#I hadn’t previously considered so like. take it or leave it I don’t know anything this isn’t professional advice

[whumpacabra]

Whumpers often aren’t given enough love by the narrative or the writer. How they justify their actions to themself - or refuse to justify their actions to themself - can add so much depth to how they interact with other characters. Most people aren’t completely desensitized to violence - we’re social animals, and as such seeing each other in pain is a hardwired empathy response (for most people), and social conditioning typically reinforces compassionate behavior. Even if your Whumper is desensitized to the violence they commit, you need to think about why; who they were before, what happened/when they stopped being distraught by other people’s pain. All too often their motivations, thought process, personality - it all seems to fall flat compared to more developed Whumpees and Caretakers.

#whump #whump meta #beans speaks #‘oh but my whumper has no empathy/is a psycho-sociopath-‘ first off all kinda ableist of you second of all *waves* low empathy person here! #we’re still capable of compassion and acting outside of our own best interest for others because we recognize the importance of #social relationships as part-takers of society (I don’t speak for every low/no empathy person but I digress) #thinking about your whumper’s intentions and motivations and justifications can literally only make your whump writing better just try it #if you wanna write a stock whumper that’s fine it’s just not my cupa tea and I realized it was more fun personally to give my whumpers dept #I hadn’t previously considered so like. take it or leave it I don’t know anything this isn’t professional advice

[jihyocentric]

by the time jihyo has to leave, nayeon has her focusing on something other than the fact that it was getting too dark outside, wanting to trap jihyo into staying yet another time.

sana hadn’t arrived and nayeon wanted to spoil jihyo, using such things as arguments to make jihyo sit on her lap instead of leaving. multiple websites are on display on nayeon’s laptop as jihyo searches for clothing, accessories, even useless goods that were far too cute for her to pass up, and nayeon isn’t worried in the slightest as she watches the carts from different stores getting full.

jihyo begins to forget there were things for her to do at home, her home, getting distracted with online shopping. as though it had been difficult to have such freedom with nayeon and sana’s money at first, it quickly became a hobby to spend it on things jihyo never needed to begin with.

nayeon was far too indulgent, pushing jihyo to get anything she wants, making her own suggestions at times. jihyo lets herself be cared for, melting on nayeon’s lap with each kiss left on her shoulder, too aware of the hand nayeon rests on her bare thigh.

a part of being nayeon and sana’s companion — it was a better term than the one her roommate used to describe their relationship — came with that. the touches, the kisses, staying over the night. jihyo had been shy when they first kissed her, even more so when nayeon had naturally rested her palm over her knee one day while driving, but the bashfulness slowly disappeared as she was frequently with them and such things kept happening.

nayeon’s choice of clothes for her that day had been strategic. she was seriously keen on dressing jihyo up like jihyo was her own doll, and jihyo was. it was a silent addition to their deal. sometimes, jihyo would wear outfits picked by nayeon. that was nayeon’s particular way to make jihyo more hers, which was equivalent to the jewelry given to jihyo by sana with a possessive ‘s’ engraved on each one.

and so, knowing what jihyo wore under her clothes was yet another reason why nayeon didn’t want her to go.

“considered staying yet, princess?” nayeon asks by the time jihyo has finished shopping.

“i have class early tomorrow,” jihyo mutters. there’s a squeeze of her thigh and lips being pressed against her neck. that is before they hear the sound of keys.

the ringing of the metal is faint and only jihyo seems to notice, but it has her leaving nayeon’s lap in a hurry — because that was sana, and she had missed her.

sana has no time to fully step inside the house, her hips suddenly has legs wrapped around it and there are arms around her neck. spontaneously, sana lets out a sigh of relief, all of the tension on her shoulders long gone as she holds jihyo, careful not to let her princess fall, walking inside and closing the door with the sole of her shoe.

sana coos, pecking jihyo’s cheek out of habit. “someone is excited to see me.”

nayeon joins them, kissing sana’s lips as a welcome gesture. she has been doing that for years, ever since they got married. sana lets the same sigh of relief she always did and everything feels just right. the only difference from the past to the present was that now there was no longer a missing piece in their marriage.

“would you believe she wants to go home?” nayeon remarks, almost teasing with the tone of her voice.

“i don’t want to,” jihyo quickly explains. “i promised dahyunie i’d make dinner for us tonight. and tomorrow…”

nayeon clicks her tongue. “tomorrow i’ll take you to college. no need to worry about that. but i believe you need to tell your friend you’re not going home, mhm?”

“it’s late,” sana adds. “she probably knows you’re staying with us.”

jihyo has a small pout on her lips as the choice is made for her, but she hardly wants to leave, besides, she could make up for her roommate later. so she stays, tells sana everything she had previously told nayeon about her day, and has dinner with them — not without letting dahyun know she wouldn’t go home for the night.

they’d only sleep that night. jihyo believes so, because sana was tired and nayeon hadn’t tried anything with her. perhaps nayeon was being considerate of her early schedule, it’s what jihyo thinks at first, but not long after they’re lying on the bed, nayeon has her greedy hand between jihyo’s thighs.

their deal didn’t contemplate sex. jihyo was initially there to make them company in exchange for the money she needed to stay in college and live comfortably. that was what she had agreed with. over the time, the need to be with them in more ways than one grew stronger, and only then did jihyo start to sleep with them.

sana and nayeon weren’t her first experience with it — but they were the second, and the first women she’d been with, which was adorable from their perspective, as they got the opportunity to introduce her to all sorts of things. they were taking it slow, patiently respecting jihyo’s pace, satisfied with anything she’d let them have, no matter if said thing was a kiss or sex.

“this will make you sleep faster, princess.” nayeon confidently assures. “or should i stop?”

the question is more of a demand for jihyo’s consent. jihyo shakes her head, opposed to the idea of nayeon not finishing what she had started, but she remembers sana and nayeon being strict about her being vocal. use your words, always — they told her once, on an occasion that wasn’t much different than the present one.

“no.” jihyo mutters. she’s aware of sana’s hands on the hem of her nightdress, looking away from nayeon’s face when sana manages to expose her.

“oh,” sana lets out a hum of a laugh. “how cute.”

“isn’t she?” nayeon looks down. the hand that had once been merely resting against jihyo’s center moves away. “she always chooses the ones with the cute little ribbons.”

there are two hands keeping her legs apart. nayeon’s is quickly replaced by her own leg, making it impossible for jihyo to close them if she wanted to, but sana’s stays where it is, on jihyo’s inner thigh, a place that had once been exclusive for only jihyo herself and that now was for the two older women to play with.

as though almost everything was new to jihyo in that aspect, that was the married couple’s first experience with someone like jihyo, which could explain why they were so utterly turned on by what they were seeing. it felt as if they were doing something wrong, something prohibited, when they had their little princess like that, exposed and ready to be touched, especially when what she wore looked so pure. wickedly virginal.

nayeon had personally picked that for jihyo. she constantly made jihyo choose between dark and light sets, with the dark ones being on the sexier side — there were usually no ribbons on those, but they were pretty regardless. sana only understood the motive behind nayeon’s fixation on dressing jihyo up when she realized nayeon made her a doll. and jihyo liked doing that for nayeon. becoming what she wanted.

“adorable.” sana presses her lips to jihyo’s temple. “don’t keep her waiting, darling. this princess needs to sleep early.”

nayeon complies with sana’s request, sliding the lacy fabric down jihyo’s smooth legs. it’s a shame she will no longer get to see her in the white lingerie adorned with light purple ribbons, but that is the least of nayeon’s worries once she slides two fingers into an awaiting, tight heat.

jihyo pants softly against the pillow at the feeling, the noise bringing a smile to sana’s face. nayeon’s fingers could feel like too much for someone who had little experience like jihyo — they were certainly longer than her own and nayeon knew exactly how to curve them inside, effortlessly reaching a spot that made jihyo shut her eyes tightly, crying out at the feeling.

