akuma like a rebounding chakram, smashing bones, armor, and akumatized objects at will, and struck Chat Blank in the back with a solid crunch.

Digging deeper

Find the fire

Chat Blanc fell, scrabbling at the ground. Damian snagged his ring with a sneer, smashing the center gem. An akuma flitted out, which Ladybug purified. He tucked the ring into a pocket, for her to take to the master later.

Queen Bee had fallen, Tim getting her to safety as Jason and Dick closed ranks around him and Ladybug.

“I see you’ve got a new outfit, little D,” Dick grinned.

“Tt. It has a better look than that ridiculous color scheme of yours.”

“Ah, you’re just jealous.”

“Compare sizes later, boys,” Ladybug ordered, yo-yo spinning. “We’ve got a job to do.”

“Can do,” Dick replied cheerily, readying his balero.

The akuma ran at them, and Jason, with the fortitude of the Ox, met them in stride, plowing through their ranks like, well, a bull in a china shop.

He fought akuma after akuma, breaking object after object as the three brothers — four as soon as Tim returned — made a circle around Ladybug, who purified the akuma.

Rena Rouge returned to the fight, joining their fight, but Carapace and Queen Bee were nowhere to be seen. “Carapace is taking care of Queenie,” she relayed. “They’re safe.”

Were they?

Feel enlightened

Won't be frightened, anymore

Finally — finally — they stood up against none. A lone scarlet butterfly flitted into view, catching Ladybug’s eye. She purified it, then began to zip in the direction from where it had come. The brothers followed her, trusting in her judgement as Scarlet Moth sent out another red akuma, purified it, and followed its course again.

One way or another, they would find Hawkmoth.

A beeping from Tim’s circlet alerted him that he was about to transform back, so he fell back, promising to catch up.

The team found themselves staring at Agreste Mansion, as fury built in Damian. Ladybug’s yo-yo whizzed by, catching another akuma as it flitted from the window.

“Damn him,” growled Jason. “Go fucking figure.”

She said nothing, merely readied her yo-yo and launched herself skyward, only to shatter the window of Hawkmoth’s lair. The three brothers and Rena thudded down beside her, ready for justice.

I can run now

So much faster

It was five on two. Hawkmoth never stood a chance. He was first rammed into the wall by Jason, Catalyst attacked by Rena and Jason at once.

Jason stepped aside to let Damian deal his blows, and then he, too, stood to the side as Ladybug stood over the weakened Hawkmoth, no sneer on her face.

Instead, it was almost… one of pity.

Rena Rouge yanked Catalyst’s akumatized iPad away, smashing it. The akuma form bubbled away to reveal Nathalie Sancour, a flickering Peacock Miraculous on her chest. She gently unclasped it, cradling the pin in her hands.

She crouched, and removed the brooch of the Butterfly. A purple light flashed, and Gabriel Agreste lay at her feet. One blow from Jason sent him unconscious.

The fox superheroine handed Ladybug the Peacock Miraculous, and the red-themed superheroine gave her a nod of thanks. “Rooster, alert the police.”

Dick saluted, and bounded out the window.

Now defeat won't be my master

They were done. They were done.

As the last traces of Miraculous Ladybug swept across the skies of Paris, the four Gothamites and the four Parisians stood on the top of the rooftops in wonder.

“Your Miraculi, please.” Ladybug’s voice was thick as the Butterfly, Peacock, and Black Cat kwami floated at her shoulders, almost melancholy that this would end.

“Orikko, end my cry.”

“Xuppu, show’s over.”

“Stompp, rampage’s done.”

“Roaar, stripes fade.”

The four sons of Bruce Wayne stood on the rooftop, Queen Bee nodding. “I thought she might pick you guys.”

“Wayzz, shell off.”

“Trixx, let’s rest.”

“Pollen, buzz off.”

Alya Césaire, Nino Lahiffe, and Chloé Bourgeois stood before them, kwami at their shoulder.

They looked to Ladybug, who gazed at them back with tears in her eyes.

“Tikki, spots off.”

