#will post eventually on ao3

[ryemiffie]

Guys.. Stan canonically writes fanfiction, presumably posting it to ao3.. I bet that man has got the ultimate author's curse notes

"Sorry I'm late to update guys! Got arrested by the federal government for stealing materials from them to rebuild an interdimensional portal to save my long lost twin brother! But hopefully things will be more consistent now that I'm done saving him!"

"My bad for this being so rushed, currently living through the literal apacolypse!"

"Didn't mean for this too take so long y'all, had to reread the whole fic to refresh my memory after getting my brain wiped to kill the demon who used to date my brother, y'all know how it is!"

[crabsnpersimmons]

New 'Do, Same You now on Ao3!!

it's here! my silly hairdresser AU that sparked from my silly page of doodles is now a fic!! i hope you'll give it a read!

In the mood for something new? Come on in for a new hairdo! Day or night, dusk or dawn, Find what you're looking for at the Shooting Star Salon!

EDIT: they're handing out coupons for the salon! 20% off all services! Not valid with other offers. Valid until end of January 2025. (some of them are drawn in crayon by Clip himself 🖍️)

[magicpiano]

When Tim is 10 years old his parents force him to go to some boring party in Metropolis held by Lex Luther. This would have been relatively normal if he hadn't ended the night kidnapping rescuing a clone of superman he found when he was snooping in the basement.

The good news is Tim is literally the last person Lex would suspect of stealing his clone, so he doesn't come looking (at least for a while.) Also Tim's parents are barely home! So with Superboy's powers he can easily stay quiet and hide. The Drakes don't even notice someone else living in their home.

The bad news is Tim has no idea how to take care of a super powered clone with no life experience (or even a name) when he himself is still a child. But whatever, at ten he is old enough to raise himself, so surely he is old enough to raise his new friend too?

Something, something, hijinks ensue, Tim is adopted by the batfam early and Clark steps up to be a dad.

[quietly-sleeping]

@artsarasp i've been trying to work on this for two weeks now lmao. I'm calling it done.

Sitting across from the being occupying the body of his oldest friend was a daunting experience, the memories of the “Scenario Pusher” haunted him. He could still feel it, the shattering of Xuan Su, the shattering of his soul. 

However, it wasn’t nearly as painful as the brief flash of what caused him to draw his sword, the large box with a short note. All it said was a name, but that was enough. Qi crackled through his meridians as his mind lingered on the vision of the box. The being was staring at him, it wasn’t smiling anymore. 

[Yue Qingyuan should not take any more Small Scenario Pushers.] The being was as close to frowning as Yue Qingyuan had seen it. It almost looked worried. “You have said that if we take these missions, you will restore Shen-shidi.” Yue Qingyuan nearly didn’t recognize his voice. It was flat, cold, broken.

[This system cannot allow Yue Qingyuan to continue.] The being was unnaturally still, even before Shen Qingqiu’s last major qi deviation, he was always moving, waving his fan, running his fingers along the edges of his robes. The Shen Qingqiu after the qi deviation was always moving as well, the being that wore his shidi’s face was still. 

“Why.” Yue Qingyuan just wanted this to stop, Mu Qingfang, Liu Qingge, and even Shang Qinghua had seen things because of this creature. Yue Qingyuan had never seen Mu Qingfang like that before, distraught and inconsolable, sobbing about a disaster and injuries he couldn’t heal. [This system has calculated that if Yue Qingyuan continues to take missions, he will continue to act OOC. This system cannot allow this.] 

Yue Qingyuan ignored the bite of his nails as they dug into the meat of his palms, “You’ve said this before, what does OOC mean?” Calm, he will remain calm, he will not lash out at the being holding his shidi’s body captive. [OOC is the act of a character acting outside of its setting.] The being’s face slowly returned to the unnatural smile it typically boasted. 

“Is that what we are to you? Characters in a story?” Yue Qingyuan couldn’t understand this being. [This system cannot answer that.] The being had its smile back, but the longer Yue Qingyuan stared, the more certain he was that he could see something in its face twitching. 

“Do you truly believe that we are static characters unable to change?” Yue Qingyuan barely held back the roiling fury in his body, the emotion was choking him, and his skin stung as his nails drew blood. [Characters are capable of change, however, large leaps of setting…can cause…] 

The being’s words stuttered to a stop, eyes blank as it stared at something over Yue Qingyuan’s shoulder. [Warning!] Yue Qingyuan flinched back as the being’s voice changed, so much louder and higher in pitch. [Unknown power is interfering with–] Yue Qingyuan jerked up, the being was choking on blood. 

“Call Mu Qingfang!” Yue Qingyuan yelled. Disciples were waiting outside the room and startled into action at the call of their Sect Leader, their feet thumping heavily on the ground as they rushed away. Blood was dripping from the being's mouth and eyes as it choked. Yue Qingyuan lunged around the table to reach for the being. 

But once his hand touched its robes, Yue Qingyuan’s vision stuttered. 

He wasn’t standing in the same room. Instead, he was standing in a butchered version of the bamboo house. He couldn’t recognize the materials or style the bamboo house had been combined with, it didn’t matter though, since he could see the man sitting on the bed. 

The man wore the greens and teals of Qing Jing, Yue Qingyuan lunged closer, desperate to touch and confirm it was Shen Jiu. However, as his hands landed on the man’s arms, all he could see were the differences between this man and the Shen Jiu he grew up with. His eyes, silently shedding tears as he stared down at something glowing in his lap, were brown, his lips, red and bitten, were fuller than Shen Jiu’s. 

Something jerked in Yue Qingyuan’s chest as he realized this man, the man inside Shen Jiu’s body, wasn’t the Shen Jiu Yue Qingyuan knew. This was a stranger. Yue Qingyuan’s hands flexed on his arms, fighting between the instinct to let go and the desire to shake him for information. Where was his Xiao Jiu, how long had this stranger been in his body? 

No, Yue Qingyuan knew how long, knew it with a certainty that rotted in the pits of his stomach. Yue Qingyuan’s hands tightened on the man’s arms, he didn’t know this man, this imposter wearing his shidi’s skin. However, as the man shuddered and curled over the glowing book in his lap, something in Yue Qingyuan reacted. 

It was an instinct ingrained in him since childhood since he could recognize the youth clinging to the faces covered in dirt, since he knew that the way they grew up wasn’t right. His hands curled around the man’s back, bringing this fake to lean against his chest. 

Yue Qingyuan very rarely felt revulsion when faced with people. Yet, with this man that he knew under the guise of his shidi, he couldn’t help the sickening jolt in his chest. Even as he smoothed a hand down the crying man’s back, he wished that instead of this man, it was Shen Jiu. He wished that the person they were struggling to free from the being was the man who truly owned the name Shen Qingqiu. 

“Why,” The man’s voice was rough, torn from silence the tears he’d shed. Yue Qingyuan grimaced, carefully rubbing the man’s back as hands came to lightly grip the front of his robes. “Why am I reading this endless tragedy? It makes no sense.” The man whispered. It didn’t seem like he expected Yue Qingyuan to respond, so he kept silent. 

Yue Qingyuan was staring at him, looking at the man’s vulnerable neck, it wouldn’t take much effort. Damaging the man while in his mind would deal a heavy blow. Would it be enough to allow Shen Jiu to take his body again? 

Was Shen Jiu even around? Had he left for good, like he thought Yue Qi had? Yue Qingyuan would deserve it, he’d deserve to be left behind because for months, years he had not known it wasn’t his shidi in his body. 

No. He did know, he knew this imposter took over Qing Jing Peak and his shidi’s body and said nothing. Because he was a coward, because he was selfish. He said nothing because he wanted the Shen Qingqiu who let him get close, who let him into his home without viciously digging his fingers into gaping wounds. The sect leader’s hand twitched from where it rested on the man’s back, the thought barely forming before the room around them shook.

He couldn't help the way his arms tightened around the man deliriously muttering to himself. It seems the qi deviation was getting worse, since blood was seeping through the walls, dripping steadily down them as the room shook again. Yue Qingyuan had pulled the man to his feet, keeping one arm around him as he eyed the effects of the qi deviation. 

Harming the man currently in the body of his shidi would only harm the body. Leaving the body’s cultivation unstable and potentially harming Shen Jiu’s chances of retaking his body. Hopefully, Mu-shidi has already reached them and is working to stabilize the qi deviation. Though, Yue Qingyuan thought with a grimace, he’d be thoroughly lectured on the dangers of touching a cultivator going through a qi deviation without knowing what kind it was or what caused it. 

Yue Qingyuan shuffled the man in his arms away from the bleeding walls as the room shuddered, glancing around he froze as he heard something other than the mumbles of the other man. Don’t you dare.

It hissed in his mind, the familiar tone freezing the blood in Yue Qingyuan’s veins. “Xiao Jiu?” He whispered, his eyes flicking around the room, desperate to catch a glance of the man’s silhouette. 

Don’t call me that. The voice snapped, it was him. Yue Qingyuan could feel everything in him relax for a moment. Even as the voice of his shidi hissed at him. It was fine, anything to prove Shen Jiu was still around. 

Now get out of here. Yue Qingyuan couldn’t see Shen Jiu, he could only see the blood dripping down the walls as they shuddered. “Shen-shidi,” He forced out, “Where are you?” Are you blind as well as stupid, Zhangmen-shixiong? The mocking voice slithered down his spine as he felt something grasp the back of his robes. It wasn’t the man in his arms, he was still clinging to the front of his robes with both hands. 

Yue Qingyuan went to turn, to see his shidi again after so long, but Shen Jiu’s voice stopped him dead. Don’t look. The hand tightened, and he could feel the tips of the fingers scratch against him. 

Listen to me. Shen Jiu said as if Yue Qingyuan wasn’t hanging onto every word, breathing them in almost greedily. You will leave here, and you will tell no one that it isn’t me you are trying to get back into control of this body. His voice was as close to calm as Yue Qingyuan had heard it in years. It lacked the usual undertone of mocking or derision, it made his eyes burn.

“Shen-shidi,” He wanted to complain, to beg his shidi, but the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth in front of Shen Jiu. You will listen. He hissed, something heavy coming to rest on the center of Yue Qingyuan’s back. He longed to press back into the feel of his shidi’s forehead, but the man in his arms kept him still. 

I may hate this, Shen Jiu began, However, I prefer this little idiot in control of our body to the machine keeping him hostage.  Shen Jiu’s words were nearly lost to the renewed shaking of the walls around them. Yue Qingyuan kept his eyes forward, but he ached to turn around. 

“Shen-shidi,” He began again, cut off by a sound of frustration from the man behind him. Shut up. If you don’t have to explain yourself, neither do I. The weight of his forehead vanished from Yue Qingyuan’s back and suddenly he was hanging on by a thread, only the weight of the hand twisted into the back of his robes holding him together. “I-” He couldn’t speak, nothing made it out of his tightened throat.

He tightened his grip on the man in his arms, at some point he had fallen silent, quietly resting for just a moment. Ask him his name. Was the last thing Yue Qingyuan heard before everything faded out.

It was just him, floating and lost in the darkness for the barest moments before he was falling into consciousness again. He snapped awake, sitting up quickly. It took only a moment to register where he was before he got up and left the private room on Qian Cao. He felt renewed and worn down. 

He couldn’t bring himself to be furious with the imposter in Shen Jiu’s body, not even the disgust and revulsion were there anymore. He was furious instead, with the being. The System. His shidi was in there, and he wanted Yue Qingyuan to bring him back. To give him back control over the body he was in. 

Yue Qingyuan could do it, he would do it. He would drag the being out of his shidi’s body and destroy it if he had to. And once the being was gone, he could begin to look for a way to separate souls. Two souls shouldn’t have to share a body, and Yue Qingyuan was willing to dig out Tianlang-jun if he must to build another body for the imposter. 

[c4t1l1n4]

Hey, so you know that post I made earlier today?

Twins in Time AU but instead of 1982!Stanley getting sent back to the past he gets set to Post-Wierdmaggedon 2012 because I need him to get love and comfort from Ford.

Yeah, I wrote it. You can find the not beta'd version under the cut and I'll probably post the still-not-beta'd version on AO3 tomorrow.

You're A Hero, Stanley

A not really at all, but inspired by, Twins in Time AU ----- Stanford Pines is disassembling the portal when it happens.

The kids have gone home after their 13th birthday, and Stanley is out at the store getting groceries. They decided to take a few months to plan everything before setting out to sea. With Bill Cipher defeated and the portal dysfunctional, Ford had no reason to feel uncomfortable being in the basement alone. He's down there, disassembling it completely so it can't be remade when it turns on. He stares at it for a moment, something like fear coursing through his veins as his worst dreams come true.

There's no way that it should work. Parts are missing. The energy source is gone. In fact, Ford was almost done. He stares at the bunch of wires in his hands and the tools on the floor, then back at the blue glow of the portal. Suddenly, a figure falls out of it and crashes to the ground. Ford reaches for his gun, pointing it at the figure as they groan. The figure rights themselves, standing to their feet and looking around. Ford can't believe his eyes.

"Stanley?" He asks in confusion, lowering his gun.

The figure—assumedly Stanley—stares at him in a similar state of uncertainty. "Ford?" His voice rings out hesitantly.

"What happened to you? Are you okay?" Ford asks, rushing over to examine him. "Did something happen at the grocery store?"

"What are you talking about?" Stan says, reeling at the attention. "We were fighting, and I went through your weird portal thing, and now I'm here."

Ford frowns, the portal hanging emptily up above them like a threat. He takes in his brother's brown hair and thick jacket, tucking his gun away. "When are you from?"

Stan looks at him oddly. "What is that supposed to mean?" He blinks, looking at Ford as if seeing him for the first time in the dim light. "What happened to you?"

"Stanley," Ford repeats emphatically. "What year is it?"

"1982."

Ford's eyes widen in shock, and he inhales abruptly. His hands start the shake, and he feels the need to take a deep breath. This Stan is from 1982. 1982. Arguably the worst year of Ford's life. This is when it happened. But it seems that instead, Stan was pushed through and ended up here. He suddenly feels like he doesn't know what to do. He looks at this version of Stan and sees one so similar to his own and knows that this is how he looked and this is how he felt when he was left alone. It scares him, and it's sad. It takes him a moment, and there's a short period where he's just staring at him. He can tell that it makes Stan uncomfortable by the way that he squirms in place.

He then pulls his brother into a tight hug because there's nothing else to do. It's obvious that Stan doesn't know what to do either from the way that he tenses in the hold. Maybe Ford should've been more careful with his abrupt movements and constricting motion, seeing as this Stan is fresh from a life on the run. He knows he's made the right choice when Stan eventually melts into the embrace.

“I'm so sorry,” Ford says, apologizing for things in the past. “And thank you,” he says, apologizing for things in the future.

Stan doesn't say anything back, but Ford suspects it's because there are tears in his eyes. "Are you okay? You never answered my question about whether or not you were hurt.” Ford says, pulling back and holding him at arm's length to investigate him closer.

“I’m fine,” Stan says, “just got some dust in my eye.”

Ford nods knowingly.

"What is this place anyway?" Stan demands. "And why are you so old?"

"This is Gravity Falls, Oregon, and it's the year 2012." Ford grins as Stan's eyes widen in surprise.

"You mean to say my nerdy twin brother invented time travel?" He asks in disbelief.

Ford chuckles. "Not quite. I believe you're from an alternate dimension. If my theory is correct: My Stanley is at the grocery store, and your Ford is working furiously to get you back."

Stan scoffs, eyes dropping to look at the ground. "I doubt that," he says somewhat miserably.

Something sharp and painful pierces Ford in the heart. He knows he's made a lot of mistakes in the past, but seeing it spelled out so clearly in front of him is a special type of torture. "I know you don't believe me, but if your Ford is anything like me, he does love you. He's just an arrogant, ignorant ass about it."

“Hey,” Stan defends on reflex. “That's my brother you're talking about.”

It is equally heartwarming and pain-inducing to see Stan jump so readily to his defense when he knows that the Ford of that time would so easily push him to the side. “He's me,” Ford points out. "It’s just the truth.”

Stan frowns, like he's not happy about it.

"Just like I know it's the truth when I said he cares about you."

Stan eyes him skeptically. "He told me to take his journal as far away from him as possible," he deadpans.

Ford cringes. He doesn't really remember what he said to his brother in that paranoid, insomnia-induced haze, but that sounds pretty bad. "Fair," he conceded. Ford did think he hated his brother for the longest time, even if he really didn’t, so he supposes that Stanley isn't too far off. "Then I can't do much besides reassure you that I love you now."

Stan looks away again. "Not me though. I mean, some version of me, I guess. But yours is at the grocery store, or so you said."

Ford grins, grabbing Stan by the shoulders and forcing him to look at him. "Stan, I love every version of you. Alternate dimension or not. If you can't find it in yourself to believe me, at least look at me. Am I lying?"

Stan studies him. “No,” He says, and something between disbelief and awe breaks out across his face. "You really love me?" He asks, a sound like hope ringing in his voice.

Ford continues to smile, wider this time, and pulls his brother into another hug. "Of course I do. You're my brother. Even more than that, you're a good person and a hero. Stanley.” he says as the young Stans in his arms tightens his hold around him. “You're my hero.”