“so easy,” sana observes while exposing jihyo’s chest calmly. the straps of her nightdress fall to her arms first, and then, with the tip of her nails, sana pulls the silky material down to bare jihyo’s chest for them. “my, my. could you believe i was forgetting how perfect these were?”

jihyo doubts the question is directed to her, but she wants to answer, wants to do more than lying down and taking, yet that was what she was there for. to be at their full mercy.

when sana wraps her lips around a hard nipple, jihyo is still only able to let moans and tiny sobs out of her mouth rather than words, but that was a enough of an answer. it told them everything they needed to know, really.

nayeon moans, getting wet as jihyo clenches around her fingers, “she loves the praise, sana. i wish you could feel this,” nayeon purrs, rubbing her nose against jihyo’s burning cheek. “she always gets so tight when you talk to her like that.”

perhaps nayeon enjoys their time with jihyo way too much. she loves the heat around her fingers, the way sana has to keep jihyo’s leg open with a firm claw or she’d surely close her legs, instinctively, how innocent their princess looked with her face crimson red, too shy to say anything when they were all but feasting on her. nayeon felt like she could come untouched from that.

oh, and the devoted innocence. it was almost like they were corrupting her, in a way. and, in a way, they were, introducing jihyo to a kind of pleasure as good as a sin, the only thing that would make jihyo's barely touched body burn and pulsate all over, reaching a peak of sheer satisfaction.

a squeeze of sana’s teeth on her nipple makes jihyo’s back arch. nayeon becomes hungrier, long fingers sliding in and out of the slippery place between jihyo’s thighs, and soon sana’s fingers are crowding on jihyo’s center, giving attention to her clit.

liquid heat pools at the corners of jihyo’s eyes and she can hardly do anything to stop herself from crying, her tolerance to pleasure clearly weak — even though that was nothing compared to what nayeon and sana wanted, and would, when they had the time, give her.

“come.” sana demands. “now.”

the sudden display of dominance pushes jihyo over the edge.

sana’s voice, as sweet as it was, could be condescending and terribly harsh, making jihyo’s stomach clench before there’s a burst of a feeling that makes jihyo use her idle hands to grip nayeon’s thigh and sana’s wrist, letting out a high pitched cry as she comes undone, forced to keep her legs open despite the urge to close them tight.

sana pulls her hand away and so does nayeon, the both of them keeping jihyo’s legs apart, staring at the mess they had made. nayeon moans as she takes fingers to her own mouth, licking them clean from the glistening liquid. sana envies her. perhaps she’d have to taste it directly from where it came, on another occasion. after all, they shouldn’t keep their princess up until late.

when nayeon is done cleaning her hand, she fixes jihyo’s nightdress and gives jihyo her panties again. it’s even worse now, to look at the cute ribbons on it after what they had done.

“good job, princess.” nayeon kisses her, a soft peck on the lips.

“you’ll sleep like a baby now,” sana coos, taunting her.

jihyo can only hide her face in the crook of nayeon’s neck and allow sana to hug her from behind, dozing off nearly instantly.

“hyunie, i’m home!”

jihyo calls, her loud voice echoing as she steps into the small apartment. to make up for her absence, she’d bought dinner for them and treats for ari.

she finds dahyun on the couch, tzuyu next to her, the both of them looking so cozy that jihyo wants to join. although they never minded when she interrupted their quality time as a couple, jihyo was far too hungry for cuddles.

“oh, she finally remembers she has a home.” dahyun keeps her eyes on the tv, pretending as if she’s annoyed.

jihyo smiles. “i brought dinner.”

“you should’ve done that yesterday.” dahyun huffs. tzuyu lets out a short laugh. dahyun pulls away. “it’s not funny! her sugar mommies are taking her away from me.”

“dahyun!” jihyo lets out a squeal, cheeks pink when dahyun calls them like that in front of tzuyu. “you know what, maybe ari will be happier eating the food i bought for you.”

jihyo grunts as she makes her way to the kitchen, ignoring dahyun’s rushed apologies behind her.

#nayeon #sana #jihyo #sanayeon #nahyo #sahyo #datzu #but only a little bit #non rq

[gyusfavlibra]

STRESSED | VERNON HANSOL

Pairings: idol!vernon x afab!reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+, unprotected sex, profanity, angst, fluff. Sexual language.

Word count: Idek

Proofread: nope :)

……………………………………………………………………………….

“Vernon?”

Your feet drags you through the hallway. The same furnished tunnel that separated your shared bedroom from your living room, kitchen, and the front door you just entered.

You had just finished another double shift at work. Missing hours a few weeks back because of a vacation you have previously took.

Your feet were sore, you body ached with not only pain, but tiredness if that makes sense.

Working as a coffee shop manager wasn’t easy. You had to keep track of times, workers, products, etc. It’s a heavy duty. And it’s every day of the week. So the first thing you wanna do during this weekend break you were approved of, was go straight home and rest. Preferably with your partner of two years.

“Vernon, you home?”

None of the calls you make of his name get a reply. Which was weird considering he texted you right before you left your work place saying he’d be down to have a movie night to make you feel better.

His idea.

The silence was loud until you reach the entry of your bedroom. Pushing open the rectangular door that blocked you.

Inside sits not only your clean room, but Vernon. Sitting at his desk playing video games. With headphones.

That explains the silence.

“Vernon, you hear me?”

The closer you get behind him, the more you can hear the screaming voices of his friends through the foamed ear muffs. You throw your tote bag onto the bed and flicker the light switch on the wall to get his attention.

Vernon’s body turns at lightning speed. When his brown orbs lay upon you, he can’t help but smile. He raises from the the black and green gaming chair, pulling the headphones off his head.

“Hey,” he greets you. His soft pink lips peck your temple right as a hand slips around ur waist to pull you close. “How was work?”

“Fine, I guess.”

Your response is followed with a shrug. Vernon takes note upon this and sighs. But he doesn’t say anything more. “I’m just tired.”

“Rest.”

“I will. Gonna make something first. Have you eaten yet?”

He shakes his head. “Wanna order something? It’ll be easier.”

The thought of ordering out instead of cooking a whole meal hadn’t even crossed your mind for some reason. But now that it has, the latter is definitely the way to go. Vernon whips his phone out his pocket. Opening a delivery app, then passing it to you.

“Get whatever you want. My treat.”

He kisses your lips, lightly, before turning back to the gaming station to continue. “You don’t wanna hangout?”

“Oh, uhm-“

The way his eyes travel to look at the computer shows he had forgot about the plans to relax together tonight. It totally slipped his mind the second his best friend messaged for some gaming time. “How about when food gets here?”

“But you said-“

“Just a minute, Dino,” he speaks over you. “When foods here. I promise.”

And then he’s gone. All his sense put back into the electronics with his friends. Leaving you to fend for yourself. Entertain yourself. All on your own.

You aren’t even gonna try to hide the disappointment that waves over your system. It was Vernon’s idea to have a night together when you got home from the stressful day of chaos you’ve dealt with.

And you appreciate his effort because you know he cares. But actions speak louder than words.

After putting in a order for not only yourself, but Vernon as well given that you know what he likes, you toss his phone on the large shared bed. Removing the converse on your feet, you grab a set of clothing to replace the uniform on your body. Heading into your bathroom to run yourself a nice bath. It’s the least you could settle for right now, but it works.

You make sure the water is more in the colder side to awaken your muscles. The fruity smell of your body soap fills the bathroom space. As well as your nose.

It doesn’t take long for you to finish, your bathing time followed by your nighttime routine. Vernon’s still in the game Even after the half hour you spent in the bathroom, settling yourself for the night.

Setting your dirty worn clothes of the day into a basket, you put away all your products and duck out the bathroom.

Vernon’s still in the same spot as before. You only push aside how upset you feel instead of prepping a whole big deal out of it.

You pull the dark comforter that lays on top on your mattress upwards so you can slide yourself under it. For minutes, you tried to occupy yourself watching his game that flashed on the desk monitor. Vernon speaking every few seconds to communicate with his teammates.

But that wasn’t enough to not feel bored and alone. Your hand flips your phone upwards so its screen is connected to your eyes. Of course you gotta adjust the brightness considering it being later in the night so the bedroom itself isn’t even bright enough to match how vibrant the display was.

You open Netflix in hoping to find a show or movie that’ll keep you interested enough to stay awake until food got here.

It definitely upsets you that you have to spend this time to make yourself feel more relaxed when Vernon usually helps you. You understand completely that he wants to play games with his friends, very understandable.

But you wished he had sorted his time and schedule a lot better. Instead, everything for the night has been switched around.

Of course there’s always tomorrow but after a good nights rest, you’ll probably feel better already. You wanted to spend time with him now.