For to conquer the demons

I won't have to wait any longer

Summer had begun. Paris was beginning to heal. Gabriel and Nathalie were imprisoned, as was Lila. Adrien was sent to live with his uncle in England, clearly getting the easy way out.

Alya, Nino, and Chloé walked out of school with Marinette, chatting happily amongst themselves. New earrings shone in Marinette’s ears, this time permanently jeweled in red-and-black. In fact, the four all carried tokens similar to their Miraculi, some subtler than others.

The Wayne boys met them at the bottom of the stairs, eager for a new start.

Damian pulled Marinette into a searing kiss, and his soul mark warmed against her jawline, her own happily tingling as she snaked her arm around his neck, deepening the kiss.

Alya’s palm flashed green and blue as she snapped a picture on her camera, Nino’s shimmering orange and white when he pushed up his glasses.

Chloé’s soul mark was clear for the world to see on her right shoulder, red and gold and black starkly contrasting with her white strapless crop-top. Kagami, happy to be out of her mother’s clutches for once, waved a greeting with her yellow-and-black hand.

They could finally, finally come out on top.

They weren’t perfect, but they were better than when they had begun.

I am stronger

[whumping-every-day]

Vampire Whump: Future Edition

For the lovely anon who requested Mind Rape with Callum for the BDHB! Thank you for writing in, anon!

This is set in some unnamed period in the future, where Ash is doing a little better, and Callum is helping him recover. This turned into great world building for things I hadn’t planned to introduce yet, so,,, enjoy, I suppose??? xD

Content warnings: Some mind control/mind invasion (in the form of a vampire’s thrall), violence, threats, some blood, fear, Callum acts very out of character, whump with no comfort.

--

“L-leave him alone.” Ash’s voice is frightened, but he’s determined, staring the other vampire down. His hands shake at his sides.

“Or what?” The second vampire is older; it’s visible in the ashen quality of its skin, the way its flesh seems to cling to its bones. It’s grinning, eerie and sharp, and it has Callum by the throat.

“Just-” Ash’s voice wavers, and he grits his teeth and clenches his fingers, trying desperately to quell the rising tide of panic. He can’t panic now, not like this, not when the master - or, no. Not when Callum is in trouble. “Let him go,” he snaps, and this time is almost sounds commanding.

The older vampire only laughs. Callum is frozen, but there’s fury in his eyes as he grapples at the creature’s arm. “Get - get off of me,” he spits, and the vampire sinks its fingers into golden locks and yanks his head back.

“I don’t think I will,” it purrs.

It unsheathes its fangs, glistening in the pale moonlight, and Ash cries out and takes a step closer. “Stop it!” The panic is audible, this time, and Ash feels something cold trickle down his spine as the vampire pauses. It could so easily hurt him like this... Callum is disarmed, and the quarters are too close to win in a brawl against a vampire.

“You care for this human?” The creature strokes long, pale fingers against Callum’s throat, and the hunter growls.

“I-” Ash balks, meeting Callum’s eyes from across the clearing. No one’s ever asked him that, Ash has never thought about that. He just knows that Callum had saved him. He knows that Callum is the reason he exists at all.

“Too slow,” the creature hisses, and Ash bares his own fangs in response; they are much smaller than the other vampire’s, young and untested.

“I said get away from him!” It’s screamed more than said, and Ash tenses to lunge forward; he’s smaller than the other creature, and if it gets its teeth into Callum’s throat it will be too late… he’s too far away. Ash can already see it, and Callum can see it too. But he can’t not try.

“Tell me, little one. Why should I?” The question is rasped around elongated canines, and the vampire nuzzles a path along Callum’s throat, scenting the hunter’s fluttering pulse. Ash draws in a short breath, but he doesn’t get the chance to answer. “I’ll tell you what,” the creature murmurs. “I’ll play nicely, and let you have your little friend back. However…”

The vampire shoves Callum to the ground and twists a hand in his hair. The hunter makes a low, angry sound in response to the pain, and the elder vampire only laughs. Callum knows how much trouble they are in, even if Ash perhaps does not; he’s close enough to tell exactly how much older this vampire is, and it is ancient. It smells like death and rot, and its fingers are paper smooth and powdery as they tip his chin up. A vampire this old is deadly… and a vampire this old will have full mastery of its thrall.