The blue glow of the portal highlights Stan in his arms as it springs to life again. Ford rests his chin on top of his brother's head, allowing this younger version to take comfort in the moment. He stares up at the portal—the portal that in no way should work and yet does—and holds his brother tighter for a little longer. “I told you he was going to get you back,” Ford says, wishing he didn't have to let him leave. “Now, it's time for you to be his hero.”

Stan takes a step back and with a grin, turns to face the blue glow. He lets himself get sucked into the gravitational pull, floating up and disappearing. It doesn't get any easier or less terrifying to watch someone disappear into its gaping maw, but Ford is reassured that this Stan is going somewhere great.

The portal closes, dowsing the room in darkness once more, but as Ford pulls apart the last pieces, he is filled with hope.

[hoomandoescosplay]

Pining For The Pines | Ford Pines x Reader x Stan Pines

Playlist

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

[queen-of-writing-bad-things]

Henry Danger Reader Insert | Captain Man x Reader: SEASON 1 Masterlist

| Status | Complete!

Captain Man never thought he'd grow old. For years, he fought to keep Swellview safe from monsters and villains, but one day, he realised he couldn't do it forever. Enter Henry Hart, a thirteen-year-old boy needing an after-school job, but he never expected an indestructible superhero to hire him as his sidekick.

Now, they blow bubbles and fight crime with (y/n), Ray's best friend of many years, keeping them in check. He swears he's not in love with her, but Henry doesn't buy it. Will they ever confess?

This story is mature in places with adult themes and language. It uses she/her pronouns for a female reader, but anyone is free to read and enjoy :)

Main masterlist

Episode 1: The Danger Begins Pt.1

Episode 2: The Danger Begins Pt.2

Episode 3: Mo' Danger, Mo' Problems 

Episode 4: The Secret Gets Out 

Episode 5: Tears of the Jolly Beetle 

Episode 6: Substitute Teacher 

Episode 7: Jasper Danger 

Episode 8: The Space Rock 

Episode 9: Birthday Girl Down 

Episode 10: Too Much Game 

Episode 11: Henry the Man-Beast 

Episode 12: Invisible Brad 

Episode 13: Spoiler Alert 

Episode 14: Let's Make a Steal 

Episode 15: Super Volcano 

Episode 16: My Phony Valentine 

Episode 17: Caved In 

Episode 18: Elevator Kiss 

Episode 19: Man of the House 

Episode 20: Dream Busters 

Episode 21: Kid Grounded 

Episode 22: Captain Jerk 

Episode 23: The Bucket Trap 

Episode 24: Henry & the Bad Girl Pt. 1 

Episode 25: Henry & the Bad Girl Pt. 2 

Episode 26: Jasper's Real Girlfriend 

[starlightvld]

Up in Smoke

(Also on AO3)

The first time Ghost rips the cigarette from Soap's mouth, drops it on the ground, and stomps on it as he passes by, Soap is too stunned to say anything for a full ten seconds. They've only been working together consistently for a couple of missions, and even as his superior officer, the audacity of the action floors him.

By the time his brain restarts, Ghost is long gone.

--

The second time Ghost steals Soap's cigarette, he bursts out in a string of Scottish curses and tackles Ghost from behind before the wanker can drop it on the ground. An impromptu sparring match ensues, fists and curses flying. 

Afterward, he doesn't feel much like a cigarette anymore — not with the split lip, anyway. Besides, the buzzing under his skin that usually drives him to smoke is just... gone.

Price catches wind of the incident, of course, and calls them into his office a few hours later. By that time Soap has calmed down enough to be... maybe not okay with it, but at least able to see the humor. 

"What's this about you muppets scuffling by the smoking area?"

"Just a little sparring to blow off steam," Soap says.

"Ghost?"

"Nothin' to worry about, Captain."

"No? I've got one soldier who looks like he just got back from a bar fight, and the other..." He squints at Ghost. "He get a hit in on you, too?"

"Yeah," Ghost replies in that deadpan tone of his. "Coupla black eyes."

It's a joke. 

Ghost is telling a joke. And it's objectively not funny. It's not. But Soap bursts into hysterical laughter all the same. 

The corners of Ghost's blacked-out eyes crinkle. 

Price rubs his temples before dropping his hand on his desk. Soap presses his lips together to contain his laughter.

"Sparring happens in the gym. I'm sure you know the place. It's where we have things like mats and gloves. I catch you two bare-knuckle fighting again, and you will regret it."

And it's enough to sober Soap up. He avoids Ghost as he ducks away to catch dinner.

--

The third time... well, no. He supposes that's really the fourth time. 

Because the actual third time, Soap had come back from a shit mission where everything went wrong. Intel was faulty, exfil was delayed, and people under his command died. It didn't happen as often in SAS as it had in the regulars — the soldiers here were well-trained and hard to kill — but that made it all the worse. 

When Ghost tried to pluck the cigarette from his mouth, Soap growled. 

"Back the fuck up, Lt. Or Price is gonna be disappointed in both of us."

Ghost paused, and their eyes met. Slowly, Ghost lowered his hand. 

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Fuck no."

"Thank God."

Soap didn't have it in him to even huff a laugh. He took a long drag and blew the smoke away from Ghost as a peace offering.

To his surprise, Ghost didn't leave. He spun around and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. They stood there together, utterly silent, as Soap let the heat and sting in his lungs soothe the beast inside that wanted to rip the world apart.

When he was done, though, he was surprised to find he didn't want another. Usually after shit missions, he'd stand there and smoke half a pack before his hands would stop shaking.

He finally met Ghost's eyes. The man quirked a barely visible brow.

"S'pose we should take it to the mats this time?"

Ghost pushed off the building and started walking. Soap followed like a lost child looking for a way home. 

--

The fourth time is in Chicago. His hands are shaking not from losing soldiers but from almost losing his own life. The cigarette trembles in his grip as he stands outside the bar, the biting wind turning his fingers and probably his lips blue. He lifts it to his mouth, inhaling deep—

And then it's gone.

The whine that bubbles up from his gut and bursts from his throat is nothing short of humiliating. But God. God. He needs it.

"Not now. Please, Ghost."

"Why?"

Ghost hasn't thrown the cigarette down. Yet. He cocks his head to the side and gives Soap a long look. Soap can only tremble from the cold and a need that goes deeper than a simple hit of nicotine.

"I just... I need it."

The cigarette drops to the ground, but Soap doesn't have time to lament the loss before that same hand is curling around Soap's neck and pulling him into a fucking massive chest. The other arm comes around Soap's shoulders and...

Ghost just stands there, holding him. And Soap can't help melting into the warmth and solidity of the man who saved his life just hours ago. He dares to curl in deeper. To raise his hands and clutch at Ghost's jacket. To let a few, silent tears escape his tight control.

Finally, his muscles relax. Ghost must feel it, because he turns and leads Soap back toward the bar.

"Why do ye even care?" Soap mumbles from his spot tucked into Ghost's side.

"Because those things'll kill ya."

Soap supposes the "I like you alive" is implied at this point.

--

Soap loses count after Chicago. He gets stretches of days when Ghost is on a solo op or out with one of the other operators when he can smoke in peace. So he does.

At first.

He's been hooked since he was a rebellious teen trying to make his mark on the world. He's tried to quit multiple times, but it never seems to stick. The first bad mission or adrenaline-filled near miss and he's back at whatever smoking spot he can find, puffing away.

He finds himself trying to cut back, though, even when Ghost is away.

Any time Ghost is on base, all bets are off. In addition to darting by and making a grab for it or sneaking up behind him and flicking it out of his hands, Ghost has gotten more creative. Sometimes Soap will pull out a cigarette only to find he's "lost" his lighter. Sometimes the cigarettes themselves go missing — he clutches his chest and mourns all that wasted money whenever a whole pack disappears. 

He supposes it's all just going up in smoke anyway, though.

He should be angry. But in truth, it's almost a relief to hand over the reins to Ghost. To let the man help him by annoying the shit out of him until he wants to give up on it entirely.

Which is definitely the point. Ghost has made that perfectly clear.

So, whenever he gets the urge to calm his racing thoughts or overactive mind with a cigarette, he finds Ghost and annoys him instead. They talk, or spar, or simply sit in silence together, doing their own thing. Ghost doesn't often touch him — their moment in Chicago is still the closest Soap's ever gotten to the elusive Ghost — but he also doesn't push Soap away when he slumps into Ghost's side after a hard day or leans over his back when he's sitting at the table in the 141's common area on base.

The urge doesn't go away, of course. And sometimes, when things get really bad, Ghost will just sit or stand with him like he did the third time. Still, he finds himself smoking less and hanging out with Ghost more.

--

The last time Ghost steals a cigarette from Soap, he simply stands beside Soap and holds out his hand. Soap immediately knows something has gone terribly wrong. Still, he's too invested in the game now to not hand the cigarette over.

He nearly keels over when Ghost pulls up his mask and takes a long, hard drag. Soap watches in fascination as his cheeks hollow, his neck muscles strain, his lips curve around the paper. It's erotic in a way he really shouldn't be thinking about in regards to his emotionally unavailable superior officer, but the knowledge hasn't stopped him yet. Since that day in Chicago — probably before if he's honest — he's only ever wanted to be closer.

Ghost coughs a little and hands the cigarette back.

"Fuck. Just as disgusting as I remember."

"Ye used to smoke, then?"

"Before I joined up, yeah. Hated it, though."

"The smell? Or—"

"Everything. The taste, the smell, the heat..." Ghost trails off, his hand rubbing over his bicep in a strangely specific way. He shakes his head and looks back at Soap. "Not your problem, Johnny. Forget about it."

Soap's hand is darting out, fingers curling into Ghost's jacket, before he's properly thought through the action. Ghost pauses before turning back. They stare in silence for a moment until—

Soap stubs out the half-burned cigarette and drops the butt in the trash. He licks his lips. Glances up at Ghost. The mask is still sitting on his nose, and Soap stares at his lips for longer than he should before pulling the pack out of his pocket and throwing it in the trash, too.

"Cannae have ye thinking I stink, can I?"

"Too late."

But Ghost's throat bobs with a hard swallow. Soap wets his lips, takes a step closer, and uncurls his fingers to slide his hand up Ghost's chest until his fingertips are resting on Ghost's shirt collar.

"I dinnae think it is."

Ghost turns and walks away. Soap closes his eyes and drops his hand, internally cursing his impulsive behavior. The scuffing of boots walking away from him is like nails on a chalk board.

Until they stop, and a gruff voice calls out, "You comin'?"

A slow smile slides across Soap's mouth. "No' yet."

A huff — exasperation? laughter? a bit of both? — before, "Better get movin' then."

And Soap has never been more glad to follow an order.

[corralinesage]

Learning you by heart (1/?)

Natasha Romanoff/ Reader Christmas romance <33

Summary: You lock eyes with a stranger in the audience of an opera, her troubled appearance piquing your interests immediately, the thought of her sticking around to haunt your mind that demands answers for her predicament. Turns out that there might be more to her than you could have ever imagined.

Rating: General audiences

A/N: Let me know what you think!

Chapter 1: Columbus Avenue

Your body was cold, your armpits clearly sticky with sweat. You felt like you couldn’t quite breathe deeply enough despite the amount of breathing exercises and vocal warm ups you had already done. You fiddled with the fabric of your costume, playing with the pearls embedded into the corset of your gown. You had already gone through it many times that week, hell, you had already been on stage that day, yet it somehow didn’t stop being as nerve racking as it had been the first time. You stood behind the curtains, eyeing the brightly lit stage apprehensively, going over lyrics in your head almost obsessively, slowly starting to whisper them to yourself to make sure your mouth was capable of moving how you wished it to. The low tenor of your coworker’s voice bellowed across the stage as he held the final note ceremoniously until his lungs would no longer allow him to continue. You took one final inhale before taking steady steps onto the stage, the strobe lights nearly enough to blind you despite how used to it you were by then. You got into character, taking one more deep breath before beginning to sing.

You knew the piece by heart, it flowed out of you on its own, requiring little to no conscious effort from you, just like it had during rehearsals and the opening night. Your body moved with the music as you acted out the lyrics you were singing, the gorgeous red gown you were wearing dragging slightly behind you. The song was a dramatic monologue. You sang to the audience, telling them your version of the events that had taken place just a few minutes prior. You could tell from your tone that you were nervous. You could tell it from the way your voice threatened to slip into vibrato when it wasn’t needed. You struggled to get a proper grip on controlling your voice. You didn’t quite know why, but you felt on edge, worn out, and unsteady. You couldn’t see the audience, their ominous dark figures seeming undeniably unresponsive to your display of emotion. You looked at them with your wide eyes, the higher notes demanding a kind of concentration that wouldn’t allow you to think about anything else. You scanned the audience, deciding to make the mass of people less intimidating by choosing an individual to focus on. You had found it to be helpful when stage fright caught you by surprise, your gaze moving down from the higher levels of the theater to the front.

There was a woman there, a woman roughly your age, her grim exterior forcing your attention on her. She looked pained, the gaze of her light eyes weighed down by something that you couldn’t decipher. Your heart suddenly beat a little louder in your chest, from the strain of the high notes or the demeanor of that woman, you couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, you couldn’t stop it, nor could you tear your eyes off her. She had red hair, messy and unkempt, which stood out to you in the mass of nobility who usually dominated the crowds. She looked like she had dirt on her face, maybe even blood, but you weren’t sure if it was simply her hair curling against her cheek. She wore black clothes, almost like a uniform. She could have passed as a security guard, almost, had her uniform not resembled one of a dystopian warrior. You briefly noted the elderly couple beside her dressed in a dress and a sharp suit, their demeanors exuding high status. She didn’t fit in.

Suddenly her eyes met yours, the intensity of her gaze nearly making you choke on your own breath. She looked unwell, tears pooling in her eyes, eyelids red rimmed and raw. Her lips were pink and swollen. She was in distress and very obviously so. You felt the sudden need to help her somehow, yet all you could do was keep singing. You held her gaze, all your energy going on keeping your voice steady. You felt the way your eyes suddenly filled with tears. It happened sometimes when you were truly in character and able to channel the pain that you were communicating to the viewers, but this wasn’t that. You felt helpless, completely captivated by her grim gaze, your powerful voice and the orchestra filling the otherwise silent theater. She wasn’t okay. She was hurt, the look in her eyes longing, pained, troubled. You couldn’t explain it. You didn’t understand.

Your tears spilled over, the final long notes demanding every ounce of focus from you, yet you couldn’t tear your eyes off the red-headed woman. Your body ached, your heart throbbing ruthlessly. She kept looking at you, eyes staring at the other without a single interruption. You allowed your arm to rise up slightly as if to give your lungs more room to produce the desired notes, your other hand finding your stomach to remind yourself to keep your core tight to avoid slipping into your head voice. The final note resonated everywhere around you, on the stage, in the audience, in your head, rising into a crescendo before reaching its end. There was a brief silence, the lights turning off and breaking your eye-contact with the mysterious woman, before booming applause erupted in the audience, filling in the silence to the fullest extent. The lights came back on, the people in the front rows standing up to show their appreciation for you and the rest of the cast that walked onto the stage to receive their praise. You looked frantically around for the red-headed woman, your eyes blurry from tears, head fuzzy from whatever you had just experienced. You couldn’t see her.

“Holy shit, Y/N”, Beatrice whispered discreetly as she came to stand beside you, gently turning you to fully face the audience as you clasped hands. You looked at your cast member, unable to really say a word. “Way to end the show.” Her tone was filled with positive astonishment, so you decided to take her statement as a compliment, hoping that your performance had been up to standard because in all honesty, the only thing you remembered from it was those pained eyes that you had now lost into the crowd. You forced a smile on your face, focusing back on the applauding audience to bow for them.

“Girl, are you okay?” Beatrice asked you once you had managed to get backstage and escape the eyes of the audience. The show was finally over.

“Yeah, why are you asking?” Your hands came to your ear to remove your earrings as you both finally reached the dressing rooms, followed by a few more cast members. You looked at the Christmas decorations that were littered in the already chaotic room filled with makeup and clothing, walking to your designated vanity.

“I don’t know. You seem off.” She let out a slight chuckle. “You really sold me with that final scene.” You gave her an amused smile.

“I’m fine. Just got a little carried away maybe.”

“It was phenomenal”, she sighed, almost as if enamored by you and your talent. She was a few years younger than you and played a much smaller part in the opera, but she was nonetheless your favorite person in the cast. She knew when and how to be quiet. She knew how to give you your space, which you appreciated greatly.

“Thank you. I guess I was feeling it a little more today”, you chuckled. “You did really well yourself.” Beatrice was practically glowing.

“Thank you.” She had a childish glint in her eyes and an intense blush on her face. You knew she admired you greatly. “Care for a cupcake?” She approached your chair with a plastic container of peppermint cupcakes in her arms, offering you the selection.

“Who are these from?” You looked at the packaging for a card of some sorts, the room slowly filling with the rest of your cast members, some chattering enthusiastically, others clearly looking forward to withdrawing socially.

“On the house. It’s a little holiday treat. They brought it over right before the show.”