Your saddened thoughts are interrupted by the sound of your home’s doorbell. Of course Vernon’s not gonna get the door so you retrieve yourself out of the bed and out of the bedroom.

Setting the given meals onto the kitchen counter, you call out Vernon’s name. Maybe if you’re loud enough, he can actually hear.

“Vernon! Foods here!”

You pull the containers out the plastic bag. “Vernon!”

A sigh leaves your lips. Now you have to drag yourself all the way back to your room just to get his attention off the screen and into yourself.

“Babe,” you call while tapping his shoulder. He pulls one of the headphones off and behind his ear. “Food’s here. Wanna go eat?”

“Oh, yeah give me a second.”

“Are we gonna watch something?” You ask. Your finger play with the hemming on the hood of his sweater.

“You still want to?”

The brows on your forehead, furrow. “Of course I want to. I’ve been waiting this whole time to watch a movie with you. It was your idea.”

“Why’re you getting mad?”

His hands raise from the keyboard. Almost like he was trying defend his own self.

“I-I’m not. I’m just saying.”

“Okay, why don’t you set up a movie for us and I’ll be right out there. Hm?”

You nod with hesitancy. Questioning whether or not he’ll actually be out there anytime soon. But watching him leave the game lobby was A answer on its own.

“Guys, guys, I got to go. Y/n’s not having the best day and I promised I’d spend time with her.”

You set up Netflix on the living room tv. Setting the plates of your food into the cute coffee table that sits on this vintage rug Vernon’s mother gifted you at Christmas the previous year. You also grab a large fluffy blanket from the hallway closet.

The bedroom door opens with a squeak. Vernon comes marching out in a new set of clothes. Just a tshirt and some pajama pants.

“Food smells good.”

You nod in agreement. Vernon pretty much collapses onto the dark grey L shaped sofa. Adjusting the blanket to lay across his man spread legs. “Want a drink?”

“Mhm. Thanks.”

You hand him one of the two cokes from the fridge, settling next to him. Usually you’d be a lot closer than what it seems, and Vernon noticed the distance between you two.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“C’mere,” he pulls at your elbow. Using it against you to pull your body into his own. Your knees prop onto the couch. His arm swoops around so it lays across your chest. And you cling to it like you never wanna let it go. Because you really don’t. “Talk to me.”

“Huh?”

“Did I do something?”

“No- it’s not like that. I’m just tired,” you speak softly.

“Then why are you mad at me?”

The debate between letting this go now that your together or actually telling him why you’re truly upset with him. Either way the vibes will be ruined in your eyes.

“I’m not mad, I promise. It’s just- todays been super stressful. And you told me that when I got home, we could watch a movie and spend time together.”

“I did, yeah.”

“But I come home and you’re playing video games, leaving me to wonder whether you actually wanted to be by me, or not.”

His heart breaks. He understands exactly what you’re saying. Because he did say he’d be right there to make you feel better when you got home. And he won’t deny that. But he hadn’t noticed he had been leaving you out.

“And then you say we can hangout when foods here.“

“Y/n-“

“…and I had to practically beg you to come out here when it was you, who told me we’d have this time together.”

“Hey, I know. I hear you.”

“I know this is probably dramatic. But I’m stressed. And I want to be by you. It makes me feel better. But I want you to want to be by me too.”

All of this open his eyes. He made you feel so alone. And in no way, shape, or form, did He find any of this to be dramatic. Far from it. You find Vernon as your home. Your comfort. You are just as well for me. And you’re always there to hear about his stressful work days. Holding him when he feels like crying, hugging him when he needs to comfort. It’s only fair to him, that he does the EXACT same for you.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you alone. It sorta slipped my mind. But that’s no excuse.”

You lift your head so your eyes meet.

“I’m sorry.”

He bends his head forward to peck your soft bubbly cheeks. Once, twice, three times. Each kiss followed by another apology. It only makes you giggle. “Okay, okay!”

You try to pull away but he calls your name which pauses your movements. “Hey, I really am sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’re here right now and I’m feeling so much better already.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm, cause I got food,” you joke. Vernon jerks your body against his which make you giggle.

“Oh really?”

“No, no. I’m kidding. I promise.”

He only hums in response. Instead of giving any word, he leans down to kiss your smiling lips. You reciprocate. It’s passionate at first. Slow. And super soft. You can feel the love in it. Both of you can.

But the second he mumbles “I love you” against your lips, it starts to get more heated than the passing kisses. The pressure of your mouth are a lot more compressed and hard than the softer and peck-like ones from before. And it grows more heavy by each second.

The position isn’t all that. Both of your necks are craned so its not all that comfortable.

You pull away to sit on your knees, turning to his body so your face to face. You lay a leg over his thigh so you can set yourself in his lap.

A hand of his holds your waist, but under your shirt so he can feel your skin. You pull him so your chests touch, reconnecting your lips.

Your hands trace his biceps and up to his shoulders where you grip on them tightly.

Vernon’s bulge is so obvious in the pajama pants he’s wearing. You can trace it with just your mind and the feeling between you. You lift yourself just a tad bit. But it was more like a grind. So you both could feel the desperate feeling that was racing in your veins.

His hand on your waist guides your hips at this point because your too focused on his lips that doing it on your own, its a little sloppy.

His covered erection rubs so perfectly against your wet heat. And for a second you think Vernon isn’t enjoying this because he stops kissing you, stops your hip movements, and places his head against your shoulder.

“Wait, wait. Stop,” he whispers. Moving his head right away to look you in the eyes. “We dont have to have sex tonight. We can just watch the movie.”

“No- I want to. I really want to.”

“Are you sure? Because we can just cuddle now and do this another time.”

Your stomach turns. “Do you not want me?”

“No, of course I do. I do. But I don’t want you to do this because of me. I know you had a bad day so if you wanna just relax, we can just relax.”

“Vernon, I really want you. I really do. Okay?”

He chuckles, “Okay.”

Vernon holds your waist even tighter so he can flip you on the couch. That way your pinned into the sofa while he hovers above you. He presses his lips even harder than ever on yours. Lifting your (his) t-shirt so your stomach is revealed to him. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah,” he says with a smirk.

Vernon trails a hand from your covered breast to the waistband of her pajama shorts. Your breath shudders. You couldn’t even remember the last time Vernon touching you made your breath hitch the way it is right now. To be fair, you haven’t been TOO intimate lately because of your busy schedules so maybe that just the reason. Its been just quick morning sex and then you both go on in the days like nothing happened. Obviously still affectionate but again, its the in bed affection that makes this so intimate right now.

Vernon’s lips trace the outline of your jaw just as his hand slips into your bottoms. Under the shorts AND your under wear, right to the place thats needed the most.

“Relax baby.”

His finger slide in between your soaking desperate walls. Your thighs twitch. The direct contact already making you feel so overstimulated.

He rubs circles right on your clit. At the same time as sucking little marks behind your ear. Its your sweet spot. He knew that better than anything. “Can I put them in?”

“Please.”

Not another word needed before he slips his pointy and middle finger inside you. Pumping them in and out at a pace that satisfies you enough to already feel your high coming. Thats how great Vernon made you feel. He thrusts his bulge against your opened up thigh. Giving himself some friction while focusing on making you cum.

Vernon knows to listen to your body. The language, the speed of your breathing, the height and volume of your moans as well as the space in between each of them. For example, when he angles his fingers just perfectly that your moans are now higher pitched.

So when you finally reach your climax, Vernon’s already ripping your bottoms off your body along with his own. He presses two quick kisses to your mouth before grabbing his rock hard cock into his hand and slapping your plumped lips with it. You body jolts at this sudden action.

“You sore?”

“No, no. I’m feel great. Just still coming down.”

He pauses all his movements. “Want me to wait?”

You hum with a shake of your head. “I still want you.”

“You sure. We can stop now if its too much,” he says with assurance. Thats one of your favorite things about Vernon is no matter how certain you sound, he’ll always continue to make sure thing okay. He’ll never push you to go any farther if you were sure.

“I dont wanna stop. I’m okay, I promise.”

Vernon kisses your temple. And holds his lips there as he sinks himself into you as slowly and sweetly as possible.

You moan into his shoulder while gripping his biceps. The stretch gets you every time. Not super painful but when slips in so slowly, you can feel the curve of every vein on his cock. “You okay?”

“Perfect.”