“You can have your hunter back. After I leave you a little present.”

Callum tries to avoid the creature’s eyes, he does. But he snarls and twists away from the hand on his chin, and the vampire rakes its claws across his face without hesitation. Callum cries out in shock, feeling something warm and wet dripping into his eye.

“Ah ah,” the creature is saying. “If you want to get him back in one piece, little one… you stay where you are.” Callum can’t see Ash anymore. He’s on the ground with an arm twisted behind his back, and the vampire has clawed fingers gripping his jaw. “Look at me, human.” Callum bared his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. The creature sighs faintly, and Callum feels more than sees it crouch down behind him. “Look at me,” it whispers, and its tone is low enough that only Callum can hear. “Or I will rip your throat out, and disassemble your little pet over there.” There’s unimaginable strength behind its grip as it squeezes Callum’s jaw; it is not an empty threat.

Callum hisses in air through gritted teeth, but he opens his eyes. The vampire is waiting for him.

“S-sir? Callum? What are you doing to him, s-stop it!”

He can hear Ash’s voice in his peripheral, but Callum’s full attention is on the older vampire’s eyes. They’re black like pitch, spreading to cover the sclera, and he knows what’s coming just as it happens.

Callum has been thralled before, and it feels a lot like falling. He’s tumbling, suddenly, thrown head over heels in his own mind, and he can’t steady himself. The hunter gasps and sways, and the vampire coos as he goes lax and pliant.

“That’s it, just relax.”

“What are you doing, leave him alone, please-”

“Oh, for the love of god, shut up.” The older vampire barely spares Ash a glance, even as its claws remain poised at the hunter’s throat. “Be good and wait,” it murmurs. “You’ll get him back alive.”

Callum can’t move, can’t see or speak or think. It’s like trying to tread water in a monsoon, and suddenly there’s a bright, overbearing pressure. It’s strong enough to knock the breath out of him, and Callum gasps for air, hands twitching at his sides.

He can feel the vampire rooting around in his head, and Callum is helpless against it, even as it riffles through him like his memories are pages in a book.

Hmm. So he is your pet. It’s not a voice so much as it’s a gong, and Callum grits his teeth and folds in on himself at the volume, even if it’s just in his head. A charity case, was it… poor bastard. And you, you wanted to try and save him… There’s a chuckle then, and it echoes and bounces off the insides of Callum’s skull, hard enough to make him queasy. He can’t answer, can’t respond – he can’t do anything. He’s helpless in the creature’s grasp. Callum had always known he would die at the hands of a vampire, but he had hoped it wouldn’t be like this… Ah, I see. The creature is still jumbling his memories around, and its presence in Callum’s mind makes him sick. It feels like decay, sick and rotting as it twines through the most intimate part of him. You wanted something to practice on… so you went and found yourself a creature that would take it without question.

No, Callum mouths soundlessly. No, it wasn’t like that…

Wasn’t it? The vampire’s inner voice booms, and it laughs at Callum’s ineffective struggling. Or was it exactly like that. He stays because he doesn’t know any better, and you keep him because you are guilty.

It’s not true. Callum knows it’s not true. But with the vampire in his head, pushing aside his thoughts and substituting them with its own… it is hard to remember what’s true and what isn’t.

So far, the creature has only searched, only looked. But once it has what it was digging around for, the tone of its presence changes.

You are guilty. And when I release you from this… you are going to hurt him.

Callum’s eyes widen in panic, the last vestiges of his own control battling for independence. He can feel the difference between an observation and a command in the last statement. No. No, he won’t hurt Ash, no!

You will. Because I am telling you to. And you. Will. Do. As. I. Say. Each word is punctuated with an enormous push of will, and Callum is strong for a human, but he’s not that strong.

“No,” he gasps weakly as the vampire keeps pushing. “Please…” Callum can feel himself weakening, falling under the creature’s spell, falling into obedience. He knows all the warnings signs, he knows what’s happening... but it’s impossible to resist a thrall this strong.