“Don’t mind if I do”, you hummed, picking one out of the box for yourself. You were starving. Beatrice grabbed one for herself, sitting down beside you as you began to debrief the success of the night. You tried your best to remain present for her as you ate the cupcakes, removing your false eyelashes, jewelry, and hairpins as you talked, but you could barely keep your thoughts in check. The image of that woman returning to the forefront of your mind time and time again. Was she okay? What had happened to her? You stayed in the dressing room for hours, the rest of the people filing out to go recharge themselves for the shows of the following day, but you and Beatrice were in no rush. The lights got turned off aside from the ones on your vanity, gentle Christmas music sounding from the radio that somebody had left on by accident. It sat on a table across the room beside a box of leftover Christmas ornaments. The atmosphere was comforting, so much so that you didn’t even notice the time pass as you munched on the cupcakes that you and Beatrice might have hogged for yourselves.

Even hours later, when you had gone to a very late dinner with Beatrice, you found your mind plagued by the woman’s grim eyes and distraught face. You parted ways with Beatrice around midnight, which made your predicament even worse because she was no longer there to distract you and your compulsive mind. Who was the woman and why had she made such an impact on you? You tossed and turned in bed, unable to wipe the woman’s face from your mind, unable to shake the creeping sense of… something. You couldn’t tell what it was, but it didn’t even matter because regardless of what it had been it was clearly there to stay. You slept poorly, your dreams an odd jumble of stress from the shows you had coming your way paired with the woman and her mysterious presence.

All in all, you were able to recognize how ridiculous of you it was to fixate on such an insignificant detail in the crowd, especially a few shows later when you had caught yourself scanning the audience as if she would have attended the show twice in the span of a few weeks, let alone even the same year. It was more than likely that she would never come see that same performance again. You caught yourself staring intently into the dark crowd time and time again with the woman on the very forefront of your mind. Every time you opened your mouth and began to sing on the stage during the weeks leading up to December, a ghost of that feeling of the opening week would linger in your body. You had never been so captivated by a gaze. You had never witnessed such intensity in anyone’s eyes. You tried to look back on the most meaningful people in your life, your mother, your siblings, your best friend and roommate, your ex who you had thought to be the love of your life yet came up short. You even considered the people who had looked at you with hatred in their eyes, but it couldn’t compare to the red-headed woman.

You quickly became frustrated with the idea of her. What right did she have to look at you with such intensity, with such reverence, with such agony? Who was she to plague your mind so ruthlessly and consistently? You stared daggers ahead of you as you once again waited for your turn behind the curtains to bring the show to its finish. You fiddled with your gown until you realized you were about to rip off the pearls from anger, so you left them alone, focusing your frustration on your cuticles and bottom lip instead. You watched your coworker, Daniel, belt out his last note which functioned as a cue for you to get into character. You took a deep breath, counted to five in your head, like you often did, and headed onto the stage.

You slipped into character with familiar ease, waltzing across the stage in an emotion filled frenzy as your lips formed each of the rapidly sung words, allowing yourself to get fully immersed into your role to escape the thoughts that dominated your mind, thoughts that had been dominating your mind for most of November. You directed your rage at the audience, communicating your character’s frustration through not only the tone of your voice but your expressions and gestures. And then you nearly slipped right out of your character when your eyes found an unexpected figure a few rows off from her designated seat in the audience. You had sworn to yourself that you would stop obsessively checking the seat she had once occupied, yet the habit proved to be harder to shake than you had expected to. However, all of a sudden none of that mattered.

She was there. It had to be her. Either that or you were seeing hallucinations. Had you not been met with such an intense wave of dejavú that her gaze inflicted upon you, you could have disregarded her as someone who merely shared a resemblance with the red-headed woman, but you knew you weren’t mistaken. Your voice nearly faltered, your body stilling for a fraction of a second. It was just enough for the woman to be able to tell that your reaction was her doing. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, but that simply wasn’t an option for you when you were singing. You needed air, filling your lungs in a spastic inhale before continuing to sing, your eyes glued on the woman and her now much more serene features. She looked more put together than the first time. She looked more like she belonged in the audience, her clothing allowing her to blend in.

You felt dizzy, your eyes remaining intently on her so that you would not have the chance to lose her again. She had beautiful features, even more beautiful than you remembered. Her intense eyes held your gaze just the same, a gentle smile pushing up the corners of her mouth. You felt a pull to her, a pure sense of childish curiosity that couldn’t be explained. Holding her gaze, singing to her, felt safe, yet at the same time you felt like falling apart, like you had forgotten to put on your dress before walking onto the stage. There was something in those eyes, something that couldn’t be explained. You felt your eyes fill with tears. You didn’t know why. Once again, it wasn’t part of the act. Her smile widened, your tears spilling over. You couldn’t control it, the anger of your character fading into defeat, into helpless silence as your final note reverberated around you, bouncing from the walls of the theater.

The lights went off, panic rising to your chest. You were going to lose her again. You could barely breathe as you waited patiently for the lights to turn back on, the rest of the cast joining you on stage. You saw the woman stand up among the other people in the audience, your eyes nailed on her as the applause roared into life. You felt your hands being grabbed from either side for the bow that your cast did after every show, but all you could focus on was making sure that she didn’t have the chance to escape. The lights above the seating area turned on, illuminating the crowd better, your brows drawing into a horrified frown when you saw the woman give you a fond smile before dropping her clapping hands and turning to the side to leave the row of seats. You didn’t even realize that you immediately let go of the hands that held your own, rushing off the stage without giving it so much as a single thought. Your heels clicked against the floor as you ran behind the curtains, hurrying out of the backstage area. You nearly stumbled over your feet, but you didn’t let it hinder you, rushing down the hallways to the entrance of the Metropolitan Opera House. There were some people lounging around but since your show happened to be the last one of the night, most of the people in the building were still clapping in the theater.

You looked around frantically, scanning for even a lock of red hair among the people, your feet already carrying you toward the exit. She couldn’t have gone far. You saw that one of the front glass doors slid shut, a lone figure heading for the street. You had no idea what your intention was, why you needed to see her face again, to see more of her, nor did you stop to ponder the matter. You ran after her, pushing the glass door open, your bare arms greeted by an icy gust of wind. It was snowing outside, the large snowflakes floating down from the sky in the darkness of the night, clinging to your hair and dress, melting on your warm skin. Your heels sank into the pillowy layer of snow with each step you took. There were Christmas lights and streetlamps around you, the glistening, fresh snow illuminating your surroundings. For just a moment you felt your heart stop at the magical sight. First snow.

After recovering from your sudden experience of pure awe, you started to look around at the people on the plaza that was in front of the opera house. You scanned them frantically from head to toe in search of your mysterious woman before spotting her walking along the lit-up Lincoln Center fountain toward Broadway. You picked up your speed, your arms gathering your gorgeous gown up and out of the way after nearly falling face down in the snow on your slippery heels, but you managed to keep yourself upright somehow.

“Hey!” You didn’t know why you shouted, a few heads turning your way immediately, but none of them belonged to the person you were after. “Hey!” You wished you would have had something to call her, something specific that would attract her attention. You were getting closer to her, only a dozen feet between you when she glanced back at the sound of your footsteps. Her eyes widened in shock, but she didn’t stop, discreetly picking up her speed.

Fuck, what were you doing? Why were you coming after her? Natasha’s chest squeezed with anxiety. You weren’t supposed to- She wasn’t ready, she felt exposed. She rushed forward in the powdery snow, trying her best not to look like she was indeed running away from you. How could she be such a fool, such a wuss? She should have been able to face you just fine. You were no one. She was no one. It would have meant nothing; two strangers meeting. Except none of that was true. You were everything and meeting you would mean everything. Natasha came to the intersection of Columbus Avenue and Broadway, crossing the former street to Dante Park. She glanced back once more to see you drown momentarily into a small group of people passing by which gave her the perfect opportunity to change direction and continue to Columbus Avenue down south.

You slowed down, noting that the traffic was abnormally slow for the night as you crossed the street, trying to relocate the woman again, but with significantly less enthusiasm. You were shivering, trembling from the cold, your sudden frenzy starting to fizzle out. What were you after? You were harassing some innocent stranger without any proper justification. You yourself didn’t even know what you were after and you could no longer even see her auburn curls as you reached a large, abstract clock statue that stood in the middle of the strip of walkway between the two roads, always as hideous as ever.

The snow-covered branches of the trees of Dante Park gave Natasha enough coverage to blend into the rest of the pedestrians lounging on the street. Ten seconds later she had completely lost you. She had no doubt that you would give up on your search when the two of you shared no connection. She could have easily kept going and carried on with her night, but she couldn’t. Her heart ached so violently that she could no longer take another step. She looked at the row of snow-covered benches on her left, briefly contemplating if she should sit down for a moment. The pain was immense. It was brutal. She looked back toward the crossroad where she had last seen you, spotting you by the large, ugly clock. You brushed your hands over your bare arms, shivering very visibly. You looked around, taking a few blind, aimless steps toward her direction, but you clearly had no intention to continue your chase.

You were so close to her, Natasha’s heart beating out of rhythm as she watched you briefly glance her way again, prompting her to step behind a street map post to avoid being caught. What a loser she was. There was no point in trying. She should simply leave you alone. That’s how things were meant to go, that was your designated path. She didn’t belong there, she didn’t belong in your life. She waited for a moment to be on the safe side before peeking her head from behind the post, needing one more look at you before she would be ready to let you go. Her heart jolted. You were closer, walking her way as you rubbed your hands together violently in an attempt to warm yourself up. You and your lacking clothing received a few appalled looks from bystanders, but you paid them no attention, your focus moving back to the opera house. You brought your hands up to your mouth, huffing a warm breath over them despite how little it did to stave away the cold.

You stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street, slightly off where the crosswalk had been marked, too busy warming yourself up to look around. Every cell in Natasha’s body stung in fear when she saw the way your gown glistened under a pair of headlights that appeared from nowhere, the driver taking advantage of the unusual lack of traffic by going slightly over the speed limit. Natasha didn’t waste a single breath, charging right at you without a second thought or even half a consideration for her own safety. All she could see was a car that was seconds away from running you over, and all she could think about was not letting it happen. Her body collided roughly with your own as she pushed you off the street and out of the car’s way just as the driver hit the breaks. You didn’t scream, you didn’t let out a single sound. You couldn’t. Natasha heard shocked gasps and a few horrified shouts from the sidewalk, but they disappeared into oblivion as she looked at you lying beneath her in the powdery snow.

Your eyes were wide, staring up at Natasha in pure terror as you lay on your back, your icy hands gripping her waist over her wool coat. You couldn’t process what had even happened, but you could feel her hand beneath your head, protecting it from the roughness of the collision with snowy asphalt, her hips and thighs pinning you down to the ground. You felt the way your chest rose and fell rapidly, your corset making the process of breathing feel even more laborious, your head spinning alongside the world around you. All you could do was stare up at what you had just now discovered to be green eyes. The streetlights illuminated her red hair, giving it a gentle glow, snowflakes clinging to her curls as more snow came down from the sky. Her cheeks were a soft pink from the cold, the tip of her nose matching the color, plump lips an even deeper shade of rose. You couldn’t feel any pain, the coldness of your body preventing you from feeling anything at its full intensity, yet you felt like you could feel her.

“Are you okay, dorogaya (darling)?” A hint of inappropriately possessive worry bled into her tone as she uttered the words, the endearment slipping out by pure accident, reminding her to take some mental distance from you despite your very intimate position. You continued to stare up at her, your lips parting but nothing came out. You nodded your head, but it came off as more of a tremor.

“Y-yeah. I’m- I’m-” Your teeth started clattering. You were freezing out of your mind.

“Are- are you okay?” The voice belonged to a panicked boy on the driver’s seat. Natasha glanced back at the scene behind her, noticing that the car had done a full one-eighty on the snow and ice when hitting the brakes, a few cars piling at the scene, waiting to get past, some drivers exiting their cars to see if an ambulance was needed. Natasha could tell the boy was young and clearly an inexperienced driver, anger flashing within her, hot and ruthless.

“You could’ve killed her”, she said in a voice icier than the snow pressed up against your skin as she moved carefully off you, barely sparing the boy a single glance before her attention was back on you. She knelt in the snow, her helping hands pulling you slowly to sit upright. You looked at her, you looked at him, you looked at the car, the snowflakes above you. It all felt so surreal.

“Are you hurt? I’m so sorry. Oh my god, I’m so fucked.” He was seconds away from crying, his whiny tone getting on Natasha’s nerves. She turned to him again, her stoic face conveying every bit of disdain that she felt toward him.

“Get lost.” The boy was clearly taken aback by her hostility, but he didn’t seem to be the type to defy authority, his hand fumbling for the car key. “And learn how to fucking drive.” He nodded his head, some bystanders watching the scene unfold, a few coming closer to ask if you needed help, but they were quickly convinced that you had made it through without a single scrape. Or well, not exactly. Natasha brushed the melted snow off your bare arms and shoulders, taking notice of the irritated skin there. Parts of it had been peeled raw by the rough collision with the ground, but they were barely enough to be considered wounds.

“Thank you”, you blurted out suddenly after she had helped you back on your feet.

“You’re welcome”, she smiled softly, a hint of something, something that was driving you insane, behind that expression, her hand coming up to your face to brush aside some of your hair. You looked at her, observed her carefully, unsure of what to say to her or how to voice why you had come after her in the first place. You felt like you needed to explain yourself to her, but you didn’t have the words for such a feat. “Turn around.” You followed her instructions, feeling like your brain was a bit behind from the current moment. “You’ve got…” She brushed her hand down the back of your dress, saving whatever she could from your gorgeous apparel. “A bit of snow.” Your arms curled against your body automatically as you continued to shiver like a leaf in the wind, your lower lip trembling, teeth chattering. “Here.” You turned to look at her. She had removed her dark brown coat and was offering it for you to wear. It looked warm and comfortable, the effect amplified by the fur neckline of the coat. You shook your head immediately, noting that she was only wearing a thin, satin blouse beneath it.

“No, you’ll freeze”, you protested weakly, but Natasha simply shook her head.

“I’ll be okay. Besides, you’re practically already frozen. I’ve still got a few minutes.” You tried to chuckle at her joke, but you were far too cold to produce such sounds. She wrapped the coat tightly around you, making sure it fit you snuggly to stave off the cold.

“Thank you”, you mumbled, feeling a pleasant but weak heat bloom on your cheeks from her considerate act.

“Keep it. It looks good on you.” Natasha brushed her hand over your shoulder as if admiring the fit on you. It brought her comfort and serenity to know that you would own a piece of her.

“W-what?”

“I have to go, and you probably should too.” There it was again, that look, that look in her eyes. You felt a visceral reaction in your body for being looked at that way. You felt unbearable disappointment even if you didn’t expect a complete stranger to want to hang out with you for longer than necessary. She had only acted out of basic human decency. She noted the hesitant look on your face. “It’s okay, detka (baby), you can keep it.” It was only fair that she would get to slip in one more endearment before leaving. You couldn’t really react to her words, still trying to process the fact that you had just gone through a near death experience. “Look both ways when crossing the street. Please, for my sake and my sanity.”

“I will.” Natasha started backing away, a bitter smile on her lips.

“Wait.” You felt hurt, abandoned, but you didn’t understand why. “What’s your name?” She pursed her lips, wiping the smile off her face as she looked away as if contemplating whether your question was worth answering or not.

“Natasha.” You smiled. “Yours?” She already knew the answer.

“Y/N.”

“I’ve always loved that name. It suits you”, she hummed softly.

“Thank you and thank you for saving my life. I owe you everything.” She shook her head in mild amusement as if you didn’t quite know what her words entailed.

“You owe me nothing.” She took a few more steps back. “Take care of yourself, Y/N.” She gave you one last smile before turning around and walking away, hopefully heading somewhere away from the cold. You stared after her, feeling distraught by the intimacy of the way she has said your name, an odd shiver going down your spine. You hugged the coat tighter around you, watching her disappear into the city covered by a blanket of snow.

[angeldreamsoffanfic]

content warning: this took SUCH a turn to dom eddie munson wanting to make steve harrington just absolutely one, turn his brain off, and two- realize that his interests aren’t stupid. like it’s not… necessarily explicit on here but when this gets a bit more fleshed out… it’s gonna have to be posted on ao3 😂

-

The thing is, Steve Harrington knows hair- okay?

And he also knows that his friends completely like to tease him about it, that they think that most of the time his affinity for it is a bit narcissistic. That he shouldn’t spend as much time as he does on it and he should “let go sometimes”, but he can’t.

He can remember watching his mother years ago in the bathroom mirror teach him how to style his hair, with little spritzes of water and a just a few puffs of sweet smelling hairspray. He can fully and thoroughly recall flipping through magazines when he was younger, back when his parents had started to travel, and taking beauty tips from the pages in regards to detangling. He’d spent three days with a knot at the nape of his neck, after a few days of swim practice, and he had too much pride at the time to ask anyone for help.

But anyway, Steve Harrington knows hair- and it’s not that he thinks other people don’t… but he also knows that some people don’t care as much as he does. And that’s why watching Eddie Munson take a brush to his curls (completely dry which is painful in it of itself) is absolutely heartbreaking in the weirdest way possible.

Steve also is completely and totally aware that his face must be doing… something, because Eddie has turned around to fully face him- instead of glaring daggers at his own reflection.

“What, Harrington?”

Steve shook his head quickly, fingers drumming against his thighs as he diverted his attention to the tv again. He hadn’t had a television in his room before actually, had figured it’d be a bit too much of a distraction from trying to sleep. Steve is sure there’s some study about the light too, a study Robin had rambled to him before.