Vernon grips your thigh to lift it over his waist. Giving more access to your center to thrust more easily. He hits a spot so quickly that your nails are creating moon crescents into his skin even with the short sleeves covering his skin.

Your gummy walls suck Vernon in so nicely that now his own breath is shuddering against your skin. This dint even fucking in either of your eyes. This is your way of making love to each other. And you loved being able to do so with someone who cares so much for you.

He places a strong hand onto your breast and squeezes it through the green bra that covers your skin. The contact makes your high approach even faster than before.

A echoed moan travels through the room and it hits his ears so magically. “You like that? When I touch you?”

“I love it. I love it so much.”

Vernon can feel his high approaching rapidly. With every kiss, every touch, every thrust, it makes him wanna come undone. Smashing your lips together to swallow every moan you expose because of him is like taking a pill. You’re his drug. Everything he needs.

“Fuck- I love you so much, Y/n.”

“I love you too.”

“Say it again.”

And you do. And when asks you to say it again, you do. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum. You’re gonna came me cum, Y/n.”

“Me too, Nonnie.”

His hand leaves your breast to circle your clit once again. “Oh, I’m-“

“Do it for me.”

You hold his lips to your own as you climax subdues your entire body. And just the sight on your beautiful body shaking over your orgasm has Vernon cumming as well and painting your insides with white liquid strings. “Fuck, fuck.”

His hips don’t stop until your high are long over and done. Vernon kisses your lips once more before pulling out of you while resting his head on your own. “You okay? You feel okay?”

You smile. “I feel amazing.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” you nod with a little giggle escaping with your words. Vernon retrieves both of your bottoms from the floor and put them back on your bodies. More gently for you than his own self.

“I’ll warm up the food and we can watch that movie.”

Those words make your heart flutter. You nod while Vernon stands from the couch, bends down to peck your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And then he’s off to the kitchen warming up your dinner while you start the movie.

#kpop imagines #vernon #hansol vernon chwe #seventeen fluff #vernon smut #seventeen smut #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen fanfic #seventeen imagines #vernon seventeen #vernon x reader #vernon fanfic #seventeen vernon #vernon chwe #seventeen x reader #seventeen imagine

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WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 14: A Blossoming Friendship

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, references to past Astarion trauma, references to death and dying, mild angst, notes of body dysmorphia?/comparing to past-self

WC: 9k words, 14/?? chapters

Summary: Now in your second week of living together, you and Astarion have to get past some of the hurdles your first week introduced, all while getting a bit closer along the way.

Ao3 | [Ch13][Ch15] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

Your second week staying with Astarion starts off with an apology.

“I… apologize for how I reacted yesterday.” Astarion stands before you, in front of the doorway to your old room, looking oddly chastised. You hadn’t said anything to him about the previous day’s conversation, but he’d evidently come to the conclusion on his own.

“I’m sorry too,” you say, meeting his eyes with all of the guilt that had bubbled up over night. ”For some reason your words made me feel… defensive.” Internally, you wonder if that’s part of caring for someone as much as you do him– his every word hits you like a ton of bricks.

“And I don’t think I’ve eaten well enough recently,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I might have been a tad severe as a result.”

You open your mouth, willing to forgo any of your previous reservations, ready to offer your own blood if it means that he’ll be better off, only for him to hold up a hand to stop you.

“If you’re planning on offering, I’m still not interested,” he says. “Let’s not complicate whatever this is any further.” He waves a hand between you, gesturing at the ‘this’ in question.

So you close your mouth again, understanding his reasoning well enough. Though if his hunt last week had gone so poorly, why hadn’t he said something? “Well, know that the offer is always on the table. I’ve certainly gotten used to your fangs in my dreams,” you say in response. He raises a single eyebrow at you, and you can sense the suggestive tone he’s about to adopt before you waylay him with a question, “So are you heading hunting today then?”

The eyebrow drops back down and Astarion seems a bit sullen at the idea. You wonder why that might be, when he reluctantly supplies a statement that both thrills and annoys you, “Truth be told, I don’t like the idea of leaving you here alone.”

Does he think I’m incapable of taking care of myself? Or maybe I’m already such an integral part of his life–no, no, that clearly can’t be. You reign in your thoughts to ask, “Oh? Why is that?”

Astarion looks at you like perhaps you’re not as intelligent as he had previously thought. “Because you’re a wizard. A living, breathing disaster just waiting to happen.” His tone is judgemental, brutal, and indicates that he believes the words he says without a shadow of a doubt.

“What?” you blurt out, apologies all but forgotten as another ton of bricks hits you. You knew he judged wizards harshly from his words about Gale, but for some reason you thought you could become the exception to the rule. “You know that all wizards don’t have a Netherese Orb trapped in their chest, right?”

The vampire rolls his eyes at you, as if to say ‘obviously, darling’ before he says, “Despite what your memories may indicate, Gale is one of the– ugh– good ones. Until I’ve seen more of what you’re capable of, I’m afraid I’ll find it difficult to leave you alone.”

“You left me alone just last week!” you exclaim, indignant now. When he doesn’t immediately respond, understanding dawns on you. “You didn’t leave me alone last week, did you?”

He shakes his head at you, not even bothering to feign embarrassment. Instead, he simply says, “Don’t worry. I’m not watching your every move.”

That does little to assuage your worries, as you consider every move that he could be watching. You think of Dal waiting for your Sending spell and imagine your window of opportunity shrinking as his trust in you lies dead in the deepest trenches of the Underdark. “Oh, great,” you say, sarcastically. “So am I nothing more than a prisoner to you?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Astarion retorts quickly. “You are free to leave whenever you’d like. I’d just like to make sure that no one spontaneously combusts and that my manor stays in one piece while you’re here.”

You want to scream, to throw something at him, level a Fireball right in this very hallway just to prove him right. But you temper your anger, take a deep breath, and stare at him. The look on his face seems to indicate that he doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong– you suppose in his mind, he’s only exercising the right to protect himself. Reasoning with him won’t get you anywhere, however showing him that you’re not a threat might. 

“Fine,” you manage to choke out. “What do you need me to do to prove that I’m a good wizard?”

His fair face scrunches up in thought at your question, like he hadn’t even considered that you could do such a thing. “Honestly, I haven’t a clue,” he finally says, trilling a light laugh. Normally, you’d enjoy his laughter, but this one just makes you want to shoot fire out of your fingertips.

Again, you wonder how you ever put up with this man in your past-life, how you got past all of the abrasiveness and made it to the man who genuinely cared for you. “You have to give me some chance, Astarion,” you say, irritation dripping from your words as you glare at him.

Astarion gives a pensive little hum, staunchly ignoring the daggers shooting from your eyes. “Well, we can start with something simple. What is your magical specialty? Or, sorry, school?”

That question is easy enough that you answer quickly, “I dabble in any type of magic, but my focus in school was Transmutation. I also quite like the schools of Illusion and Evocation, but I promise to keep the latter out of the house.” At least, I’ll try, you think.

“Transmutation, eh?” he says, furrowing his brow. You suspect he doesn’t know the schools of magic well enough to know what that means, but you nod anyway. “What’s your most powerful spell then?”

That all but confirms that he doesn’t understand your skillset. “It depends on what you’d consider powerful, I suppose,” you say, mentally running through the spells at your disposal. “I could turn you into a sheep, redirect a river, shape stone. But nothing as destructive as you’re imagining.”

While you’re sure that your most powerful spells are about as tame as tame can be, Astarion’s concerned brows only knit closer together. “That sounds like it could be quite dangerous.”

You want to throw your hands up into the air, certain at this point that nothing you say will sate this man’s continuous excuses for keeping you at a solid arm’s length. But you refrain, resorting to logic. “I promise it’s not. Besides, you can’t go on much longer without blood, can you?”

“Oh, I shall manage. I’ve gone without for far longer before,” he says, smiling at you once again. Ignoring any protestations that seem about to burst out of you, he continues, “Now that that’s settled, what would you like to do today?”

Nothing feels settled, simply brushed away and you’re well and truly mad now. It’s plain as day on your face, your plans to meet with Dal all but shattered by this grinning blockhead. Luckily, you have an excuse to cooldown by yourself.

“I need to go get food,” you say, trying your best to remain composed.

“Ah yes, that,” he responds, sounding annoyed that you’re throwing yet another wrench in his meticulously planned out day. If your anger bothers him, he shows no indication that he cares in the slightest. “Very well then, I shall see you later?”