You will hurt him, because he is a vampire, and every moment leading up to this has been foolishness. Aren’t you supposed to hunt creatures like him? Not keep them around on a leash? There’s more laughing, and Callum is too disjointed to tell where it’s coming from, or even where he is – what’s going on? He doesn’t like it, he wants it to stop.

The hunter is released with a shove to his chest, and Callum falls to the ground with a gasping cry, his eyes wild and unfocused. Hurt him, the voice in his head keeps echoing. Hurt him, hurt Ash, hurt the vampire. It deserves it.

Callum cannot shake the feeling of something being terribly wrong, and he scrambles away from the towering vampire, immediately reaching for a stake. But his belt is empty, and his crossbow takes too long to load – had he been thralled?

Something blurs past him, and Ash lunges for the second vampire’s throat just as Callum pushes back to his feet. His vampire is much smaller, but Ash is fighting like he’s terrified.

He goes for the other vampire’s throat first, then his eyes, and the older vampire evades Ash effortlessly. It seems surprised, but in the end the younger vampire is thrown like he weights nothing. He skids to a stop and is immediately back on his feet, teeth bared and hissing.

In the interim, Callum frantically glances around their surroundings, and dives for the discarded wooden stake. By the time Ash lands behind him with a thump, Callum has it in hand, braced for combat. His mind is still woozy, still shaken, but his stance is firm.

But the elder vampire does not attack, and Ash scrambles to Callum’s side, breathing hard and shaking. Aggression still feels wrong to him, after so much abject obeisance. They are both on the defensive, and the other vampire takes a step away, holding up its hands.

“Hey, now. How about we call this a night. Leave you two to your own devices.” It smiles, wide and sickly, and Ash growls louder. But it is an ancient thing, this creature, and if it wants to leave… they can’t stop it. “Until next time, boys.”

Callum half expects it to simply vanish into the darkness, like all the legends and myths say vampires do. Instead, it turns and walks away, and even though it shows them its back without fear, it is somewhat anticlimactic. It’s a strange sort of de-escalation, and for a moment it’s like the air is still. Ash listens to the vampire’s faint footsteps until he can’t hear them anymore, and then there’s silence.

Callum is still woozy. He remembers being caught, being pinned, and then there’s nothing. A sharp pain shoots through his skull, and the hunter gasps, doubling over.

“Callum? Are you okay?”

The hunter’s head snaps up, and for a split second, he doesn’t see Ash, pale and drawn with worry. He sees a vampire, and he’s got his crossbow out before he knows what he’s doing. “Get away from me,” he snarls, and the vampire flinches like he’s been shot.

“C-Callum?”

The human is breathing heavily, and his grip on the crossbow isn’t as steady as he needs it to be. Something is wrong, he can feel that much, but he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from the vampire in front of him. It’s dangerous, they were all dangerous – how could Callum have been stupid enough to leave it alive? To be kind to it?

You’re going to hurt him, a voice whispers, and Callum doesn’t know if it’s a command or a promise. He’s still dizzy.

The vampire has gone deathly still, dark eyes wide, and a distant part of Callum’s mind supplies a name. Ash. This is Ash. He knows this vampire. He doesn’t want to hurt it. But Callum’s finger is closing on the trigger before he can make the conscious decision. Or perhaps, it happens without him choosing at all.

“I don’t know what it d-did to you, but – Callum? I - nngk!” The vampire crumples with a bolt sticking out of its leg, and Callum loads the bow again on autopilot, swift and decisive. The motions come easy, borne from years of practice, so Callum can’t understand why something in him is screaming to stop. This is what he does, is it not? He’s a hunter. This is his job, this is his purpose in life.

“Callum, what are you doing? W-wait, just – just wait, please-” The creature scrambles back as Callum advances, but it freezes and whimpers when Callum points the crossbow at it again. It’s not trying to escape; instead it’s cowering, looking at him with those wide, frightened eyes. “C-Callum? I’m – I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have – I shouldn’t have gotten in the way, p-please – I’m sorry.” The bolt quivers from where it’s sticking out of its thigh, and the vampire sniffs pathetically.