That’d been before Vecna though, before the year 1986 and all of it’s horrors that it brought along to the town Hawkins once again. In Steve’s mind? A small tv and a couple of VHS tapes was probably the least of his worries after surviving everything. The tv itself had some poorly made horror movie on, something Eddie had brought along from his government provided home, while the two waited on Robin and Nancy to make their way over.

“Stevie?” Eddie had moved closer, brows slightly furrowed as his dark eyes widened. “What’s on your mind, man? Not getting like…” Eddie mimed wiggling his fingers at the side of his own head, and Steve couldn’t hold back the laugh that made it’s way out from his throat. “Okay so Vecna is not getting his creepy hands on you… so what’s up then?”

Steve took a moment and shrugged, before he let himself card a wide-splayed hand through his own hair. The hairspray was just ever so slightly crunchy under his fingers, and Steve huffed as he shrugged again.

“It’s so stupid man, like don’t even worry about it.” Steve flapped a hand in Eddie’s direction, and Eddie was quick to click his tongue against the back of his teeth as he moved closer.

“Nuh uh, big boy.” Eddie eased himself onto the foot of the bed, and Steve forced himself to not scrunch his nose as Eddie’s dry curls swished a bit around his shoulders. “C’mon I can see it in your eyes! Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell m-”

Steve cut Eddie off with a press of a flat palm up against Eddie’s lips, and Steve tried to not think about how soft Eddie was up against Steve’s skin. Steve groaned as Eddie’s tongue swiped against his flesh, and Steve hissed as he reared backward away from the older teen.

“Fucking gross dude!”

“Usually I’m the one doing that, big boy!”

Steve and Eddie both spoke up at the same time, and the two eyed each other warily, before they split into soft laughs between the two. Eddie then shifted further up onto the bed, back pressed up against the footboard, before he knocked his leg against Steve’s.

“C’mon dude, what’s up?”

“Your hair!” Steve finally answered, before he then folded his arms over his chest. “I know it’s stupid, but watching you tear a brush through it dry is actually breaking my heart, Munson.” Steve groaned, and ran a hand over his face before he continued. “And I know it’s stupid and everyone always says it’s stupid of me to care about hair so much-”

“It’s not stupid.” Eddie’s firm tone cut Steve off, and Steve glanced back toward the man through his lashes. Eddie’s jaw is set, firm and unyielding, and Eddie let out a dry laugh. “Fuck man, what has everyone in your life done to you?”

“Huh?”

“You’re… fuck sweetheart, you’re allowed to enjoy things.” Eddie’s voice has gone saccharine sweet, soft and gooey- and the tone has an immediate effect on Steve, making his brain feel all fuzzy and soft. “So, what has everyone in your life done to you?”

Steve doesn’t answer and instead just shrugged again, and it draws a quick intake of breath from Eddie- before the man has pushed himself up and off of Steve’s bed. He’s quick and methodical in his movements, scraping his curls up and off of his neck into a low bun at his nape. Eddie then pulled his boots back on, before he checked his pockets for a moment, and then proceeded to nod to himself. Eddie then extended a hand out to Steve, and wiggled his fingers with a small grin on his face.

“C’mon then, dude. We need to go to the store.”

Steve let his hand meet Eddie’s, and is quick to ignore the flutter in his stomach at the touch. His hands, Eddie’s, are larger than his but the fingers skinnier and calloused from what Steve knows to be years of guitar playing. That, and Eddie now has a pretty decent job at the local mechanic shop, and Steve knows that Eddie enjoys the job. Knows that Eddie likes working with his hands, and Steve tried to ignore the idea of Eddie getting those hands on Steve—

“Stevie?” Eddie snapped his fingers in front of Steve’s eyes, and Steve shook himself out of his revere. Steve sent Eddie a nervous smile, and he tried to ignore the flush of heat he can feel under his cheeks at the soft coo that Eddie let out. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“Mhm,” Steve bobbed his head in a quick nod, even when Eddie hummed before he moved as to grab the pair of Nikes that Steve had on earlier in the day. “Where are we uh, headed?”

“You and I-” Eddie moved back to Steve, and he curled a hand around Steve’s right ankle before he pulled- which caused Steve to unsteadily rock back, before he clamped a firm hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “I gotcha don’t ya worry baby-” Eddie murmured, soft and saccharine again, before he continued on as if Steve’s heart isn’t about to beat out of his chest. Eddie worked Steve’s Nike onto his foot, methodical in tying the laces tight, double-knotted just like Steve does. “You and me are gonna make our way out to Anderson for the afternoon.”

“But why?”

Eddie just sighed, soft and slow at Steve’s softly asked question, before he grabbed at Steve’s left foot, and set about slipping the other shoe onto it. Eddie took a moment, made sure to tie the laces of the shoe tight, before he stood back up so he could peer down slightly at Steve. Steve doesn’t move as Eddie pinched Steve’s chin soft in between his thumb and pointer, before Eddie slightly shook Steve’s face from side to side.

It’s enough that something in Steve just burns.

“Because Anderson has a nice and big hair supply shop in it, and we’re gonna go spend a little bit of government hush money there.” Eddie cooed, his voice soul-achingly sweet again, and Steve forced himself to swallow down the saliva that had been quick to pool in his mouth at Eddie’s tone. “And then when we’re done, I’ll drive us back here and you can do anything you want to my hair.”

“Anything?” Steve croaked, eyes wide as he kept his eyes on Eddie’s from under his lashes. Eddie’s smile is gleaming, and Eddie hummed quietly as he nodded himself.

“Absolutely anything, sweet thing.”

Steve Harrington knows hair, and he knows that.

And he also knows that his friends completely like to tease him about it, well, it’s seems like except for Eddie. So Steve let himself smile and nod, and he reveled in the way that Eddie grinned- a quick flash of teeth as he pinched a little firmer at the meat of Steve’s chin, before he let go.

“Atta boy.”

-

just a little sacrifice to the tumblr readmore gods

[cozylittleartblog]

idk if I've said it before, but your portrayals of both Rouxls and Queen are among my favorites, and the way they are when you combine the two is the sole thing that got me to say "yes" to queenkaard. When I first saw it in the game and it started catching on as a ship, I was like "nooo I hc him as gay," but then after seeing your stuff I was like "oh nvm I totally see this now."

i think hearing "i didn't see this ship before, but after your art i understand it and/or even ship it myself" is one of the nicest compliments i get, because it makes me feel like i'm representing something meaningful and sweet about a pairing and having people understand what i think is so great and captivating about them. i've gotten a couple asks like this and sometimes i forget to respond but i always really appreciate them :) thank you very much

[quadrantadvisor]

Multiverse, Reverse Robins au, 2,514 words

-

Jason (Red Hood)

The imposters are good, Jason will give them that.

They need to work on their looks, unfortunately, because each one of them is a little off. Their Nightwing is too bulky, and his costume isn't made with Dick's flexibility in mind. Besides that, he's got an undercut that doesn't match the shaggy way Dick has his hair now, and his blue is too dark. And the swords. Those are different.

Their little Robin looks more like Dick, actually, Dick as he was before Jason's time, with his happy grin and his bright yellow cape. He doesn't match Damian's style at all, and Jason wonders if their intel was out of date. He tucks away his anger (the way he's used to doing, now) at these bastards roping some little kid into whatever con they're trying to pull. They can help the kid after they subdue him, and he stops trying to flip-kick people in the face.

The Red Robin outfit isn't bad, but the guy playing him is way too tall to be Tim. He doesn't use a bo staff, either, clearly preferring the armory of sharp little implements he keeps tucked away in his utility belt, including a wicked looking combat knife.

Which brings Jason to the current pain in his ass, the idiot trying to pass himself off as the Red Hood.

Yeah, they'd split off into pairs to fight. First off, for practicality's sake. Less risk of friendly fire if the only guy you're trying to punch is the one who isn't you. And secondly, it's just what you do, isn't it? Somebody gives you a set up like this, you go along with the poetic justice. No bat is immune to drama.

Jason is regretting that a bit, now. Fake Hood had taken him for a ride, leading him, he now realizes, far away from the warehouse where Nightwing and Robin had initially called in the disturbance. This other guy isn't the powerhouse that Jason is, but that doesn’t matter if Jason can't ever get in a hit. His movements are precise, deadly, and familiar in a way that makes Jason suspect League training. Jason is keeping up, but barely, and that's with the advantage of his guns. The other guy hasn't touched his, still gleaming red in his holsters, and Jason has a sneaking suspicion that they aren't filled with rubber bullets.

They're at a bit of a stalemate, standing on opposite sides of a dark rooftop, and Jason's trying to catch his breath but he can't relax, not when his gaze is locked onto his opponent, waiting for the minute twitch of muscle that will indicate his next move. He's wondering if he could get a shot off, wondering where to aim, when his comm crackles to life.

“Stand down!” Tim snaps in his ear. “Hood, Wing, the alternates aren't currently a threat. Deescalate however you can, and get back to the warehouse. We can explain this whole mess there.”

“Really?” Nightwing asks. He goes on to say something else, something about his doppleganger being incredibly threatening, thank you very much, but Jason stops listening, because there's something going on across the roof.

A mechanically distorted voice says, “What? No, I'd be able to tell. This guy isn't-” The imposter(?) cuts off suddenly, presumably listening to a response.

And then he… giggles.

“That isn't funny, Red,” he says, in contrast to the little peals of laughter making him subtly shake. “You- you get how fucked up that would be, don't you?”

Jason can't figure out what to do. Tim's intel is almost always good, but he can't get himself to stand down, not when, for some reason, that laughter is setting his teeth on fucking edge.

(He knows the reason. He'd know that cadence anywhere, he hears it in his fucking nightmares, but it isnt possible. He's in Arkham, right now, because Batman won't kill him and Jason isn't allowed to kill him and that uncomfortable truce is what got him his family back. Jason would know if he'd broken out, they wouldn't have kept that from him. They wouldn't.)

“Oh shit,” Tim says, and it makes Jason wonder how he knows, “Hood, is your alternate having some kind of fit right now?”

The sound escalates, from breathy little giggles to screeching laughter, and even with the hood's distortion, it's unmistakable.

It's the Joker's laugh.

It's the Joker.

And isn't this exactly some shit that Joker would pull, making a mockery of Jason's family, a twisted parody that fucks with his head? Tim's lying, he's trying to get Jason out of this situation, and Jason gets why, he does, but obviously the rest of them can't (won't) protect him from this, so if he has to take fate into his own hands, he will.

The green is creeping up, but Jason doesn't let it haze over his vision because he has to be in his right mind while he does this, not for them, for himself. As he stalks across the roof, he empties the clip from one of his guns and pulls out the live rounds, loads them into place.

He thinks Tim is calling for him, maybe the others, too, but the chatter over the comm is getting further away the closer he gets to his target. He should be smart, should take the shot, but maybe he's got more pit in his head than he wants to admit, because Joker, still laughing, pulls a knife, and Jason steps into his range to disarm him.

The strike is fast, but compared to the careful movements of before, he's practically telegraphing his actions. Jason sidesteps, and if the blade knicks him when he twists Joker's arm, he doesn't feel it. He's got the clown in a hold, now, and forces him to his knees with the gun against his temple.

If the hood is anything like his own, the bullet won't do it, not even at point blank range. Jason would like to get it off him, would like to see the life leave his eyes, but he doesn't have to. Jason moves the barrel beneath his chin, right where the armor ends. The pit rages inside of him, says this is too easy, says to make him suffer. Jason pushes it down. This is the compromise he'll make, this is what he'll do to try to maintain both his humanity and his peace of mind. The bullet will ricochet off the hood from the inside, will tear through Joker's brain at least twice, and he'll never come back from that, and Jason will finally be free.

It'll be easy.

This is too easy.

“Nothing to fucking say?” Jason growls, jostling the clown in his grip, because there's always some joke, some shitty twist.

The Joker just laughs.

“Unhand him this instant!” someone snaps, and Jason's finger twitches but somehow the trigger stays still. And now what's he supposed to do, because of course fucking Nightwing- but wait, that isn't- but it is, he's right there- it's both of them, two Nightwings. Fucking fantastic. Twice the guilt trip.

“Come on, Jay,” the Nightwing who's actually Dick pleads, and hey, what the fuck, codenames? In front of the fucking Joker, Dick? “Let him go, we can explain everything.”

“I'm not doing this again!” rips itself from Jason's throat, and he'll think later about just how wrecked he sounds. “I'm not just standing here and letting him go, Wing, not when one bullet can put a stop to all this, not when I can end him.”

“Jason,” Dick says, slow with forced calm, “that's not the Joker.”

“Don't you fucking lie to me!” Jason seethes.

His hand is wrenched to the side, the barrel facing open air, and before he can make a move the unfortunately familiar feeling of a high voltage shock courses through him.

By the time he's stopped seizing, Dick is at his back, supporting him with his own body and with arms under his pits and around his chest in a weird reverse hug. Technically, Jason's hands are free, but they're empty, the gun skidded to somewhere else across the roof.

Dick is murmuring into his ear, “Sorry, Little Wing, I'm so sorry,” and, “You're okay, you're okay, you're okay,” mantras meant to soothe his brother as much as himself. Jason wants to be angry, wants to snap at him to let go and fucking cut it out, but he's feeling strangely disoriented. He only has enough brainspace to pay attention to one thing, and that's the scene playing out in front of him.

Dick had clearly hauled them back a few steps, but Jason is still uncomfortably close to the bastard version of Nightwing (who, Jason realizes in hindsight, had tazed him while he'd been distracted by his brother, not cool) and the laughing maniac he should've killed. Nightwing is holding onto Joker's shoulders, his hands bouncing as the gasping, shrieking laughter continues.

“I'm going to remove your helmet now,” Nightwing says. He has a slight accent that Jason knows he's heard before, and his tone is professional, almost clipped. And yet, somehow, Jason can tell that this is a gentled version of the man's voice, the sharpest edges sanded away. His hands move from Joker's shoulders to the back of his head, carefully inputting whatever sequence allows for safe removal of the hood. Jason hears a hydraulic hiss when some sort of catch releases, and as Nightwing starts pulling the red metal up and away Jason can't help holding his breath.

At first, he sees what he expected to see. It's the Joker's expression, after all, his laughing face pulled into a rictus grin.

But the grin isn't right, somehow. The man is pale, but his face is unpainted, and the smile stretches wide, too wide, wider than even the Joker ever managed, and after a moment Jason recognizes the red, raised scar tissue on either side of his mouth for what it is.

Then, Jason takes in the actual features of the person in front of him. Dark hair, pale blue eyes, the cheeks, the jaw, the nose.

It doesn't make any fucking sense.

The Red Hood, collapsed on his knees in front of him, scarred face bare with no hood or domino to protect him as he struggles under the weight of his own laughter, is Tim Drake.

He's crying.

Jason is suddenly glad that Dick's holding him, because he's certain that he'd be on the ground, otherwise. Then, he realizes that he can't breathe.

Jason knows, logically, that his hood has sensors and filters that keep him safer than he could ever be without it. It is only every once in a while, when something stupid happens, that he regrets that he, a man with claustrophobia, decided to stick his head into a metal bucket.

Dick can probably tell that he's hyperventilating, and doesn't fight him as Jason gets his hands on the back of his neck and pulls off his hood.

Jason gasps in polluted Gotham air, and Tim's eyes snap onto him. Nightwing says, “I'm administering the emergency dose of your medication,” and then stalls, like he's waiting for a response, but all Tim does is laugh and stare. Jason stares back. He can't look away.

Nightwing retrieves a small tubular device, almost like an epipen, and presses it against Tim's leg. That shouldn't work. Tim's wearing body armor, same as the rest of them, and there's no way a needle could pierce it, but Jason looks as Nightwing draws the device away and there's a small raised circle of hard plastic on Tim's thigh that the head of the device fits into perfectly, like it was designed for that purpose. An injection spot, built into Tim's clothing, specifically for whatever drugs fake Nightwing just pumped into him.

Immediately, there's a difference. He doesn't stop laughing, or smiling that horrible fucking smile, but the manic tension is gone. He doesn't look like he'll shatter at a touch anymore, too brittle to be handled. The curve of his spine gentles, muscles no longer pulling it to the point of snapping. Jason watches as slowly, oh so slowly, Tim gets quieter, leans more into Nightwing's hold on him, starts gasping more than laughing.

Dick is talking behind him, into his comm, it sounds like. If it's important, someone will get his attention.

Finally, Tim breaks eye contact. “T- tell him,” he says to Nightwing, struggling between gasps and giggles, “tell him what you, gave me. Jay doesn't, he doesn't like, needles.”

The strange Nightwing turns his head, and Jason gets the impression of a sharp, searching gaze behind his domino. He's nothing like Dick, not at all, but something niggles the back of Jason's mind, some sense of familiarity regardless. He tosses something, and Jason automatically reaches up to catch it.

It's the empty tube of medication, which does seem a lot like an epipen, up close. “It's a combination,” the man says. “The antidote for Joker venom, an antipsychotic, and a mild sedative.”

“What the fuck?” Jason hears from his own mouth as he looks down at the innocuous little tube.

“It's only used in emergencies,” Nightwing adds, and does not clarify any further.