You don’t trust yourself to speak without snarling, so you just nod. He takes that as his cue to leave, and you stare up at the ceiling in frustration once he disappears. “May my soul grant me the strength to deal with this man.”

Your trip promises to be short today, but you still linger a bit as you shop, thinking about the man you now know as Astarion.

He’s impossible, part of you says. He’s just hurt, another part of you counters. And throughout it all, you find yourself in a fog as you pick apples or select meats, thinking of the way his hair curls so softly around his face or the way his fangs peak over his lips when he smiles. Dreams of him were potent enough, but now that you’ve met him? Your mind feels addled with images of him.

No, you think, shaking your head out of another daydream. Focus on getting through to him. You know who he is, deep down. This… front will pass in due time.

You return back to the manor shortly after midday, expecting to find Astarion waiting for you like the last time. Instead you find a note in the entrance hall.

Not sure when you would return, so I went to visit my siblings. Should be back by afternoon.

A sudden fear strikes you, washing away all of your anger and muddled thoughts– you hadn’t thought to warn Dalyria to not mention your communication. She could be telling him at this very moment. You remember how she’d mentioned that Astarion had been difficult– likely she knew better. But you still couldn’t help the sinking feeling forming in your chest since that morning, the fear that your chance to speak with her was only getting slimmer and slimmer.

By the time Astarion returns, you’ve utterly wound yourself up in your nerves. He finds you in the library, book open and completely unread in front of you. You smile at him, and even you can feel the strain in your face and voice as you exclaim, “Welcome back!” 

He purses his lips at the greeting. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing!” you say, too quickly, too high pitched.

“You used to be much better at lying, darling,” he replies, tutting at you. “Does it have to do with Dal?”

You hadn’t had much reason to lie to him yet. Now that you do, you’re all but crumbling before him. You take a breath, determined to be better at this. “Not at all, why would you think that?” Even to your own ears, your words sound weak.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, stepping closer to the chaise lounge you’re seated on. His voice drops an octave, somehow both dangerous and thrilling to you. “Maybe the ill-placed hope that I saw in her and Petras’ eyes when I went to visit them. You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, now would you?”

Astarion doesn’t seem angry, he doesn’t look ready to devour you, so you’re not sure how to take the question. “No?” you offer with a shrug.

He sits next to you on the lounge with a sigh. “Since I didn’t explicitly state it before, I will now: if you get up to anything with the spawn, consider our situation over.”

You blink at that, surprised at the hard line between him and siblings being drawn once more. “Why?” you can’t help but ask.

The vampire turns to look at you, face serious in a way you haven’t seen since you agreed to stay with him. “Because we want different things. And, despite my giving, selfless nature, I refuse to share you with them.” His words cause an odd fluttering in your belly, but his expression remains serious as he continues, “If you want to help them badly enough to abandon me, know that I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

It’s clear that his stance doesn’t allow for argument and, to be honest, none comes to your mind. He has every right to ask you to choose, just as you have every right to want to know more. You’ve reached an impasse, but you also don’t want whatever this is to stop. Astarion has always been your biggest priority, in your previous lifetime and this one– despite what he seems to believe. So you relent, “Fine. I’ll… leave it be.” For now, you swear to yourself.

Astarion smiles at that, his eyes soften at the corners ever so slightly, and your stomach does a small flip. Oh, what I would do to bring about that smile every day, you think, unable to help yourself. You silently apologize to your past-self: you’d never realized how powerful this man truly was.

You spend the rest of the day together, having washed away both the previous day’s awkwardness and today’s struggles. Sitting next to each other in the library like this, you can imagine that you’re truly becoming friends at the very least. You wonder when the last time Astarion made a friend was. Despite your fondness for the man, you don’t believe most people would put up with his ever-changing moods for long.

That night your reverie is of the Hero’s Life once more. Astarion is absent from this dream, as are the rest of your companions or any spawn. You’re alone, searching for something in the Underdark. Every hundred yards or so you pull out a map and take notes in that same code you’ve yet to decipher. You try to remember all that you can about the dream, the notes taken, the route you traverse. All the while you feel a sense of purpose, you feel driven, and, underneath it all, a longing and a love. 

__

After that day, you try to establish somewhat of a routine with your new vampiric friend– of course, you haven’t said the word to Astarion yet, for fear of how he might react. 

You start your days off with a chat over breakfast. He asks you what you’d like to do for the day or offers you to accompany him on tasks. You either offer up an activity or agree to help him– it’s all rather mundane for the ‘beautiful, tortured vampire secluded in his mansion’ impression he initially gave you.

That’s not to say you don’t continue your line of questioning, nor your less-than-subtle attempts to get him to read your journals or tell you more of your past-self. Occasionally he seems to be on the verge of running away, but he makes good on his apology for his behavior. He stays and endures it, either answering your questions or rebuffing your investigations.

You learn about what happened to Wyll, Shadowheart, Jaheira, Minsc, all of your tiefling allies– Astarion never found out what happened to Lae’zel or Withers, but he suspects that they could still be out there somewhere.

You learn about how the vampires set up a new base in the Underdark, how they’d lost many, how they’d fought off even more. You continue to learn about managing the colony and you wonder if Astarion is teaching you if only to get something of a helper out of this whole arrangement. You decide not to ask, lest your heart break again.

Given your vow to Astarion, you resist the urge to message the spawn every single night. You remind yourself of how one wrong message could ruin everything, could put Astarion forever out of your reach– that thought is the only thing that keeps you from muttering the spell. You know it won’t be long before your curiosity eventually gets the better of you, and you’d like to think that Astarion may eventually come around. It’s a longshot, but you have to hope.

Despite the attempt at a routine, each day does come with its trials and tribulations. Ranging from unpleasantness as Astarion puts it to some surprisingly pleasant moments.

On your ninth day in the house, he receives another visitor.

When the knock comes this time, you’re both in the kitchen, this time for dinner. With the way Astarion’s posture straightens, his eyes narrow, and he scooches a bit further into the table, you can tell he’s planning to ignore them again. You level the man with a forceful stare, before saying, “If you don’t want to drink from me, please at least consider this person.”

He sighs, turning his narrowed gaze to you. “I don’t particularly care to.”

“At least check?” you ask, voice pleading with him. “What if they’re delicious? You won’t know unless you check.”

Astarion only rolls his eyes at you before getting up. “If I regret this, I will be taking it out on you.” You don’t doubt it, but find that you don’t mind if it means that he gets a meal out of it.

Reluctantly, he leaves the kitchen and heads toward the door. You trail behind him from a distance, watching all the while, curious to see the type of person who would appear on his doorstep. Would it be a stunning beauty, someone with a sad, allure, maybe a raving fanatic?

When he opens the door, you try to catch a glimpse of the person on the other end. You don’t get a full view, but they look to be a fair-haired human by the looks of it

“Hello there, what can I do for you?” he says to the waiting human– you’re glad to note that you can discern the fake-tone to his welcome this time. Now that you’ve heard some of his genuine happiness in real life, it’s much easier to differentiate.

The human seems to have a spiel ready, far better than anything you had prepared. They wax poetic about being some kind of grand healer, how their god has given them the blessing to come here and cure him through any means possible– how they had chosen that to be through love. Astarion must have the poker-face of a god because he stands there the entire time, listening.

Finally they say, “I assure you, with the strength of my love, any can be healed.”

You can practically see the smothered laughter in Astarion’s deep breath, as he likely uses all of his willpower to keep it from bursting out. When he finishes the breath, all that you hear is, “Well, isn’t that sweet?”

“Nothing so sweet as you, I assure you,” they say, and you have to admit, they clearly rehearsed a few lines. You can’t fully discern their expression, but the wide, pleading eyes, begging for a chance, are visible even from a distance. Oh gods, they’re the epitome of what Astarion was talking about, aren’t they?

Astarion seems bored of the exchange now, and he dismisses them without another glance. “Well, this has been a delight, but I’m afraid I’m not in need of healing right now.”

The door is slammed in their face, and you jump back at the sharpness of his rejection. You suppose he did the same to you, not too long ago, but watching it happen feels, well, bad.

The man turns away from the door, ignoring the following knocks. When he spots you watching from the stairs, he finally lets out the humorless laugh he’d been holding back. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“No,” you say, honestly. Walking down the steps to him, also ignoring the pounding on the door, you ask the question that had been bothering you since last week, “How often do you reject visitors?”