Callum could stake him from here. The bolts are made of wood; one to the heart and it would all be over. But somehow, that doesn’t seem right. You’re going to hurt him, the voice whispers, and Callum wonders back if that means killing him, too.

After a long moment, the hunter lowers the bow. No, the voice whispers, he doesn’t have to kill it. The vampire shudders in relief, and it only whimpers softly as Callum strides over to it.

“I don’t know why I ever let you out of your cell,” the hunter mutters to himself. His own words are foreign, even as the mantra plays on a loop in his mind. Hurt him. Hurt him. Hurt him. Callum can still feel that sense of wrongness, niggling in the back of his brain. But he can’t focus on that yet, not while there’s a vampire free to prey on the unsuspecting countryside. Callum will put everything where it belongs, make sure everyone is safe, and then he’ll worry about why his head feels stuffed full of cotton.

This is Ash, he remembers, as if from a distance. He still moves like he’s on autopilot.

“Get up,” he snaps. He hauls the creature upright, and it whimpers softly but doesn’t fight him.

Ash is marched back to the lab and shoved into the cell he’s been sleeping in ever since he got there. The lock on the door hasn’t been used in months, but this time Callum snaps it shut, and gives it a solid rattle for good measure.

“I dunno what I was thinking,” the hunter mumbles, and it’s like he’s in a daze as he stumbles away. Ash sniffs again and sinks down to the floor, pushing back into the far corner. He knows the other vampire did something to Callum, but he doesn’t understand what. And he knows that Callum didn’t mean to shoot him… at least, he hopes not.

He’s been good, hasn’t he? He’s been trying his best. But… maybe his best wasn’t good enough.The hunter had seemed pretty certain when he’d pointed his weapon at Ash.

Blood is still welling up from around the embedded shaft, and Ash hiccups on a sob.

The cell had been converted into something like a bedroom a long time ago… the building was the sheriff’s station before it was a lab, so there isn’t much extra space. The cells are the bedrooms, and only two of them still have a door. There is a bunk and a little dresser in Ash’s, an electric lamp, even some clothes and shoes. There are three blankets on the bed, which is three more than he had ever expected. He debates on tearing up one of the shirts to stem the flow of blood, and then decided against it.

He must have done something to deserve this, somehow. He won’t earn further punishment by soiling the hunter’s clothes.

Ash is frightened, and in pain, but he curls up there on the floor and rests his head against the wall. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, and he has a horrible feeling that it had been a long time coming. Good things could never last for long, of course he was bound to screw up. But he could do nothing except wait for morning, and hope that perhaps by then, his transgressions would be forgiven.

[onlythehours]

On Hillary...

It seems to me that one of the most obvious statements of the 21st Century is that Hillary Rodham Clinton is a divisive figure. But to unpick this divisiveness raises many questions, and cracks open the tides of contradictions that swell within the Hillary discourse. Nanette Burstein’s new four-part documentary Hillary (available on Sky in the UK) goes a long way to capture what makes HRC such a compelling figure, someone who seems to be at once ‘ahead of her time’ and behind the times. The documentary is structured in a way that offers glimpses of her 2016 presidential campaign woven through a chronological telling of her early years; Bill Clintons’ gubernatorial and presidential campaigns; her role as First Lady; her tenures as senator for New York and Secretary of State; and, her ultimately unsuccessful presidential campaign.

I really should say that I have long been a fan of Hillary. I’m not objective (who is?). I find her inspiring, funny, charming, endearing, and yes, likeable. I know these statements alone will raise the ire of many, and perhaps justifiably so. Hillary, like many politicians, straddles a very tricky chasm – one’s personality and persona as a living feeling person, and their role(s) in global political decisions which adversely impact many people. Part of what makes Hillary such a complicated figure to explore is the way her life is a metaphor for so much. She is so many things to so many people: feminist hero, political maverick, betrayed wife, knowing accomplice, hard-nosed career woman, corrupt career politician, dedicated public servant, and the list goes on. The point I find interesting, that I really want to capture, and that Burstein’s film settles into is the fraught relationship between Hillarys’ role in history and her role in the present.