Jason doesn't know what to say to that. He shakes himself out of Dick's hold and grabs an evidence bag out of his jacket. He watches Nightwing, to see if he'll object, but he doesn't. Jason slips the medicine tube inside the bag and tucks it away.

“There you are!” Dick says in a bright tone, one meant to cover his anxiety and relief.

Jason turns, and finds that their roof has gotten a little crowded. All four Robins have arrived, his brothers mingled in with their copies, copies who don't quite match in ways that are now sticking in his brain. Tim, Jason's Tim, is standing right there, pressing his mask against his face like he'd broken the seal on the adhesive, and it isn't sticking quite right. Other than that, he's normal. He's fine.

The Robin, the one in the classic colors who Jason had thought looked a bit like Dick (oh God, could that be-?) gives a little whistle. “Trust Red Hood to cause drama!” he says in a bright tone that is too too familiar (fuck, fuck he is). “Must be a universal constant.” He grins, cheeky, looking past Jason.

Jason isn't processing fast enough to be offended for his own sake, but he turns and checks on Tim, other Tim, the Tim who apparently also has a claim to the Red Hood name. Tim is propped up on Nightwing's shoulder, looking drowsy and relaxed. He's looking back at Robin, and his lips are pressed tightly closed, but he's smiling, and it reaches his eyes.

Alright, then. This is probably fine.

Jason snorts, to get the kid's attention, and rolls his eyes. “Comes with the job description,” he snarks.

The kid lights up. Jason feels distinctly weird, having that smile directed at him, but it's not… bad.

Yeah. This is fine.

-

I'm planning to add a reblog with more information on this au/fic idea, so if you're interested, watch this space.

[calmlb]

Domestic skk where Dazai gets home later than usual from the agency. It’s not uncommon for him to arrive home after Chuuya when he was working a case, but it definitely wasn’t the norm.

As Dazai slipped off his shoes and coat, he listened for any sounds that may indicate where Chuuya was.

Even though he was pretty sure he already knew.

He padded towards their bedroom and stopped with his hand on the knob. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for familiar, soft snores, but not hearing any.

He quietly slipped into the room, unsurprised to see that the lamp was still on, but not expecting to see Chuuya’s eyes closed.

The redhead was sitting up against the headboard, arms crossed and eyes closed. There was a poetry book on his lap, still open to where he’d been reading.

Dazai felt that fond smile he could never seem to mask play at his lips, and walked closer.

The light of the lamp cast shadows that accentuated the sharp angles of Chuuya’s face. His brown lashes brushed against his strong cheekbones, and a sun-kissed bronze was spread across his upturned nose.

Chuuya was all sharp edges with an unrefined personality. And that’s just how Dazai liked him.

That crudeness that had so grated on his nerves when they first met. That crassness that couldn’t be dulled by nice clothes or Ane-san’s influence.

Chuuya was unapologetically Chuuya— untamable.

Dazai watched as his partner’s brows pinched, and his bow-shaped lips twitched downward before parting.

“What’re you staring at, shitty Dazai?”

Dazai’s smile widened. “Just wondering how long you’re going to keep feigning sleep,” he hummed as he turned away to change into his pajamas.

“Wasn’t sleeping,” Chuuya grumbled, one eye peeking open as Dazai slipped into bed and curled up next to his leg.

Dazai nuzzled into Chuuya’s toned thigh, releasing a contented hum as Chuuya’s hand started carding through his hair.

He felt the rhythmic shift of Chuuya’s body in time with his breathing, and let himself relax knowing he was safe. Secure. Cared for.

Because Chuuya wasn’t all sharp edges. Deep down, there was a layer of kindness to him. Deep enough that it wasn’t immediately apparent.

Deep because it’s part of the foundation of who Chuuya is.

Dazai considers himself one of the lucky ones, getting to witness this kindness firsthand.

Chuuya always waited up for him, no matter how tired he was, or how long of a day he’d had. Some instinct to make sure every member of his pack was accounted for— probably leftover from the sheep.

My loyal dog.

Dazai hid his smile in the fabric of Chuuya’s pajama pants.

“Oi. I can feel you smirking, bastard.” Chuuya stopped his hand to pull on Dazai’s dark waves.

Dazai whined in protest. “Chuuya’s so mean to me.”

Chuuya scoffed, voice rough with the need for sleep. “Right, so mean that I even made you crab for dinner.” He slid down the headboard to lay on his pillow. This way, he was nose to nose with Dazai— hot, toothpaste-fresh breath fanning Dazai’s face and strawberry-blond curls falling into his face. “How awful.”

Dazai lifted a hand to brush the hair out of Chuuya’s eyes, gently tucking it behind his ear. “How awful,” he agreed. “Makes me want to die.”

Those piercing blue eyes stared back at him. “I’ll be the one to kill you. Shitty Dazai.” Chuuya’s threat was punctuated by a long yawn.

Dazai tutted. “Sleepy Chibi.” He grabbed Chuuya’s hand and started massaging soft circles into his palm. Just the way he knew Chuuya loved.

Sure enough, Chuuya let out a content sigh as the last bit of tension seeped out of his body.

“S’nice,” he mumbled as he started drifting off. Dazai merely hummed.

“Such strong hands that carry so much,” he whispered, bringing Chuuya’s knuckles to his face & pressing his lips against them tenderly. “Let me hold this for you.”

Chuuya’s breath evened out, and soft snores filled the space between them. Night after night, that snoring had been Dazai’s white noise, and he bit his lip to restrain the sudden impulse to pinch his partner’s cheeks in an act of cuteness aggression.

Instead, he snuggled up close to the redhead, burying his face in the crook of Chuuya’s neck.

Dazai reached over and turned off the lamp, feeling his heart swell when Chuuya nuzzled his face into Dazai’s hair. He pressed a kiss to his jugular notch, then let the soothing cadence of Chuuya’s snores lull him to sleep.

Dazai version

[dwaekkistar]

Chapter 5: The Turn Around

        The ride back home was fairly quiet, as Sujin was still somewhat traumatized and processing what had happened. Seungmin was deep in his mind, trying to figure out how he would turn things around with the omega, as he felt a deep regret for his behavior. Changbin and Chan were planning something they thought would help the omega when they got to the house, everyone in the car could still sense a bit of anxiety lingering on his scent. The doctor's appointment had everyone feeling like they regressed with sujin and the pack hadn't even made it past stage 1 with the latter. They were a bit stuck on what steps to take next, but they'd find a way to get the omega to open up to them more. They eventually got home, parking the car in the warm garage.

        Sujin walked straight to his room, not having the mental energy to socialize. The omega wanted to go into his nest and release what was left of the anxiety in his system. He quickly made it to his room closing and locking the door behind him swiftly. He hurriedly went to his bedroom bathroom and got undressed, throwing every article of clothing into the hamper, and began running the shower. He hopped into the shower and practically scrubbed his skin until it turned red. When Sujin felt he had sufficiently cleaned himself he rinsed himself off and turned the shower back off. He got out and still felt a bit frazzled with anxiety, which was typical in his situation. They never quite really helped soothe his anxiety when it came to the thoughts of his uncle. Nesting with his little material back in Auckland was the only thing that ever really helped him, so he was sure it was the same now. He walked to the linen closet in his bathroom pulled out a towel and dried himself as much as possible before throwing it in the same hamper with his dirty clothes and heading to his room. He walks over to the dresser, opens the compartment where his boxers are neatly stored, and pulls out a pair of boxers sliding them on. He stood for a bit contemplating if he wanted fo get fully dressed just to lay in the nest, but he ultimately decided against it. He hoped that nesting this way would not only calm his anxiety but also help him get more in tune with his inner wolf. He hadn't heard from it since he was just a mere little pup before the neglect from his family started ramping up and taking a toll on him.

He hopped into the nest and nuzzled himself against every possible corner of it, taking in the scents that were still heavily laced into every item in the nest. He snuggled close to the blanket that smelled of the seaside, inhaling deeply as he let the scent wash over him. As he did so his body relaxed to the point it felt like he almost went limp. He took in another deep breath of the scent when his eyes suddenly glowed gold, a small little voice screaming mate at him. He bolted into an upward sitting position, still holding the blanket that was pungent with the lead alpha seaside scent in a confused daze. 'Where did that voice come from?' he thought to himself, it was weird as he heard this small voice, a voice that he'd always told himself was how he would have sounded if he was like the other cute and petite omegas he'd seen growing up. As if on cue the voice spoke again, 'Inner wolf... have we been disconnected for that long ?' the voice said sassily. 'I guess so..?' sujin mentally said in response to his inner wolf as he sat up. 'Sniff nest... we need it' Not wanting to argue with or disappoint his inner wolf Sujin immediately went back to inhaling the scents in his nest, immediately becoming more relaxed than before as his eyes glowed gold once more.

A round of knocks abruptly went off as he took in the scents, causing him to jump. His eyes returned to their normal color, and he immediately hid his mostly unclothed body under the blanket before yelling to come in. The door slowly opened, when Sujin got a glimpse of platinum locks of hair. He let out a soft sigh upon realizing it was just Felix.

"Hey, I was just coming to check up on you..." He softly spoke as he slipped deeper into the room closing the door behind him. " I heard you had a rough day at the doctor's office." He then carefully sat at the foot of the nest area, not wanting to get in out of respect seeing as omegas took their nest seriously.

"Yeah, I had quite a day," Sujin replied softly, " thought I would just decompress in the nest for a bit..."

"Do you mind if I come in the nest ?" Felix said comfortingly albeit laced with caution "I wanted to help comfort you but I don't wanna break any boundaries."

"You can come in the nest," Sujin said as a soft smile grew on his face, "you're always welcome in my nest."

Felix then carefully got into the nest and sat pretty close to Sujin, shooting the omega a smile. It was at this moment the younger remembered he wasn't fully clothed, and wondered if the alpha next to him took notice of his lack of clothes. As if reading his mind Felix reached his hand out and gently rested it on sujin's bare side. The younger immediately shuddered at the touch but in a good way. For some reason, the alpha's touch made him very giddy and he couldn't understand why, until his inner wolf was practically yelling mate at him again. Why would his inner wolf be saying mate to someone with a completely different scent than earlier and what did that mean?

"Is there anything you wanna talk about or do while we wait for them to finish up dinner?" Felix softly asked, his deep voice snapping Sujin back to reality. He thought thoroughly before answering the freckled alpha.

"Why does Seungmin not like me ?" Sujin said with a tinge of embarrassment lacing his voice. It wasn't like him to voice things that bothered him let alone his emotions but for some odd reason, he felt like it was safe enough to explain these things to Felix. It was like his heart had a strong pull towards the other that he could not explain. But upon hearing Sujin's words Felix's face dropped somewhat into a frown.

"Uhm...let's just say we have a past with omegas..." He said quietly with a hint of hesitation lacing his voice, "I think it would be better if he explained it to you."

"Oh? Okay.." the omega said with confusion. What did Felix mean by they had a past with omegas... was there another omega before him? And if there was what happened that they weren't around anymore? "Well, what did you guys do while we were away today?"

"Oh, we just kinda relaxed I watched TV while checking in on you guys for the most part." The alpha replied with a faint smile. "We like to make sure everyone's doing okay even if they're not away for long."

"Oh... that's kinda sweet..." Sujin replied shyly, "Never experienced something like that"

"What do you mean?" Felix said as his brows furrowed, "Weren't you in a family pack before this?"

"Oh, uhm my family pack didn't like me if we're being honest.." the younger said trailing off as his face suddenly soured at the turn of the conversation. He didn't like talking about his family pack much considering they never treated him as part of it.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Felix said as he inched closer to sujin, prepared to comfort the omega at any second. How the word family made the omega's face scrunch in hurt broke the alpha's heart.

"Not really," Sujin replied as he looked off deep in thought, "it's nothing of importance I should bring up anyways."

Felix decided upon hearing the younger's words that he wouldn't push it but something deep in him knew that part of whatever caused Sujin to come back home in the state he did had to do with his family. He also knew he along with the rest of the pack would do anything in their heart to undo whatever trauma the omega's family pack inflicted on him.

Just as Felix finished that thought, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He carefully pulled his phone out while Sujin watched him to see that Minho sent a text about dinner being ready.

"We should probably head downstairs," Felix said as he carefully left the nest,  "Minho says that dinner is ready and I'm kinda starving."

"Oh okay," Sujin says softly, "I'll meet you downstairs. I have to put on some clothes." Felix then shot the omega a smile before leaving the room. Sujin got up from under the blanket he was hiding his lower body with, making it over to his wardrobe and slipping into a pair of sweatpants and a black tee. He also wore socks for extra warmth and comfort as he hated how he always shivered without them. The omega quietly went downstairs to the kitchen and was not surprised to see the entire pack already sat and being served.

"Sujin-ah it took you long enough to get here.." Minho blurted out happily, " I was worried the food was going to get cold by the time you got here."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to take long.." the younger said quietly as he sat in the only available seat left between Changbin and Chan.

"It's fine," Minho said as he placed a plate of food in front of the omega, " as long as you're eating everything is good."

Sujin began to eat as he watched the alpha serve himself and join them at the table. He smiled slightly as he placed the first forkful in his mouth, and the food tasted delicious. The alphas in charge of cooking today decided to make kimchi fried rice and bulgogi, with a side of panjeon. The omega figured they had to have a cookbook somewhere because there was no way a pack full of alphas knew these dishes off the top of their head. But as he finished the thought he realized that was a very traditional and conservative way of thinking and he didn't want to remind himself of his family pack. He annoyingly realized he learned so many things through his former family pack that he would have to unlearn. He continued to silently eat his food as the others conversed with each other at the table.

The pack truly wanted to include him, but they felt it was better to give him a break from socializing after what he had experienced earlier in the day. When everyone finished their food, Sujin was the last to put his plate in the sink. Usually one of the alpha's would just load all the dishes into the dishwasher when everyone's done but it seems like they all went off and did their own thing as they waited for the omega to finish his meal. So he took matters into his hand loading the dishwasher the way he saw the others do so many times. He even made sure to load the cleaning detergent in properly before turning it on. As he stood back up he smelled a deep waft of brown sugar reach his nose. He knew someone entered the kitchen he just didn’t know who as the scent was still unfamiliar to him despite spending almost a few weeks with the pack so far.

What he didn’t expect when he turned around was Seungmin standing just right before the island separating them.

Taglist: @missrandomheart @galaxycatdrawz@hydrawaterdragon @justastraymoa @3rachasninja @justiceforvillains

[the-badger-mole]

A Bend in the Stream

Zuko sat up in bed, gasping. He looked around wildly. It took a few moments for his confusion to wane, but soon he was able to recognize the familiar trappings of his room. The one above the tea shop that his uncle was making famous with his delicate blends. There was no smell of floral garden air from the windows. His blanket was scratchy and stiff wool, and not the down stuffed silk that would be in King Kuei's suites.

After registering his surroundings, Zuko sighed and let his body flop back onto his bed. His racing heart slowly returned to a steady beat. It had all been a dream after all. Being captured by the Dai Li; the moment with the waterbender in the caverns; Azula offering him a chance to redeem himself; the death of the Avatar... It was all just a bizarrely vivid dream. Just as Zuko was drifting back off to sleep, his door swung open and Iroh came in with a wide grin.

"Good morning, nephew!" he said cheerfully. "It's a beautiful day, full of endless possibilities."

"Uncle," Zuko groaned, letting his head loll back onto his pillow.

"Don't take too long," Iroh said. "I have wonderful news! We're serving tea at King Kuei's court!"

"What?" Zuko sat upright and stared at Iroh in disbelief. That was how his dream had begun. Iroh, however, seemed to have taken his nephew's reaction as excitement.

"I got the news last night," he told Zuko. "It seems word of my mango jasmine blend has spread farther than I realized! I would have told you sooner, but you weren't here. Hurry, hurry! We still have to help with the morning rush before we go."

"Yes..." Zuko said distractedly. "That's right..."

"Breakfast is ready when you are." With that Iroh nearly skipped out of his nephew's room, humming a cheerful song under his breath.

Zuko got dressed and hurried through his meal (rice porridge with nuts and dried fruit was too common a breakfast for Zuko to read into it's similarities of his dream breakfast). Then he dressed and headed down to the tea shop. The feeling of deja vu was annoyingly sharp, but Zuko reasoned that his life had become so unusually predictable lately that his mind was still adjusting to the similarities of the day to day grind. So many of the customers were regulars at the tea house, it was no wonder he was learning all the orders already, despite his indifference.

At last, it was time to go serve tea to King Kuei. Something in Zuko's stomach turned. It was a sharp turning feeling in the pit of his stomach. King Kuei's palace was too familiar. He'd never been before, so how could he have dreamed it up in such detail? Zuko's hackles were up as he and his uncle were led to the room where they were to be received. It was just like his dream. Why were they being kept waiting for so long? Eventually, the wait began to grate on Zuko, and he paced the floor nervously.

"Calm down, Nephew," Iroh chided. He poured himself a cup of tea, completely unbothered.

"What's taking so long?" Zuko growled in frustration.

"Perhaps King Kuei overslept," Iroh said, smiling slightly at his nephew's discomfiture.

"Something's not right," Zuko said. Then he froze. It was just like his dream. Just like his dream. He looked at his uncle with wide, frightened eyes.

"What's the matter?" Iroh asked, setting his tea cup down.