“Not often, really. Only if they seem dangerous, insane, or try to move in with me,” he looks at you with the last one.

You ignore his taunt and continue to dig. “Why did you reject them then? They didn’t seem particularly dangerous or insane.” You wonder again if it may be because of you.

“It feels awkward.” When your inquiring eyes don’t relent, he continues, “Ugh, it’s not like I’m worried about you or anything, but the idea that– that some part of you is… them. I don’t want them to see me like this.”

“Oh,” you say. Of course it’s not me, you think. What a fool I am.

At the dejected little droop of your shoulders, he groans and gives your forehead a flick with his fingers. “Stop looking like a kicked puppy, and get back to dinner.”

You drop the subject and follow him back to the kitchen, all the while kicking yourself for believing in anything other than what was plain before you: for the last three-hundred years, this man has loved one person and one person only. Until you can find a space in his new life, anything he feels toward you will only be a result of that. You would do well to remember it or your heart will just keep breaking.

You aren’t afraid to try to carve that space for yourself though.

__

On your tenth day in the house, you cause the disturbance to your routine.

“Could I hold your hand?” you ask as you’re both working side-by-side. You’ve found it oddly intimate to work so closely together– especially after countless daydreams of the few moments his hand was in yours. And, after more than two hours of nearly touching, you can't hold the question in any longer. If his shoulder so much as brushes yours once more, you're liable to scream. You figure asking is easier.

“Excuse me?” he asks, understandably not comprehending the words that have come out of your mouth, especially when he had just been in the process of explaining to you the different defensive formations the spawn had been developing. 

“I was wondering if we could hold hands. You know–” You reach out to him with a hand as you explain. “These things?”

He sits there, staring at your hand in the air, papers frozen in his own hands. The stillness of his body, the shock that he’s not bothering to hide, twist at your heart. Oh gods I should have just screamed.

“Sorry, that was too much, wasn’t it?” you say, wishing you had a means to turn back time. “I just wanted to–”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not exactly the most sinful of acts,” he says, though he still refuses to meet your eyes. “I’ve done far more with countless others. Hells, your soul has seen far more than the palm of my hand, hasn’t it?”

You blush at the insinuation. “I suppose so.”

“Here,” he says, placing the papers back onto the table and sticking his hand out toward yours. It looks like that of a doll, pristine and pale in its beauty, and you’re abruptly self-conscious about your own hands.

You debate whether or not you should take it now that it’s in front of you, but it would hardly do to leave it like this. Besides, like he said, you’ve dreamt of far, far more. Trying to push down the decidedly more sinful thoughts his hands conjure up, you reach out toward his waiting hand.

The first thing you feel is cold.

His hand, much like you remember the rest of his body being, is cold. Surprisingly so, since he always seems so alive– but an oddly chilling reminder of the difference in your mortality.

The next thing you note is the heat of your own hand and how the cold stings you a bit where the two temperatures collide, just short of painful. You’re reminded of the times his hands would leave cold, burning trails along your body in your dreams, and, despite what he’d said, your mind is certainly running away from you. 

Finally, you can feel your heart, which begins a frenzied little race, one with no finish line in sight. You've held hands with lovers before, but your nerves are certainly getting the better of you this time. You'd be surprised if Astarion couldn't feel every pounding beat.

You don’t want to look at his face, certain your own is burning with heat at the mere hand-to-hand contact. But you also need to look at his face.

What you see makes your heart drop a little. 

Astarion’s expression looks bland, as if he’s completely unaffected by the contact. You consider all that he’s done with others, his gradual adaptation to intimacy with your past-self, and you suppose it makes sense. Somewhere deep down, you’re glad that the touch is so easy for him.

But you’re still disappointed, knowing that you are affected by this. And knowing that he can see it plainly on your face if his answering smirk is any indication.

“Please don’t tell me that this is too much for you,” he says, grinning like a shrewd cat and squeezing your hand a bit.

Your blush intensifies and you can feel the rest of your body begin to heat in embarrassment. “No,” you answer, trying your best to sound confident. “I’ve done far more than hold hands before. However…”

Astarion raises an eyebrow at you and leans in a bit. “However?”

You don’t mind taking your embarrassment as a chance to jab back at this man. In fact, you’re starting to think you won’t get anywhere without a few more barbs thrown at him. “I have never had the chance to hold the hand of someone like you.”

“Oh, someone as handsome as me?” he preens, using his unoccupied hand to brush a piece of his hair back in a show of vanity.

“No, someone as unreasonably cold,” you say with a laugh, adding a second hand on top of his. 

The sudden second hand seems to have a greater effect than the first. Astarion reels back a little bit, keeping his expression plain save for a slight clenching of his jaw. It doesn’t seem like a pleasurable reaction, but he also doesn’t wrench his hand out of yours. After a second to collect himself, he responds in a tone of mock indignation, “How dare you? I’ll have you know that plenty would kill for someone to keep them cold while in the deepest throes of passion.”

You should have known better trying to jab at a man like Astarion– he will always have the last word or the upper hand, especially when you provide him with such a clear opening. However, when you move to pull away from his hand, overwhelmed with your own memories of such moments, Astarion only grips both of your hands together tighter.

“Running away already? I’m rather enjoying it.”

With a bit more force, you could probably make a flustered escape, but then you remember how your past-self would make fun of him for seeking their body heat. You suppose he may not be saying that just to embarrass you. “I’m more of someone who runs toward, thank you very much,” you say, pushing past the conflicting feelings and squeezing his hand in both of yours firmly.

His resounding laugh is lovely, and he follows it with a similarly warming set of words, “Believe me, I’ve noticed. It might be endearing if it weren’t so frightening.”

You choose to focus on the endearing part of it, fighting back a smile for the next few minutes of banter, your hands clasped all the while. You could almost forget that his hand is in yours if it weren’t for the occasional tug of his arm, the squeeze of his fingers. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re certain that you’re logging the feel of his hand for all future daydreams.

As your conversation peters out, Astarion pulls away saying, “Thank you for warming me up. It was... nice.”

“Well, thank you for letting me hold your hand.” You clear your throat a bit, and pick up a paper from the table. “Shall we get back to it?”

“Anytime, darling,” he responds with a wink as he picks up his own papers. 

Despite yourself, you’re already thinking of the next time you may have a chance to hold his hand. I’m nearly a hundred years old, why does this man make me react like an adolescent? you think as you hide a newly forming blush with a piece of parchment. 

Daydreams of his hands all but ruin your productivity for the day, but you do feel a bit satisfied, knowing that you’ve made progress in other ways.

__

The eleventh day, you disturb the routine once more. 

After seeing Astarion shift in his seat uncomfortably one too many times, you snap. 

“You need to drink,” you say, interrupting his sentence– he’d just been in the middle of explaining what had been rebuilt in place of Cazador’s palace as you ate breakfast. 

He looks at you, surprise plain on his face. He’d been speaking so unguarded, that you almost feel bad for interrupting, but the bloodlust that comes over him at the thought of drinking is just as unguarded. “I’m fine,” he insists.

“You’re not,” you say, pointing your fork at him. “I can practically see you salivating over my neck every time I tilt my head.”

“I am not salivating,” he says, a look of distaste on his face. But he does bring up a hand, as if to wipe any possible drool away.

You roll your eyes at his denial and stand up. Like someone with the confidence of the Hero of Baldur's Gate, you approach the vampire's side of the table. Then, as coolly as you can muster, you sit on the table, directly next to Astarion's tense form. He seems to be taken aback by your brazen stubbornness, unsure of what to say when you all but shove your wrist into his face with a demanding look.

"Drink from me, please. It doesn’t have to be my neck.” Your voice comes out as casual as you can make it, as if you could be speaking of your own breakfast. However, inside your stomach is in knots, wondering how bad this might backfire if Astarion believes you've taken it a step too far.

And you think you might have with the way he hesitates. But you can see the way his sharp, red eyes trail down your wrist, along your arm, and you know he's actively considering it. The predatory look brings a shiver down your spine, but it’s not altogether unpleasant. His words betray none of the hunger though, “I am not some uncontrollable beast, you know.” 

“And you don’t have to prove anything to me, you know,” you say, waving your arm in front of him ever so slightly. “Come now. Or you'll continue to be sour.”