The ways in which we can observe generational, social, and historical changes through the stages of Hillary’s life (as well as observe how Hillary herself played an instrumental role in shaping American consensus, and dissent, on many of these very topics) reveals much of what makes Hillary’s legacy so complex. Hillary is in the unique position of being both one of the many women who lived these changes, as well as having the public notoriety and fame to be a ‘historical context map’ for these changes. Her persistence to not exist in history makes her very difficult to grapple with. We are used to exceptional woman who shaped history, remaining just that – figures in history. We are less accustomed to these women continuing to live their compelling lives publicly and presently, and with little regard for their detractors. It is often easier to view problematic figures more favourably in retrospect, one wonders if the temptations to view them more harshly in present tense is also true? Maybe not, but it’s an interesting thought in Hillary’s case. Whether said outright or not, I think a reason behind much of the venom directed at Hillary is a response to the ingrained, implicit bias we (read western, specifically American) as a culture have for women who demand to be heard, and not only that, but women who have the audacity to want to lead – to desire to build, shape, and remake the very apparatus through which voices are heard and decisions are made.

As Burstein’s documentary shows, Hillary did forge paths (alongside a sea of exceptional women). However, the course of Hillary’s life pushed her to the front line in terms of exposure. I am not blaming internet culture, social media, and advances in technology and news media for the problems Hillary faces. But I do think there is something to be said for the inadequate ways in which we can incorporate the past of someone’s life into their present endeavours. Burstein captures so clearly this tricky paradigm – Hillary spent the better part of two decades navigating attacks that painted her as ruthlessly politically liberal and radically feminist (effigies of her were burnt), to then have to spend the most recent tenure of public life proving herself as liberal enough, feminist enough. As the final episode suggests in its title “Be our champion, Go away”, Hillary faces a unique problem (possibly created through such a protracted time in the public eye, and a determination to continue to rise higher): she doesn’t fit well in the current media discourse. The vastness, and notoriousness, of her history seems too unwieldy to be handled in a consumable way that allows her to not just represent the past but also play a role in the future.

Burstein’s documentary highlighted another specific problem Hillary faces – the perception of herself as false, scripted and performed. For instance, at their rallies both Bernie Sanders and Trump scream, shout, their voices course and determined. The documentary, nor Hillary make this defence, but it is clear through so many micro-aggressions and misogynistic rebukes that Hillary (like so many female leaders) is not permitted the same performance of anger and frustration as her male political counterparts. Hillary has to moderate her performance in ways others simply don’t. It seems the consequence of this male/female double standard is the view of Hillary as false. Hillary’s own team highlight her apparent ‘lack’ with public speaking. Hillary herself remarks that her relationship with the press and public was inevitably worn down as a result of years of media controversies.[1] Her awareness that she will be attacked for a raised voice or spontaneously chosen word cannot not have an impact of her public performance, and as such its reception by the audience. In a scene from the documentary one of Clintons aides describes how one of Hillary’s biggest strengths is also her biggest weakness. He uses her vast knowledge of policy as both a pro and a con. He gives the example of healthcare. During debates when Bernie and Hillary are asked about healthcare, Bernie’s response may be ‘free for all” and “universal”, whereas Hillary’s response may be a twenty-sentence-long description of her healthcare policy that she knows inside and out. A policy formed with the knowledge of how difficult it is to pass legislation. But this doesn’t read as well.

This brings us to one of Hilary’s biggest problems, her pragmaticism. This pragmaticism is also noted when a young woman attending a rally asks Hillary if elected president would she ban fracking. Hillary replies ‘No I would not do that. A president can’t just ban fracking, that’s not how our system works”. These moments typify a problem with Hillary. In the current media landscape, adoration for leaders not always based on articulated policy comes a misunderstanding of how certain legislative systems work (which is not a defence of these systems). One could argue there isn’t much difference between Bernie Sanders blanket commitments to bans, and Donald Trump’s executive orders. Yes, their intentions, and ideological views, are entirely different, but the ideal that any political leader is the fixer of all is shared, it seems, by both the right and the left.  In 2020, and indeed 2016, Hillary’s pragmaticism was never a positive.  I am trying hard not to make this a Hillary vs Bernie debate. I’m not a fan of Bernie (and that’s fine), I think his 2016 and 2020 campaigns did a great deal of damage[2], not just to Hilary’s chances of beating Trump after she secured the democratic nomination, but also to political discourse in general. But that is a debate for another time.  