"I think-" was all Zuko was able to get out before the door opened, and the next part of Zuko's dream came rushing back to him. Azula walked in, flanked by Dai Li agents, and smirking at Iroh and Zuko smuggly.

"It's tea time!" she said with a saccharine tone.

"No way!" Zuko gasped.

"Have you met the Dai Li?" Azula nodded to the men immediately at her sides. "They're earthbenders, but they have a killer instinct that's so firebender. I just love it." Zuko could only gape at his sister. He knew what she had been about to say. How could he know that? This moment felt less real than the dream had. Iroh stood up beside his nephew, and Zuko knew the words Iroh was about to say to his niece before they were ever spoken out loud.

"Did I ever tell you why they call me the Dragon of the West?"

Zuko was ready to grab Iroh's arm and run the minute Iroh created the hole in the wall. When Iroh used lightning to blast a hole in the second wall, Zuko froze again. Iroh jumped into the bushes below and turned back to his nephew.

"You'll be fine!" he assured Zuko. "Jump!" How could Zuko explain to his uncle why he couldn't? He hardly understood himself. He was just frozen into place. Moments later, Azula and the Dai Li caught up with him and Zuko turned to face his sister.

"You're so dramatic," she taunted him. "What? Are you going to challenge me to an Agni Kai?"

"You're not interested," Zuko murmured. Azula blinked in surprise, caught off guard for the barest moment. It wasn't enough, though, and her Dai Li guards sprang into action before Zuko could do much. He was quickly bound in stone cuffs, and throne into the catacombs beneath the city. And just like so many things that had happened that day, he was unsurprised to find himself trapped with the Avatar's waterbender (Katara. He'd known her name for some time, but Azula herself couldn't have tortured him into admitting it).

His mind was reeling as his memory of his dream and the reality of the situation crashed together, and he had the unpleasant sensation of remembering everything Katara had said before she'd spoken it. Particularly painful was Zuko anticipating her confession about how he was the face that for months she'd been picturing when she pictured the enemy. When she offered to heal his scar, Zuko was ready to break the walls down himself. Still, he submitted to her touch on his face. He wouldn't have been able to explain why for anything. Fortunately, he was spared thinking too hard about it when the Avatar arrived.

Azula caught up to them not long after. When Azula made her offer this time, Zuko froze, completely unable to thinks about anything beyond his own confusion. It was his dream. It was exactly his dream. Right down to the Avatar being struck down, and his uncle being taken prisoner so Katara could escape with the Avatar's....corpse? Zuko watched her go uncertainly. She met his confused gaze with a flinty one of her own. A shiver went down Zuko's spine.

Later that night, Azula congratulated Zuko on his choice. He barely registered any of it. Had he done all of this, he wondered. Had he literally dreamed his success into reality? He settled down into the bed of the room Azula had given him. Where King Kuei was, Zuko couldn't begin to hazard a guess, but for the time being, Azula had claimed his palace as her own, and given her brother the second best room available. Despite this, sleep came reluctantly for Zuko, but still, it came.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Zuko sat up in bed, gasping. He looked around wildly. It took a few moments for his confusion to wane, but soon he was able to recognize the familiar trappings of his room. The one above the tea shop that his uncle was making famous with his delicate blends. There was no smell of floral garden air from the windows. His blanket was scratchy and stiff wool, and not the down stuffed silk he remembered falling asleep under in King Kuei's suites.

A few moments later, his door swung open and Iroh came in with a wide grin.

"Good morning, nephew!" he said cheerfully. "It's a beautiful day, full of endless possibilities."

This time, all Zuko could do was stare. Iroh was as excited as ever as he admonished his nephew to get out of bed and get ready for work. Zuko was not at all surprised when Iroh announced that he had been invited to King Kuei's palace to serve tea.

"It's a trap," Zuko warned him. "We shouldn't go."

"Don't be silly, Nephew!" Iroh chortled. "Why would Kuei want to trap us?" Zuko wasn't sure how to handle that question without sounding insane. He went along with it. Perhaps he was still dreaming, Zuko reasoned. He had been asleep the entire time, and his brain wasn't allowing him to wake properly. He went through his day for the third time. He remembered most of the orders he'd taken the last couple of times, so he was able to devote most of his brain space to figuring out what was happening and how to stop it.

This time, he said little as he paced the floor in King Kue's palace, but he still hesitated just long enough that he was once again caught by Azula's Dai Li agents. And once more, he landed at Katara's feet. As before, he submitted to her tirade silently. This time, he was caught by the pain in he voice when she told him how his family had taken her mother from her. He wondered about her story. How long ago had it happened? How had it happened? How young had she been?

Katara wasn't much younger than he was, Zuko guessed. Maybe a year or two. He wasn't certain. She was still young enough to need her mother. It wasn't fair that she'd lost her mother so young. He said that, too, after commiserating with her over the loss of his mother. What would Ursa say? What would she think of her son sharing this with a Water Tribe girl?

When her hand came up to his face, Zuko had already accepted that she wouldn't have time to try her healing water on him. Sure enough, as her thumb grazed his lip, the wall on the far side of the cavern burst open, and the Avatar came in, followed closely by Iroh. Katara threw her arms around the younger boy, relieved to be rescued, and completely forgetting her offer to heal Zuko.

Zuko hesitated longer on his sister's offer. Little else changed, after all, how could he not help his sister? How could he not take his chance to go home? Still, Azula's suspicious gaze lingered on Zuko a bit longer afterwards. Zuko felt more eyes on him in general for the rest of the day. By the time he turned in that night, he was certain his sister had eyes on him even as he climbed into bed, sore, tired and confused.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Zuko opened his eyes, somehow unsurprised to find himself in the familiar trappings of his room above the tea shop. There was no smell of floral garden air from the windows. His blanket was scratchy and stiff wool, and not the down stuffed silk he had fallen asleep under in King Kuei's suites.

A few moments later, his door swung open and Iroh came in with a wide grin.

"Good morning, nephew!" he said cheerfully. "It's a beautiful day, full of endless possibilities." Zuko sat quietly as Iroh told him the good news. That they had been invited to serve tea to the King of Ba Sing Se. Iroh's smile dimmed a bit when he realized that Zuko wasn't reacting.

"Are you alright?" he asked. He sat down on the edge of Zuko's bed and pressed a hand to his forehead. "Are you sick?"

"...no," Zuko said after a moment. "I just...didn't sleep well." That may have been true. Zuko didn't remember falling asleep. Didn't remember dreaming. It seemed to him that he had just closed his eyes for a moment and then the world had reset itself. What was happening?

"Alright," Iroh said, unconvinced. "Breakfast is ready when you are." He got up and started to go. He paused at the door and stared at his nephew. "Or you can stay home, if you'd prefer." Zuko shook his head.

"I'm alright. I'll be out in a few minutes."

Zuko had heard all of his customers' orders so many times by this point, he didn't even need to pay attention to them. He did the cursory work, pretending to jot their tea preferences down on his note pad before he turned them into his uncle in the kitchen. Maybe that's why he was able to pay more attention. Maybe that's why he saw Katara this time. Their eyes met across the crowded tea room, Katara's eyes wide in horror. Zuko's eyes wide in shock. Had she always seen him that day? No wonder there was more anger than surprise when hours later, the Dai Li threw him into the catacombs before her. This time was no different.

She launched into her tirade, hurling her accusations, her pent up anger, her grief at him. This time, Zuko understood a bit better. She wasn't angry at him- or rather, she was, but it was a deeper wound she was purging. So when she spoke of her mother, Zuko said,

"That's something we have in common." And then... "What was her name?"

Katara was thrown completely for a loop, Zuko could see it in her eyes. She turned to him, wiping the tears from her eyes. She stared at him quietly for so long, Zuko didn't think she would answer him. But then...

"Kya," she whispered. "H-her name was Kya." Zuko shut his eyes and repeated the name to himself. Kya sounded like a poem. What kind of person was she? Was her daughter anything like her? Zuko thought she probably was, and if Katara was like her, then Kya must have been a very fierce...pain in the neck. The thought made him smile a bit.

"Are you laughing?" Katara demanded. Venomous rage bled back into her voice. Zuko met her gaze head on.

"No," he said. "I was just wondering if she was anything like you." That froze Katara once again, and this time Zuko did have to bite back a chuckle. There was a long, awkward pause. Then,

"My...my grandmother says I am," Katara said quietly. Zuko wasn't entirely sure she was speaking to him directly, or just didn't care if he heard her. "She says that I'm just like my mother when she was my age." She went silent again, casting furtive glances at Zuko. "What was your mother's name?"

"Ursa," Zuko sighed.

"Are you like her?" Katara asked. Zuko considered that for a moment. Then he shrugged.

"I hope I am," he said.

They didn't get around to Katara touching his face or her offer to heal his scar. They were still on opposite sides of the cave when Iroh and the Avatar burst in. This time, Zuko hesitated a beat too long, and he was crushed by a rock from one of the Dai Li agents.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Zuko shot up in bed, choking down a strangled scream. He could still remember the agonizing pain radiating from his caved in chest, and the feeling of blood filling his lungs as he gurgled out his last breath. He ran his hands over himself looking for any marks, or bruises. Any evidence at all from what had happened....last night? Tonight? What was going on? A hiccupping sob escaped Zuko just as the door opened.

"Good morning, nephew!" Iroh said cheerfully. "It's a beautiful day, full of endless possibilities." Iroh froze abruptly when he saw the look on Zuko's face. "What's wrong?"

Zuko didn't say anything. He just leapt out of bed and threw himself on Iroh and wept like child in his uncle's arms. Iroh let him, alternating between comforting Zuko and trying to understand what had him in such a state. It took nearly ten minutes before Iroh managed to calm Zuko. Then he bundled Zuko up in his scratchy blanket and guided him to the little kitchen table, the one that wobbled and was hardly big enough for the both of them. Minutes later, he pressed a fresh cup of soothing tea into Zuko's hands and squeezed into the other side of the table.

"What happened?" he asked. Zuko choked down an errant sob and shrugged helplessly.

"You won't believe me," he muttered.

"Try me," Iroh implored. He reached out across the table and squeezed Zuko's free hand. "Please, Zuko. Did something happen last night? Did you get into some trouble? Did you break up with your lady friend?" At that Zuko laughed. If only if it were something that small.

"No," he said. "Jin and I haven't spoken in..." Zuko frowned. How long ago had it been? How many times had he relived this day? Did it count towards how long it'd been since he'd seen Jin?

"Then, what is it?" Iroh looked ready to cry himself. That startled Zuko. And it loosened his tongue. He told Iroh everything. How he'd live this day already, several times. How the invitation to King Kuei's palace was a trap. That Azula was not only in the city, but in the middle of a coup. He told Iroh about being trapped in the cavern with Katara (despite the situation, Iroh managed to look arch at Zuko using the waterbender's name). Zuko hid his shame, but he told Iroh how Azula won at the end of the day. Then he told Iroh how the last time, he'd died. Iroh was stricken at that. He scanned Zuko for injuries that they both knew weren't there.

"No wonder you were upset," Iroh said.

"You believe me?" Zuko stared at his uncle in shock.

"I have little reason to doubt," Iroh shrugged. "After all, I haven't mentioned tea at King Kuei's yet. I've seen far too much in my day to dismiss your claim out of hand."

"What do I do, Uncle?" Zuko pleaded. Iroh shook his head sadly.

"I don't know myself," he admitted. "This has the marks of some spirit's intervention."

"So, I just have to keep living today over and over until whatever spirit is doing this decides they're done?" Iroh pursed his lips and blew out a long slow breath.

"It's rare for any spirit powerful enough to do this to act arbitrarily," he said. "There must be something you need to do. Some lesson you need to learn. Have you done anything different?"

"Not really," Zuko said. The only major changes had been his conversation with Katara and his hesitation in that final battle.

"Maybe you should try."

So, Zuko did just that. Neither he nor Iroh ended up going to the palace, or to work that day. They stayed inside. Katara never saw Zuko at the tea house. Zuko never ended up in the cavern. Beyond that, Zuko didn't know what difference it had made. He didn't know that without Iroh there to distract his niece, Katara and Aang both died in the cavern. He didn't know that Sokka and Toph had just barely made it out of the city, or that Chief Hakoda driven more by grief than logic had ordered a failed attack on the city that ended with half the Southern Tribe warriors dead or captured. It wasn't until the Dai Li agents arrived at their apartment that Zuko realized that Azula knew where he and Iroh lived. There was no need for her to keep him around now. The Avatar was undeniably dead. The stone cuffs made it impossible for Zuko and Iroh to defend themselves, and in a rare act of mercy, Azula killed them quickly.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Zuko woke up with the memory of lightning scorching his internal organs, and the echoes of Iroh's agonized screams in his ears. He flung his blanket off and threw the door open, startling Iroh, who was just coming in to wake him. This time Zuko didn't hesitate to tell Iroh everything. This time instead of waiting around the apartment all day, they stole out of the city. They were miles away when the city and the Avatar fell. They didn't stop until night fall, and they made an impromptu camp. They sat around the fire quietly, picking at their meals.

"Do you think this will end the loop?" Zuko asked his uncle. Iroh pursed his lips and blew out a long, slow breath.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I hope it does. But maybe I'm not who you're supposed to save."

"It must be," Zuko insisted. "Who else?" Iroh shrugged.

"Who can say with the spirits? It's rare for any spirit powerful enough to do this to act arbitrarily, though." Zuko didn't agree, but he said nothing. Finally, Iroh turned in for the night. Zuko offered to keep watch, determined to stay awake until the sun rose the next day. He drank a whole pot of the strong morning tea they'd packed. Despite their desperate flight out of Ba Sing Se, Zuko wasn't the least bit tired. He was certain he'd be able to stay up.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Zuko opened his eyes and let out a long, loud string of expletives when he found himself in the familiar trappings of his room above the tea shop. Iroh poked his head in, frowning in concern.

"Everything alright?" he asked.

"No!" Zuko shouted. "Nothing is alright! I hate the spirits!"

Zuko didn't want to explain anything to his uncle this time. He disappeared into the city, picking fights with anyone who crossed him. Eventually he was caught by the Dai Li and taken to the underground lake prison. His last memory was of a flashing green light and someone trying to hypnotize him. The next few times he woke up, he tried breaking into the palace and catching Azula unawares. He lost three times, died once, reached a stalemate four times, and killed his sister twice.

Most often, he ended up back in the cavern with Katara. Once, she managed to use her magic water on his scar. It worked, sort of. The scar faded until it was just a pinkish blemish over his eye, but then Azula hit the Avatar with lightning just before Zuko took her out. The Avatar died because Katara didn't have the water to heal him with. She was kind enough not to blame Zuko, but the sound of her sobs chased him into the new day. He never let her try that again. The next few times, he found Katara earlier in the day. He managed to get her to listen to him most of the time. She was, he found, more inclined to trust than he expected. These days still ended up with Ba Sing Se's fall, but Katara usually managed to escape with her friends, sometimes with Zuko's help, sometimes on her own, but Zuko never took her up on her offer to join them. Something inside him still balked at the idea of helping the Avatar, though he'd long since given up on returning to his father. Being murdered by his gleeful sister in increasingly creative ways had dashed any real hope he had that his father wanted him home. He learned a lot about Katara on those days, when he managed to get her to hear him out before attacking.

Today, he was exhausted. He went to work his shift at the tea house, because he didn't know what else to do. He was rude and snappish with the customers all morning, barely stopping to listen to their orders, and even though he didn't get a single order wrong, the owner of the shop sent him away early. That was fine. Zuko didn't stop to answer his uncle's calls as he stormed out into the street, running into a smaller person. He reached out instinctively to steady them, ready to berate whoever it was, but he froze. Katara was in his arms, staring up at him in horror.

Of course...

This had happened before, and the last time, both he and Katara had been taken by the Dai Li to that underground prison lake. Now, Zuko let go of her and turned to run in the opposite direction before she even had a chance to react. He expected to feel water snaking around his ankles, an icicle in his back, to hear her screaming for the Dai Li behind him.

None of that happened. Instead, he ran into two more girls. Girls in Kyoshi Warrior makeup. Girls who he'd recognize anywhere, no matter how much paint was on their faces.

"Oh no," he groaned.

"Is that anyway to greet old friends?" Mai asked mockingly.

Zuko ended up in the cavern with Katara. He wasn't sure how she'd gotten caught, but he was there first this time. Whatever tirade she had been preparing to launch into stopped abruptly when she saw him hitting his head against the rock wall with alarming force.

"What are you doing?" she gasped. Zuko was too dizzy to be surprised when she pulled him away from the wall. He could feel something trickle down his face, and whatever it was had Katara staring at him in open concern.

"Let go!" Zuko tried to shrug her off. "I have to get out of here!"

"Zuko!" Katara pulled him away from his wall, and he was too dazed to stop her. She pulled water from...somewhere, Zuko wasn't sure. Maybe the walls. The cave was damp enough. Her hand glowed a soft blue, and the pain in his forehead faded, to his disappointment.

"What did you go and do that for?" Zuko demanded, rubbing his hand over his unbruised forehead.

"Why were you hitting you head against the wall?" Katara countered sharply. She folded her arms and glowered at Zuko.

"I was trying to kill myself, if you must know," he sneered at her. For all the times they'd met and all he had learned about Katara, this was a new day. They were not friends.