Astarion visibly gulps, and you watch his neck work with rapt fascination. Something about the thought of your own blood running down his throat fills you with an exhilaration you haven’t felt before. It alarms you how much you want this too. “Fine,” he finally says. “Only a bit.”

The vampire grabs your wrist, cold fingers touching your pulse point ever so gently. You can feel his cool breath on your skin as he approaches, eyes focused and staunchly not meeting your own.

It feels like an eternity, the time between his approach and the actual bite. The anticipation may bring you to another early death. Your heart is pounding in your chest and surely Astarion can feel it as he grips your wrist.

Finally, he bites.

In your dreams, Astarion’s bites had been extremely sensual. Almost each of them had involved one or both of you in a state of undress, your expressions in the very throes of ecstasy. This is different. He’s being so very careful with you that it makes you want to scream in complete frustration– he somehow manages to treat you as a weakling even now.

That’s not to say that he’s not deeply invested in drinking your blood now that he’s there. His fangs are latched on so thoroughly, his eyes closed in complete relief, and after a few gulps, it almost seems like he’s forgotten you’re even there. It allows you to take a better look at him, a long look that won’t cause any snide remarks or raised eyebrows.

From this vantage point you can see his long lashes, the sharp profile of his nose, the lines around his mouth. You can even note the beautiful little imperfections on his skin. It’s a view that you feel lucky to have, a worthy trade for some blood you were hardly using anyway.

Then you hear it: A soft, happy hum coming from deep within Astarion’s chest. It seems almost involuntary, but the sound of it, the effect your blood is having on him, it stirs a warmth in you. Oh gods, you think. I’m so glad he’s only biting my wrist. Why is this so… intoxicating? Your dreams had told you as much, but it bothers you to know that you were as susceptible in real life.

Your pulse continues to speed up, from both his very presence and the blood you’re losing, and your head begins to spin. Sensing the end of his feeding, Astarion draws one long, last gulp.

As he pulls his teeth away, his bottom lip, slick with your blood, brushes your wrist ever so softly. You can’t help the sharp intake of breath that follows, nor the way your body leans toward him. 

Astarion, for his part, doesn’t seem to notice your body’s subconscious reaction to him. His eyes remain closed, a bliss on his face that you haven’t seen since your dreams. “Mmm,” he mutters. “That was…”

More than anything you want to know what that was, but you’re lightheaded beyond belief. You find yourself swaying, dropping back onto the kitchen table to avoid colliding into Astarion’s body. The resounding ‘thud’ of your body falling onto the table stops the man’s words. 

“Are you alright, darling?” he asks, standing up and over you in a heartbeat. 

You close your eyes and nod, finding the dizziness of your actual body losing blood versus your dream body losing blood to be quite different. Any longer and you suspect you might have passed out, wrist still between his teeth.

“I know you said you aren’t soft,” he starts, voice coming from above your head. “But you haven’t lost a lot of blood before, have you?”

You shake your head, wishing more than anything to prove him wrong, but knowing that in this moment you can’t bring yourself to. “Would you believe me if I said that a papercut could cause severe blood loss?” Your voice is weak and airy, but you still manage to infuse a bit of humor into it.

Astarion laughs and responds with a simple, “Not even a smidge, my dear.”

Despite your already racing heartbeat, your heart picks up at that– for the first time since you’ve arrived, his use of a pet name didn’t sound condescending or critical of you. When he says ‘my dear’, you can almost hear a fondness in his voice.

As if he can tell that your expectations are getting ahead of you, Astarion dashes your hopes shortly afterward. “Now then, let’s get you patched up before you ruin the rest of a perfectly good day, shall we?”

You reluctantly open your eyes, sit up, and wait for Astarion to fetch you a health potion. There’s a lightness to his step that wasn’t there moments ago, a flush to his cheeks, and a tinge of pink along his pale ears– ah, that’s what a well-fed vampire looks like, you think. 

While the feeling of being bloodless may very well be one of your least favorites, you can’t deny the pure satisfaction that seeing Astarion like this gives you. I suppose I’ll need to get used to losing blood.

He returns shortly after, handing you a potion bottle. “Here. Take this,” he says.

You take the health potion gratefully, downing it in a few gulps. When you finally remove the bottle from your lips, you turn to find Astarion looking at you. “Hmm? What’s the matter?”

“Oh nothing,” he says with a cheerful smile. “Just savoring the taste of your blood.”

You look at him for a second, unsure what to say to such a statement. “Is there… something special about it?”

Astarion shakes his head, and your heart drops despite yourself. “Nothing like that. It’s just different. I suppose I expected it to taste like–well, you know who.” He waves a hand in the air. “But you taste… a bit spicier.”

The way he says the word, drawn out in a low rumble is liable to knock you back onto the table. But you manage to hold on, getting out, “You don’t say?”

“Yes, it must be the magic,” he says with a shrug. “Hells if I know. Leon and Dal have been the ones investigating blood.”

Oh? you think, an all-too eager question about to slip out of your mouth.

Astarion stops the follow-up with ease. “Now that we’ve dealt with that unpleasantness, shall we get on with our day? Or will you require some rest?”

You decide to stow the information away for later and get on with your day as Astarion suggested. Though between that information, the feel of Astarion's lips on your wrist, and the blood loss, the rest of the day passes in a blur.

__

On the twelfth day, you start to feel the pressure. 

It’s more than a third of the way through your stay with him, and the most you’ve done with Astarion is hold his hand and give him blood. You’re beginning to wonder if you’re doomed to a lifetime without him, that he doesn’t feel a spark between you the same way you do.

He’d said so to Dal, when he said you were all but repulsive. He’d shunned you time and time again. You’re starting to think that, despite everything you believe in, you may have to… change yourself for him. 

Not permanently, you assure yourself. Just something to get him interested.

You think you have just the spell to help. Flipping through your spellbook, you settle on preparing Alter Self for the day, and decide to use it when it makes the most sense.

“What do you like in a lover?” You ask him. You waited until a lull happened in conversation this time, but it's naturally tough to be ready for such a question.

As such, when Astarion furrows his brows and asks, "Whatever would you like to know that for?" you know you'll need to sell the situation.

At this point, you think you've reached an amicable state with him of course– something along the lines of friends with a bit extra mixed in. However this line of questioning could get messy very quickly, so you came prepared with an angle.

"I was wondering," you start, scooting a bit closer to him in your chair. "Since you've had a wide variety of lovers, perhaps some stood out more than others."

"Well, certainly," he says, brushing away your response. "But why do you want to know?"

You try not to let the implication get to you: that you have no reason to ask him about lovers when you're so far from becoming one. But at the same time, you suspect he might just want to hear you say it, to express some kind of interest in him. "I like to be prepared, you know in the event we ever find ourselves in that type of situation." You give him what you hope is an enigmatic smile. "I have several spells at my disposal to make whatever your ideal type is come true. Humor me a bit, why don't you?"

He seems to think about it. You're not sure if he's dreaming up his ideal person or wondering how terribly this exercise might go, but he does eventually say, "Well, I do rather like pointy ears, so you have that already." 

You nod, glad that he's playing along, and concentrate on the spell to begin altering yourself. "And? What else?"

That's how you spend the greater part of an hour altering your appearance with Astarion's notes to guide you. 

"Nose a little lower. No, higher."

"Have you ever seen someone with eyes that wide, darling? Tone it down before you scare me to a second death."

"Wrong color. No. Still wrong. Mmm, still wrong."

You snap at him a few times for being unhelpful, but you begin to understand what's happening, offering your own subtle changes as you go. You realize you’re becoming an unerringly similar image to your former self. It's not perfect, but the hair color, the eye color, the face shape – you can tell without a mirror the face that you now have is one familiar to you both.

Astarion realizes it when you finish adjusting your lips because he goes silent. Perhaps he notes the sadness in your eyes, because he looks away from you now, fist clenched in his lap.

“I’m… sorry,” he has the good grace to say.

“Don’t be. It makes sense,” you reply, assuring him despite the growing ache in your chest. “Of course they’re the most beautiful person you could envision. I think I’d be mad if they weren’t.” You mean it, you probably would be– but it doesn’t make you feel any less inadequate.