I think Hillary will be a difficult watch for people who feel they are aware of her political leanings and regard her as a war-monger, bought-and-paid-for corrupt politician and Wall Street conduit.  The documentary does defend some of these charges, but it doesn’t fully engage with Clinton’s political choices, especially on foreign policy and her tenure as Secretary of State under President Obama’s administration. Hillary’s ideologies, while not uncommon in the American political landscape, are observed with a different rigour, and tone, compared to her male counterparts (Obama, Bill Clinton, Joe Biden etc). Hillary, according to media discourse and online opinion is something of a war hawk[3]. Burstein’s documentary doesn’t spar with Clinton’s policy stances. It doesn’t explore her ideological viewpoints. It is focussed on her as a woman. It wants to paint as comprehensive a picture of Hillary as a woman, and how her life fits within a series of social and political changes throughout her more than three-decade role in public life, as possible. It of course goes without saying that politicians cannot be excused of their harmful decisions based on the fact we like them alone. I accept Hillary is a problematic figure. I also accept I am no expert. I have little comprehension of the global political challenges that underpin many political and military decisions. It is worth pointing out, not as a defence of Hillary per se, but rather as added context regarding the way gender is embedded in supposedly straightforward profiles, that decisions taken by President Obama are often laid at Clinton’s feet. The men who have supposed ‘good’ public images, like Obama, face less scrutiny than Hillary.[4] This brings us to a key point visited upon in Burstein’s documentary Hillary, and a woman’s, apparent need to defend, be complicit in, and take undue responsibility for, the actions of men.    

The baggage of Bill Clinton’s affairs is never far from discourse on Hillary. Burstein’s documentary explores this and offers some critical insight into the ways in which women are exploited in media discussion in ways men are not. The requirements are different. This leaves Hillary in a difficult situation – on one hand she is at times defined by the men in her life (the media and public demanding her response and rationale), and on the other the actions of men are used against her, or as representative of her. It is a lose/lose double standard.

I suppose the root of Hillary’s issues is that she has lived life so publicly and with such a period of time that she has gone from being a scary liberal, to a right-of-centre moderate, without her views necessarily changing that much. Her pragmatic approach may not have changed, but the contexts surrounding it undoubtedly has. I’m unaware of many other western political figures who have enjoyed (although Hillary may choose a different word) such a duration of not only public notoriety, but also political influence, and power. There is such a gulf between who many see Hillary as (split into vociferous ‘for’ and ‘against’ camps) and who Hillary sees herself as. Ultimately, I think these conflicting ideas of Hilary are so firmly built that many won’t go near this documentary. I suspect it won’t persuade Hillary detractors, and it certainly won’t dissuade Hillary fans. It may, however, provide extra context for this compelling and clearly trailblazing figure. It might remind many, or indeed show for the first time, the remarkable achievements HRC made (and continues to make) throughout a lifetime of work. Even if it doesn’t provide enlightenment, it could calm the choppy waters surrounding the brand of Hillary Rodham Clinton, allowing for a brief moment an acknowledgement of her and towering achievements, and the determination and resilience that accompany them.

[1] Her ‘Tea and Cookies’ scandal a prominent example. https://qz.com/762881/the-blatantly-sexist-cookie-bake-off-that-has-haunted-hillary-clinton-for-two-decades-is-back/

[2] https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/commentisfree/2017/apr/03/the-destruction-of-hillary-clinton-sexism-sanders-and-the-millennial-feminists

https://www.wsj.com/articles/the-damage-bernies-hillary-bashing-may-do-1460995155

[3] https://foreignpolicy.com/2016/07/27/hillary-the-hawk-a-history-clinton-2016-military-intervention-libya-iraq-syria/

[4] https://www.nytimes.com/2016/04/24/magazine/how-hillary-clinton-became-a-hawk.html