"What?" Katara looked stricken, and Zuko felt bad, despite himself.

"Forget it," he said, turning away from her. "It doesn't matter."

"Zuko, what's going on?" Katara ran around him so she could see his face. "Tell me what's happening! Why are we here?"

"Trust me, you couldn't have picked a question I want answered more," he scoffed. "I don't know why I'm here. I've been here too many times to count at this point, and I don't know why! I've tried not coming here, but that doesn't work either."

"What are you talking about?" Katara asked, staring at him as if he'd grown another head. Zuko almost laughed. Maybe he had. It would make as much sense as anything else.

"I'm cursed, Katara," he said a bit hysterically. "I'm cursed. I've lived this day so many times... I...I don't know what to do. I'm losing my mind, and I'm scared." Zuko crumpled to the floor and sobbed into his palms.

Katara didn't know what to do. He could feel her hovering over him, uncertain of what, if anything, to do for him. Finally, she sat beside him, and hesitantly wrapped her arm around him from the side. All pride had utterly fled Zuko. He threw himself into her embrace and sobbed on her shoulder. Katara stiffened, and for a moment Zuko thought she would throw him off of her, but kindness, or compassion, or whatever drove her overrode her hatred for him, and she held him stiffly while he cried.

Zuko composed himself as fast as he could, and pulled away from Katara. He'd left a large wet mark of sweat and tears and snot on her dress, but she was a good sport about it.

"Will you tell me what's going on?" she asked.

"You won't believe me," Zuko said. The words brought back a memory of a similar conversation with his uncle.

"Try me," Katara said, with a wry smirk.

"I already told you," Zuko said. "I'm reliving today and I don't know how to get out of this loop."

"What?" Katara stared at him as if his second head had sprouted wings and started earthbending.

"I told you wouldn't believe me." This time Zuko did chuckle. "I've been here in this cavern with you, so many time's I've lost count. Do you think I'm crazy?"

"I-I," Katara stammered. "Zuko, this isn't..."

"I can prove it," Zuko told her. "We've spoken before. You've told me things. Personal things."

"Excuse me?" Katara stared at him, aghast.

"You have," Zuko insisted. "How else do I know that you have magic healing water from the Spirit Oasis?"

"Y-you were there," Katara said. "You could've been spying." Zuko shook his head.

"Nope," he said. "That's not it. I also know that you lost your mother. We've talked about her nearly every time we've met." Rage flashed across Katara's face at that.

"How dare you-?"

"I'm just saying what you told me," Zuko said. "You told me her name was Kya. And you told me how your grandmother said you're just like her when she was your age." Katara gaped at him in shock.

"How did you know-"

"You told me," Zuko sighed. "Just like you told me that your favorite color is seafoam green, and you miss the dancing lights in the sky back home, and your brother Sokka once got two hooks stuck in his thumb. One time, you ate papaya even though you hate it because a fortuneteller told you to. I have no other way to know any of that except from you. I'm not lying. I'm stuck in some sort of time loop. I don't know how to get unstuck."

"Oh-" Katara sat beside him quietly for a long time, processing the new information. "And I just..told you all of that? Why?"

"I don't know," Zuko shrugged helplessly. "I asked, and if you were in a good mood, you'd tell me. I don't always see you, and when I do we don't always talk." More silence, though, Zuko could almost hear her brain working double time to process all of this.

"Do you know how it started?' she asked after a long while.

"No," Zuko shook his head. He had tried to recall if he'd crossed any priests, or accidentally touched some relic, or walked under a ladder, but he couldn't think of anything out of the ordinary until he woke up and the day repeated. He told Katara as much.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I am, too," he shook his head. "I'm the only one who knows it, but you're all stuck in this loop with me, it seems. I really am sorry."

"That's got to be so lonely," Katara said. Zuko let out another shuddering sob. He hadn't let himself admit it yet, but she was right. It was incredibly lonely. No matter how many times they'd spoken, Iroh didn't remember why his nephew sometimes woke up screaming. Katara wouldn't remember this conversation, or that she and Zuko had made a connection and had more in common than she realized. In a few hours, Zuko would wake up and they would be enemies again. Katara pulled him into another embrace, and Zuko clung to her like a life line. He didn't cry on her anymore, though.

"I'm so scared," he whispered. "I can't even die." Katara stiffened in his hold, but instead of pushing him away, she held him tighter.

"There's got to be a way out," she said. "There has to be." Zuko didn't bother telling her that he'd tried everything he could think of. He pulled away slightly, not quite ready to let go of her yet, and rested his forehead against hers.

"Maybe I'm not dying the right way," he said.

"Why do you think you have to die at all?" Katara asked. Zuko snorted.

"Wouldn't it make your life easier if I were dead?" he asked. "If I die and end this loop, you wouldn't have to worry about me coming after you, or betraying your trust, or...or..." Zuko clenched his teeth tightly. Katara unwound an arm from his mid section and cupped his jaw.

"Where's that stubborn mule-ox who chased us around the world?" she demanded. "Where's that fighting spirit that led you to do stupid things, like challenge me while I was surrounded by my element?"

"I think that bit of me died around the fortieth time I woke up this morning," Zuko laughed mirthlessly. "Katara, I can't do this anymore. I have to figure out a way to end this. Even if it means I die. I can't go on like this!" His grip tightened around her waist, and he felt the tears coming again.

Then his world came to a screeching halt.

Katara's lips were pressed against his. Every thought in Zuko's head flickered out and all he could focus on was how soft Katara's lips were.

She pulled away with a jerk. Already she was babbling an apology, an explanation that she didn't know how else to distract him, other words that were lost on Zuko. Then she stopped talking when he leaned in to kiss her again. It was an urgent, awkward kiss between two inexperienced and desperate teens, with too much teeth and too many hands uncertain of where touch was okay. They kissed until they were breathless. They kissed until the wall imploded. And when Iroh and Aang burst in and the dust settled, they were still clinging to each other in a way that left little doubt of what they'd been doing.

They sprang apart, but instead of rushing over to Aang as she'd done so many times before, Katara stood awkwardly beside Zuko. A bright red blush covered her face and neck, and she looked a bit ashamed of herself as she avoided her friend's devastated face, but she didn't leave Zuko's side. Her knuckles bushed against his reassuringly, but neither of them made to entwine their hands.

There was no time to discuss any of what had happened. Azula and the Dai Li agents had heard the commotion as they always did, and soon they found themselves in the middle of a battle. Zuko had long since given up on joining his sister's side. And maybe the kiss had emboldened him, but this time, he joined the fight against his sister without hesitating. That enraged her, but between him, his uncle and Katara, she and the Dai Li were on their back foot. Zuko tried to keep his sister's focus on him. This time he would see Katara and his uncle escape safely with the Avatar. But something went wrong, and Aang was struck by Azula's lightning.

Katara in her rage was a sight to behold. She caught Aang as he fell, and almost simultaneously called up a wave with all the water in the cavern and froze Azula and her guards. That hadn't happened before. Neither had Zuko and Iroh ever managed to actually escape the cavern with Katara and Aang.

Later that night on Appa's saddle, Zuko watched in awe as the spirit water literally brought the Avatar back from the dead. He was glad that Katara hadn't wasted it on something as frivolous as his scar. Especially not when she looked at him, almost weeping with relief when her friend's chest began to fall and rise again.

In the chaos, Zuko and Iroh's presence had gone unremarked by Katara's other companions, but now that Ba Sing Se was miles behind them, and the Southern Tribe Warriors' camp lay before them, Sokka and Toph finally stopped to question their new companions. Katara told them in no uncertain terms that they owed Zuko and Iroh both hers and Aang's lives, and that they were fine to travel with them as long as they liked. Iroh offered his services as a firebending master for the Avatar once he woke. Zuko was quiet and stuck by either Iroh's or Katara's side- the latter was noted by Sokka with more than a hint of suspicion, but Zuko didn't care. It wouldn't matter in a few hours.

When they landed for an hour to plan their next move, Zuko told Katara as much when he managed to capture a few moments alone with her. She squeezed his hand.

"It'll be okay," she said. Zuko thought she was going to kiss him again, but Sokka appeared, inserting himself between them, with a suspicious glower levied at Zuko. Katara scoffed and went to go check on Aang.

They arrived at Chameleon Bay not long after that, and Zuko and Iroh were welcomed, albeit coldly by Katara's father and his troop. Zuko wasn't sure what Katara said, but he and Iroh were given a room on the Fire Nation ship Chief Hakoda and his men had managed to take possession of. Zuko couldn't sleep, though.

He ended up on the deck of the ship as the moon was nearing its zenith. It was close to the time that the day would reset for him. Zuko had timed it before. He figured he had about twenty minutes before he blacked out and woke in his room at the tea shop. He dreaded it, but he also felt a bit melancholy about it. No one would remember what happened today. His new allies, as fragile as the relationship was, would not know what happened tonight. His uncle, sleeping safely (as safely as was possible, at least) would soon burst into his room, excited about the trap that had been set for him at King Kuei's palace. Katara wouldn't remember comforting him in the caverns. She wouldn't remember kissing him, and when he saw her next, they would be enemies again. He didn't dare hope for a repeat of this particular version of the day, either.

Light footsteps came up behind him, but Zuko didn't so much as flinch. The worst that could happen would be someone slitting his throat. He wasn't overly worried about it, though, and he wasn't all that surprised when Katara sat down beside him, letting her legs dangle over the edge of the stern.

"It's late," she said.

"Yeah," Zuko agreed.

"Aren't you tired?"

"Aren't you?" Zuko scoffed. He glanced at Katara out of the corner of his eye. She was still covered in gore from where she'd caried Aang out of the cavern. Her hair was stiff with dried sweat, and there were smudges of mud and blood on her face and hands. She was gorgeous, Zuko realized with horrified clarity. He looked away from her and cleared his throat. He turned his gaze out on the the water of the bay. The moonlight scattered across the surface of the water, and danced across the waves.

"It's getting close to the time when my day starts again," he told Katara quietly. He sagged against the railing of the ship and rested his forehead against the cool metal. He was exhausted. He was always exhausted when he reached this part of the day.

"What if you stay up?" Katara suggested. Zuko shook his head with a sigh.

"I've tried," he told her. "If I don't fall asleep, or get knocked out or die, I just sort of black out. I can't fight it." Katara gasped, but didn't say anything. She slipped her hand inside of his and held it tightly. It was a nice sensation to end on, Zuko thought. He didn't fight it when sleep came to claim him.

Sunlight on his face woke him. Zuko looked around in confusion. He was not in his room above the tea shop. Above him, he saw the lightening dawn sky instead of the ceiling he'd been expecting. There was no scratchy stiff wool blanket over him. There was something soft and warm, and much heavier than a blanket on him though. He looked down and found Katara asleep on his chest, her arm draped across him protectively.

She must have heard the change in Zuko's heartbeat. Katara began to stir. She sat up and looked around blearily. She was not a morning person, Zuko thought giddily. When her eyes finally landed on him, several things crossed her face; surprise, fear, then dawning realization.

"Did you do it?" she asked. "Did you break the loop?" Zuko nodded, swallowing hard.

"It looks like it," he said. He looked around himself in awe. It was a new day.

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XLII. “2am”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce struggles to contain himself after your impromptu meeting.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, arguing/belittling

words: 5k

a/n: i love them together so much AHHH even when they’re being them…

You’d found an old deli, Mallozzi’s, on the east side of the Tricorner bridge. The word sever echoed between your eardrums like a march; it was why you hadn’t called Bruce for backup, even though you were headed to Crown Point past sundown. 

Even the taxis were superstitious; Uber and Lyft hadn’t let you hitch a ride here at this hour, and the taxi driver who did made sure to drop you off on the closest main street—a quarter mile walk to your destination. You’d charged your taser this time, and set your phone to send all emergency contacts your precise location with only two clicks. You’d worn all black to try and blend into the shadows, going so far as to don black eyeshadow, lipstick, and a thick beanie beneath a baggy hoodie. A small insignia of GU was embroidered into the breast, the only thing you’d had the money to buy at orientation two years ago. 

The hustle and bustle was overwhelming downtown, but the lack of it here was eerie. Every splash of your foot in a puddle was loud enough to startle. Fall’s chill crept in with every passing day, a reminder that you’d helped get people off these streets. It helped steel your nerves. If they had endured frigid winters and the constant threat of violence, you could handle one meetup. Especially with Batman on speed dial. 

You winced. Severing.

The afternoon floated around your thoughts as you made your way through the damp streets, interpolated with particularly destroyed buildings that made you run away with stories of how heinous the flood had been. Wiped out this entire neighborhood. Some of it looked flattened. You stepped around a massive hole in the concrete; it started in the middle of the street, its arms reaching the sidewalk on either side. Maybe a pipe had burst in the flooding. Had they truly not had the budget to fix this place up? Never before had you seen such blatant classism; one of the poorest neighborhoods blown to shreds, untouched two full years later. People here didn’t give a single shit.

It had been too easy to convince yourself to come here—the situation at Arkham had perked your ears to something awry, and the timing of this was too convenient. You’d tried responding with some questions: what is this concerning, is this to the right person? but it hadn’t gone through. Whoever wanted to meet didn’t want to risk it being traced. Which only made you curious. You also wanted to challenge the idea that this was the most dangerous area of Gotham; you couldn’t trust a damn thing this city said when they made their priorities so transparent.

Taking this anonymous meeting was also a welcome distraction from having to deliberate on Dr. Crane’s orders, which distracted you from wondering what you’d do when you got home, which distracted you from your mom, which distracted you from staring into the abyss of likely having to start your life from scratch in a small town with no friends nearby, only potholed roads and weathered church buildings to talk to. And Walter.

Which distracted you from another glaring situation: whatever the hell had happened in his shower the night before, and the potential depth of that yearning. Your mind lingered there, haunting you. Taunting you. Last night had made everything real. Clicked so much into place. Why you kept coming back, why you felt so frustratingly drawn to him. Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne… 

Right. Severing.

Mallozzi’s looked like it might have been a great shop in its heyday; now, the shingles were half gone, windows busted, every corner encrusted with mold. Mildew and sawdust singed your nostrils as you entered, the glass door barely opening wide enough for you to squeeze through. A quick sweep of the room revealed you were alone. Stepping over broken glass and copious amounts of rat poop, you managed to find a single stool that hadn’t been ripped to shreds and situated there. Your heart hurt looking around, reminding you of how it felt watching mom and pop shops close up in rural Washington. The countertops had what appeared to be hand-sculpted designs on each square, color-coordinated with the faded faux awning above the destroyed registers. 

Two minutes, then five. The more time passed, the greater your inkling that following this had been a mistake. Would it have been so bad to ask Bruce to cover for you? Climb on a roof somewhere and keep lookout, just in case?

A hinge creaked ten past two. A hooded figure had wedged the door wider than you’d managed, and you thumbed your taser in your left hand. They had both hands tucked into their pockets, head down, and it was impossible to tell if they were a danger yet. Impossible to tell if this was even who you were meant to meet with. They’d given no descriptors, no street name. You opened your mouth, but they spoke first. Stating your first and last name like a bored secretary, with the voice of someone in their late twenties, maybe thirties. You nodded, apprehensive. “That’s me.”

They pulled up a stool you’d avoided, too encrusted in dirt that looked very much like poop, but the stranger dusted it off with the back of their hand and sat. Their hood was cinched tight. You could make out tanned skin in the light from the smoggy moon that danced off the puddles, but that was it. 

“You need to leave Gotham.” It wasn’t said like a threat, but it registered like one. You almost heard it in Bruce’s voice, and for a millisecond you considered if he’d set this up. Sent someone to unsettle you, convince you to leave. Maybe he’d figured you’d be more eager to listen to a stranger than the billionaire vigilante who definitely didn’t have ulterior motives for getting you out of his hair. 

“Why?” Wanting them to think you weren’t easily intimidated, you kept measured. Bruce may have been able to x-ray vision through your chest to see your pounding heart, but…

“If you don’t leave now, you’ll get yourself killed.” A shrill noise of air pulling into cold lungs, a small puff of air exploding between you. “Housing people in Point put a target on your back.” Another breath, increasingly shallow. Like being in here was a trigger. 

“Associating with Bruce Wayne was enough to save you for now, but do not count on it. If you can even trust him.”

As great your desire to follow the Bruce of it all, you narrowed your focus. Claiming to foresee your imminent death was quite the opener. “How do you know I’m a target?”

The stranger shuffled in their seat, teeth beginning to chatter. “Everyone who tries to clean up the city is. Especially young women.” 

“W—”

Their voice was firmer, stronger now. “Listen to me. Crawling around Arkham, City Hall, Bruce Wayne, Oz Cobb. You take one wrong step and you’re cooked.” You noted a subtle gleam in their eyes as they lingered on your sweatshirt.

“Why would they care about hurting me?”

“You’re sticking your nose in their shit.” Their voice was caustic now, frustrated that you weren’t rolling over and following orders. “Look what happened to the mayor. The task force she set up discovered the DA was funneling money to Arkham, yet the facilities remained unchanged. Next thing you know.” The stranger took their hands out of their pockets and slapped them against their thighs. “They all end up there.”

“What do you mean ‘they all’?”

“That’s precisely what’ll get you killed. Stop asking questions.”

Your voice rose without conscious awareness. “If something like this is going on in the city,”

“It is, and you aren’t able to stop it.” The stranger stood up to leave, and you mirrored them. 

“I could use my connections at G—”

“You don’t think we’ve tried that?” They whipped their head around so fast they gripped the crumbling countertop for balance. “You see any other young buck journalists out here? You stick your nose in shit, you’re gonna get shit. I left after my apartment got hit. Never looked back.”

“You were a journalist here in Gotham?” No wonder they’re giving me a warning. 

“And now I hide in bushes all day so they don’t remember I’m alive.”

You knew it was pushing it, but adrenaline was coursing through your veins. “Who is ‘they’?”

“Bye.”

“So other journalists have been killed here?”

“I might be the only one who hasn’t.”

Dr. Vry probably wanted to know about something like this; something to help protect the journalism students, maybe some leads into who had gone missing and when. She seemed so desperate for people to join the program, and this could explain the low numbers for the major. Their refrain echoed: ‘you don’t think we’ve tried that?’ “Why hasn’t this been picked up?”

“It’s Gotham. People die here.” They said it like a recycled political headline. “Especially if they’re tuities.” They gestured to your sweatshirt and the taser in your hand, clues you were only here for the scholarship. “Go back to wherever the hell you came from. And hope that’s far enough.”

“This is why you didn’t want me to bring anyone.”

“If you speak of this, I’m fucking dead. We both are, so I guess that’s some good stakes.” The stranger was halfway to the exit, your thoughts swimming.

You grasped for any drop you could squeeze out of them, certain you’d never cross paths again. “Do you know the names of the other journalists?”

“No.”

They couldn’t leave you with nothing. Make vague, disparaging comments about leaving, then drop you into the pit. Your frustration bled out. “Sounds like you do, but you don’t want to tell me.” 

They turned around, slowly this time. “Yeah.” Their chuckle was dry and humorless. “You’re as good as dead.” You swallowed hard, and they heaved a hissing sigh. “I know you think you’re doing good, but you are nothing but a pebble at the bottom of that goddamn river.” 

Your heart sank.

“You want to do something good? Stay alive, and go make the world a better place somewhere else. They’ll knock you out like a straw house.” The stranger turned around, yanked the doorhandle, and slipped into the night.

You didn’t stay long. The wind cut through your hoodie, and it was a brutal endeavor being alone in such an environment after what you’d just heard. Thankfully you’d written the number of the taxi service who’d driven you, but they wouldn’t answer. After enough phone calls, perusing Scypher to see if tragedy had stricken the city, you decided you’d have to walk until an Uber could meet you on a main street. On this side of town that would take a half hour, minimum. 

You slunk through the alleyways with dim lighting, avoiding ones as dark as the pits of hell. Something about them felt familiar; if they’d been part of the group offered housing, why hadn’t they taken it? Were they completely alone, unable to live with someone under a different name? If their life now was relegated to hiding in shrubs, they probably wouldn’t mind hiding in a warm apartment. Funneling money to Arkham? Lashing out at journalists for looking into it? City Hall, Bruce Wayne, Oz Cobb? Who the hell is Oz Cobb?

A noise down the alleyway scared you into turning around. A few streets over you saw a flickering streetlight, and set off toward it. You struggled to keep your thoughts clear, the decision of whether or not to leave Gotham sitting like a rock. Was it futile to chase this? Had they tried talking to Dr. Vry? Now the president of GU, she had more sway. Who else was locked up in Arkham? Bella Reál had been scrambling to get out. No one cared. The abruptness of Dr. Crane’s covering of the window, his thinly-veiled threats. Severing. 

At his next prescription pickup. A week and a half away. Maybe you could poke around for a week, and if you didn’t find anything you would leave. Maybe you’d still leave, and send any tips over to Bruce for Batman to work through. Point him in some direction, a parting gift, a lead he didn’t have to work himself to the bone to find. Something to make his life a little bit easier.

But what if they did kill you? Would they leave you alone after leaving the city, thinking you were no longer a threat? Would that open things up, now farther away from Bruce Wayne’s reach? Was that article the only reason you were alive right now? Would they hit you after the hype died down? Once you began to fret over if they’d tapped your internet service, you reminded yourself you were wandering alone around dark, ghoulish streets in Gotham City. This wasn’t the place to mull anything over. 

Chasing the streetlights left you unsure of where led to a main road. All the brick looked the same, the monotonous crumby concrete under your feet giving no sense of direction. Intermittent shouts and clanging metal frightened you more than it should have. You were weak. Too soft. Used to leaving cars unlocked on the road for a quick trip. Never carrying a bike lock. Finding yourself in a city where any publicly parked car would be smashed by morning. 

Severing. Your thumb hovered over Bruce’s contact, and your stomach somersaulted. Creeping butterflies, heat rising to your cheeks. For a second the air didn’t hurt your lungs and the darkness wasn’t scary. Childlike crush. Somehow bright and innocent despite the tangle of lies it was covered in. 

You put your phone to your ear. You knew better than to keep wandering; at least no one had seen you yet, noticed you as a target. Mar and Rai didn’t have cars; he was your only ticket out.

“Hey. Everything alright?” He didn’t open by saying your name—like he’d come to expect talking to you. Too enamored by the sound of his voice, the words didn’t fall out of you. Only a few hours apart felt too long. How the hell were you going to leave next week?

He said your name now, a worried edge to his voice. “You okay?”

“Are you busy?”

He paused.

What did you mean by that? He leaned back in the seat of the Batmobile, deliberating. The armor of his suit crunched against it, a noise he was so used to it didn’t register. Half past two in the morning. You didn’t sound distressed. Maybe you’d had a nightmare? Calmed yourself down a bit before calling? 

“What do you need?” He bit back a million questions when you asked for a ride out of Crown Point. He’d wanted you to stay on the line, but you assured him of your safety, though he wasn’t at all convinced. His phone pinged with your location share, and he rushed like every word of yours had been spoken in code. 

He found you at the end of a dark alleyway, one that barely fit the Batmobile with enough space to open the passenger door. It crunched open, not used to being utilized, and you thunked into the seat. He scanned you for injury as you buckled in—nothing. Now persuaded of your safety, chills peppered his skin remembering how you’d caressed him the last time you were in here.

The cabin glowed with a pink and purple haze when you entered. Felt his shoulder pads dig in. The restriction of the belt and his taut leather gloves. The sound of the world shutting off around him. Alongside this crush (he withheld a visible cringe), worry bloomed. He drove under a streetlight and noticed black makeup adorning your face. Black hoodie, black pants. You’d wanted to blend in. 

His hands tightened around the wheel, bracing himself for something terrible. Had you been threatened? Coerced into something? Fell into some shady deal? “What are you doing in Point this late?”

He felt your hesitation like a brick of cement. If you hadn’t been up to something, you would’ve shot back with a defense before he’d finished his sentence. Was this related to how you’d acted over lunch? Withdrawn, sullen? 

“Following a lead.” Out of the corner of his eye he watched your lips purse into a thin line. You had more to say. He didn’t like the feeling inching between you, widening the gap. 

If you wanted to tell him what lead, you would have. What was of greater concern was if you were safe. Though he didn’t think you’d be particularly honest. “At two in the morning?” That didn’t come out right. Neither had his tone; it was verging on scolding. He reigned it in when you turned to look out the window. “I need to know if you’re in danger.”

“Need to know.”

His eyes narrowed, your scoff hitting him like a punch. Where was this coming from? “I can help.” His patience was wearing thin as anxiety bit at him. 

“You are. By giving me a ride home.” You turned your head even further away. Your tone was clipped. He slowed to a stop, his intuition screaming at him. At least he hoped it was logic and sense, not some twisting of this newfound infatuation. 

You looked at him like you were ready to jump from the car, angry, when he faced you. Your shoulders slumped when he met your gaze. He wondered if you could sense how nervous he was. How worried he was. How gutting it was to feel like you weren’t being honest with him. 

“If you’re in any sort of danger, I want to know.” He swallowed, and you looked away. Again. Shit, you were, weren’t you? Why else would you be in this part of town right now? He moved closer, as if it would help you hear him. As if the only problem was you couldn’t make out his words. “Please.” 

“Stop.” You squeezed your eyes shut and wrung your hands in your lap. He thought his heart might give out. “It’s nothing.”

Your cuticles were shredded, your skin flushing light with the force of your grip. Did you want to speak, but felt like you couldn’t? “Did they say not to tell anyone?”

Your lashes fluttered. He leaned closer, wishing he could take off the cowl, but he hadn’t spent enough time in Point lately to know if any security cameras still recorded out here. Your face would be shrouded enough from the shadow he kept you in as he drove close to the alley walls. He softened his voice to make up for the harsh lines and bullet marks in his armor. He didn’t want to intimidate right now. “You can tell me anything. No matter what they told you.”

You were continuously looking back with rose colored glasses at the snarky, mean-spirited man he used to be. How roughly he used to handle you, like he didn’t care if you broke into a million pieces. Nice Bruce, kind Bruce, caring Bruce was impossible to dismiss. How little could you give him where he’d be satisfied? What would make the wheels of this car start turning? He looked stressed and frayed. You couldn’t put any more on him. “A journalism thing. One of the people I think we offered housing, just talked about it.” 

As usual, nothing slipped by him, undeterred by your contrived nonchalance. Why did you have to get in cahoots with the single most focused, discerning person in existence? “This was the only time you both had available?”

“They didn’t want to meet during the day.”

“Who were they?”

“They didn’t want to reveal their identity.”

His brow furrowed, voice raising a few decibels. “You didn’t know who they were before coming to Crown Point alone in the middle of the night?”

“This is starting to sound like a lecture.” Your taser fell from your side onto the ground, and he flexed his jaw. You tensed, bracing for an argument. “I came prepared, okay?”

His tone kept restrained. For now. “What if they’d had a gun? What if they’d brought others?”

“They didn’t.”

“What exactly did you talk about?” 

It was hard not to lie again. It was hard not to tell the truth. Hard being in the car with him. “It’s private.” 

“Are you meeting with them again?”

“No.”

“If you do something like this in the future, let me know beforehand.”

Won’t have to worry about that for very long. Little did Bruce know, you’d be out of his hair before the end of the month. Maybe he’d throw a party. Christen the halls of Wayne Tower with the aimless whimsy of the public getting a peek into his world. 

He bristled at your laugh. You weren’t taking this seriously, and it was imperative that you did. Painfully so. “Will you?”

“Please, I want to get home. I’m tired.”

Begrudgingly, with a plan to bring it up later, he released the brake and started downtown. You drove in silence through back alleys and the occasional tunnel until your guilt got too big. Watching his hands tighten and loosen around the wheel, his blinking speed up. He deserved something.

“Do you know anything about someone named Oz Cobb?”

The car slammed to a halt; the seatbelt clicked hard into place, shoving you back into the seat. “Is that who you met with?”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Is that who you met with?”

His tone scared you. Jagged and deep, like shards of glass. “Jesus fuck, no!” 

“How do you know him?” His eyes were cast in shadow, his face a blob of black leather. Gone was the tentative, concerned Bruce—maybe you liked when he handled you gently. The rosy glasses were falling off your face. Who the hell was Oz to have him act like this?

“I don’t.”

“Have you ever spoken with him outside of City Hall?”

City Hall? You never spoke to anyone there.

“Have you?”

Interrogative. No longer was this a conversation between allies. The car cramped under the weight of his gravelly tone, his armor coming off far more aggressive. You wouldn’t let him know that. “Just drive.”

“Absolutely not.” He wasn’t leaving until you understood. Your frustration was a small price to pay for making you understand that your life would be at risk, that Oz was dangerous, that keeping things like this from him was a death sentence. 

“So you’re stranding me here?”

He made his voice stronger, feeling it begin to shake. “Don’t ever go near him.”

You didn’t say anything.

“I said don’t ever go near him.” He felt nauseous. And faint. Intrusive images of you lying with a bullet through your skull made his vision go in and out. Made him nervous to look at you, though he still did.

“You don’t control me.”

“Promise me you’ll never go near him.” His pulse raced in his ears.

“I can do whatever the hell I want.” If he didn’t drop it this second… His tone was venomous when he next spoke. 

“He’ll kill you.”

You rolled your eyes wide enough for him to see. Now you could see him, his eyes flashing, then narrowing, his mouth tensing into a snarl. “A lot of things could.”

“Promise me.” 

Sounded like a threat. You looked around, pretending to be bored, your blood boiling over as you began to feel like a hostage.

He was on the brink of a panic attack. “Promise me, goddammit!”

You gasped out your response, shocked his voice had risen to such a yell. “Don’t talk to me like that, what the fuck?”

“You’re telling me to let you hold a loaded gun to your head and pull the trigger.”

“Take me home.”

“Tell me you’re not that stupid.”

“Fuck off.”

A wheeze squeezed from his constricted throat. Yeah, he was about to pass out. “If you don’t want me to track you,”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Are you planning to meet with him?”

You stared at your lap. You. Still. Weren’t. Listening. 

“Answer me.”

Your nose turned up at him. “Your intimidation is less effective when you know it’s just you under that fucking suit.”

“You need to know how serious this is.”

“Take. Me. Home.” The steadiness of your voice was fading as helplessness crept in. You turned to look out the window. 

You started hashing at your cuticles. His voice was softer, though marginally. “Look at me.”

“No.”

“You need to listen, please—”

“TAKE ME HOME.”

Bruce reached out to touch your elbow, but you yanked your arm away so fast your wrist slapped against the glass. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not accepting any apology until I’m back.” 

The silence breathed for a few seconds, interrupted eventually by the clicking of gears. After a few streets you recognized the turns, the knot in your stomach loosening. The whiplash of twenty-four hours ago put a lump in your throat. 

A few minutes later he pulled into the signature alleyway. You hustled to unbuckle, the sound of small clinking rattling your ears. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed he was shivering.

“I’m sorry, everything I say is coming out wrong,” his voice was weak and bruised. 

“You don’t own me.” You unclicked the buckle. 

“I know.” A humorless laugh fell from his lips, and you stiffened. He shook his head like he hadn’t meant for it to occur. “That’s the thing, I know I don’t. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

He took off his cowl, sighing as he held it in his lap. A football field of distance sat between you, and he felt it like a hot branding iron. “I’m sorry for not taking you home when you asked.”

Tears stung your eyes. “Don’t ever act like that again.”

Bruce’s face contorted with pain as he watched you bite your cheek and blink back tears. He nodded. “I’m sorry. You’re not stupid. I was way out of line.”

You resumed fiddling with your hands. A light patter of rain dusted the windshield and echoed off the metal roofing. You didn’t know what to say to him. Each time you thought you were past something, it circled back.

“I won’t track you. I already said I wouldn’t. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re fucking mean.” It blurted out of you with a pitiful sob, and you angrily wiped at the hot tears spilling down your cheeks. “I don’t even know who the fuck he is.”

It was agony knowing he’d made you cry. It bled into his inflection, this frail, bleeding desperation. “It won’t happen again. I was, I was scared, his pockets are in the courts, I can’t get him—”

“So you scared me?”

He froze. “I scared you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” You wiped your cheeks with your forearm and popped open the door. 

“It matters a lot.”

You didn’t leave, but you didn’t speak. The two and a half block walk was more intimidating than ever, exaggerating the empty staleness of sitting in his car. 

“He’s the one person in this city I can’t save you from.”

“You don’t need to save me.”

You got out, saying a curt goodnight, and walked south down the alley. Hopefully no one would harass you at this hour. Hopefully getting home so late would mean the hot water would be plentiful. Hopefully you had a snack in the freezer you could eat in the shower, while you sat on the floor and deliberated if your life was worth staying, or leaving. 

Crunches of gravel alerted you to Bruce’s presence. Mussed hair and splotchy black eye paint sweat in a fade halfway down his cheeks. He hadn’t put the cowl back on, his identity on full display for anyone with the thought to look behind them on the sidewalk of the main road. It shocked you out of your melancholy. “What are you doing?”

He looked… uncomfortable, but earnest. His jaw twitched on every syllable. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I mean it. I’m really sorry.” His eyes bored into you, then trailed to the small pools in your tear troughs. “I don’t want to make you feel like this.”

You tore your eyes away from his. You might’ve drowned otherwise. “I’ll see you at the meeting.”

When you got home you scrubbed your makeup off in the shower, buzzing from the constant state of whiplash Bruce kept you chained to. Reactive, and, belligerent, and, apologetic, and intense. He couldn’t fucking talk to you like that. Like you were a petulant child. He was the petulant one. He was so, fucking… aggravating!

He sat in the car for the next hour, unmoving. Half of him felt silly. Pushing off patrol over an argument. The other half was in excruciating pain. He didn’t give you enough credit for what you had endured, and what you had done. It wasn’t like you ran into Point shouting at the top of your lungs, pointing a spotlight at yourself with your full name and address on display. Wasn’t like you didn’t know Gotham was dangerous. Probably still had remnants of the bruise on your thigh. 

He cut the night short. He couldn’t concentrate with the thought of you miserable in your apartment. His head spun. Maybe he was going soft. Being self-indulgent and unreasonable. Cutting patrol short in a city of millions over one person? This was why he kept at a distance. Public service was supposed to be egalitarian; creating any sort of hierarchy was unacceptable. Yet there you remained, and here he was at Wayne Tower with the moon still high in the sky.

He’d never, ever speak to you that way again.