“Well, I’m glad I haven’t made you mad,” he responds wryly, meeting your eyes once more. From the slight tilt of his eyebrows and the melancholy smile on his lips, Astarion knows he’s done worse than make you mad. He also seems to have hurt himself, but again, he doesn't run away this time. If anything, he seems transfixed by you, pain laid bare between you.

How you’d like to cleanse the agony from his face, more than even the hurt you feel. So you put on your best, most optimistic smile, one you're certain that your former face can express better than yours could. “Maybe this is an opportunity.”

“An opportunity?” he asks, and you note that his tone is soft, far softer than any he's taken with you. It warms you, but the tenderness burns you at the same time, knowing full well it isn’t for you. 

“Tell me what you want to tell them. Maybe it will help?”

He grimaces, and the lines on his face look deeper than before, etched with the pain of centuries unwilling to come out. You've pushed him a lot today, maybe this is where you should stop pushing. But then he gives you a look that just about stops your heart– his red eyes are wide, innocent, and searching for something in your face, his own face has gone slack with thoughts of what he might say.

“Come on,” you say, voice wavering with your own hurt. Perhaps you do love this man, with how much you’re willing to suffer for him. “Or I will get mad.”

Astarion’s expression doesn’t change, and, with wide, red eyes boring into yours, he says, “I wish your love hadn’t hurt so much.”

You blanche. Oh gods, have I made him hate them in earnest? Still, his face remains open, expectant. “Anything else?”

The man takes a deep breath. You hold your own in response. “And I don’t regret a moment of it. I’m only sorry that we didn’t have more time together, that I couldn’t protect you the way you did me. Thank you, my love.”

You smile awkwardly at that, willing your heart to stop racing at words not meant for you. Then, in a stroke of idiocy, you adopt your best impression of your former-self’s voice and say, “You’re welcome.” When he makes an annoyed face at you, you ask, “Too much?”

“Too much,” he replies, tone flat. But your foolish little ‘you're welcome’ seems to have lightened his mood despite it all. His face almost seems to be back to its cheeky, usual self when he says, “Now, let’s never do this again. I rather miss your regular face.”

You’re not sure how to take that after all that you’ve experienced in the last few minutes. But you drop concentration on the spell easily. I thought he hated my face, you think, recalling all of the times he derided you. And it’s nothing like my past-self's face, really. However your heart knows exactly how to take the statement, and it's pounding a rapid, excited rhythm for long after the encounter is over.

__

On the thirteenth day in his house, he’s the one who creates the break in your pattern. 

“Your little exercises these past few days have got me thinking. Have you considered that maybe we should try to see if something a bit more than hand holding would suit us?”

You gulp. His words come out of the blue, completely unrelated to the book you had open in front of him. You’re sitting together on a windowsill, moonlight filtering through and bathing you both in its cool glow. He looks at you sincerely, ethereal in his beauty and by the gods do you want to do more than hold this man’s hand.

“I suppose I have,” you finally manage. Though the idea that he’d been thinking of the prior days in such a way makes you wonder how forward you really seemed.

“There’s something about you– I wish it didn’t bother me, but it does,” Astarion says, leaning toward you a bit. His tone isn’t harsh, rather a peculiar sort of honesty. One of his hands reaches out for your face, his eyes shining with curiosity as he closes some of the distance between you.

“About me?” you breathe out, feeling incredibly nervous as he enters your space. It’s not overtly sexual, like some of your dreams have been, but it feels charged. Like his curiosity must be satisfied, one way or another. “What about me?”

Slowly, softly, his fingers trace up your chin, his palm comes to rest on the side of your face as his thumb caresses your cheek. You stop breathing for the time being, afraid of startling him away with so much as a tremor. “It’s hard to say,” he answers, tilting his head a bit. “There are moments when I think I finally understand who you are. But then–” he grips your face a bit tighter and narrows his eyes as he searches your face.

“But then?” your voice comes out a whisper.

“But then you turn out to be someone else.” Holding you a bit more firmly, his eyes meet yours once again. His red irises seem to swim in your vision and you're wondering if this is how vampires lure their prey in– this sheer, otherworldly beauty. You feel as if his eyes are staring into your soul. 

Perhaps he feels the same way, because you find him leaning in further, looking at you with hooded eyes. Now it does feel sexual and your entire body freezes under his look. 

This is a good thing… you think. Isn’t it?

As if sensing your train of thought, Astarion drops his voice to a sultry tone. "Isn’t this why you came here?" he says and his eyes trace the lines of your body as he plays with your robe with his other hand. "If this is what you dreamt of all of those years, I can make all of your most vivid dreams come true."

Oh gods no, you think. This is too much, more than either of us are ready for. “No, thank you,” you answer quickly, willing your body to lean back, away from his searing cold touch.

“Oh,” he says, dropping his hand between you.

“I’m sorry.” You can’t bring yourself to look at him. “I do… well, I think you’re quite, erm, handsome.” Gods you sound like an inexperienced teenager, pull yourself together! “But if you don’t know who I am, I think I’d rather you know who you’re touching before we aim for anything… physical.”

Astarion gives a soft laugh, and you look up to see him shaking his head. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I– I guess I keep finding myself trying to see the similarities in you.” As if hearing himself, he grimaces, “And I keep finding myself needing to apologize to you, don’t I?”

“You know, I’ve found that to be true myself as well,” you say, wincing your face into a smile. Every day you’re reminded of how unorthodox and uncomfortable your situation is, and hearing that he’s constantly making the same comparisons you are grips your heart in a painful vice. And yet every day you’re oddly grateful to him, for giving you this chance to hurt yourself over and over again despite everyone’s misgivings, his own included. “I know you probably don’t want to hear this from me, but thank you for trying.”

"Of course. I'm nothing if not happy to try," he says, but his voice comes out sad more than anything.

Your own heart beats a slow, dull rhythm, far more solemn than any of the prior day's dances. But you don't regret rejecting the most beautiful man you've ever seen. You don't regret saying no to those deep, red eyes or those plush, perfect lips whispering a temptation unlike any other.

Because, for now, you know it’s a step too far.

When you get back to your work, you try to ignore the persisting burning on your face where his fingers grabbed. It’s already late, and you anticipate a long night of tossing and turning ahead of you.

__

On the fourteenth day, the end of your second week at the house, you finally feel like you have a real, genuine breakthrough. Like this friendship you’ve attributed to your relationship isn’t all just in your head.

You’re in his study, taking notes on a piece of paper for him–something to do with scouting groups– when you lose the nib to your quill. It’s the third time it’s happened today, and likely more than the tenth this week. It’s an old quill, barely holding on for you at this point. It’d carried you through studies in Neverwinter, through countless journal entries, and, now that you’re helping Astarion with his work, it seems to be on its last legs. 

“Whatever is the matter? You look like you might bite that quill’s head off,” Astarion says, looking over a few sheets of paper at you.

You make an annoyed ‘tch’ as you try to piece your quill back together with a Mending cantrip and respond, “No need for me to bite it off, it’s doing so just phenomenally on its own.”

The vampire looks at it a bit more intently now, watching your struggles with only the slightest hint of bemusement. “Would you like a different quill?”

As much as you like your old quill, you can’t help the hopeful words that come out, “Oh would you have one to spare?”

Without as much of a moment’s hesitation, Astarion offers you his quill– or really, your past-self’s quill. It’s the one that you recall from your reveries, the one that he’d been using since you arrived at his mansion. When you seem reluctant to accept it, he says, "Go on, take it."

"I couldn't possibly," you reply, shaking your head fervently. How could you take something so important? Astarion mustn’t remember that the quill used to be that of your previous self, right?

"It's better off in your hands. After all, I've never been one for writing.” He waves the quill in the air in front of you a bit, like an enticing treat. When you don’t take it, he continues, “Besides, it was a gift to your past-self from Gale. It's enchanted to be particularly durable, so I wouldn't worry too much about it breaking."

So he does remember. "Are you certain?" you ask, needing to confirm, ideally multiple times, that he means the words coming out of his mouth.

"I'm certain,” he replies with a nod. “It was more of a sentimental thing anyway, it never quite fit my grip right."

You look between him and the quill a few more times, debating internally how much you wanted the quill versus how much it likely meant to Astarion. In the end his pouting face and persistent shoves of the utensil toward you win you over.

“Thank you,” you say, taking it from his hands with a slight bow of your head.

“I should be the one saying that,” he says, leaning back with a smile. 

You furrow your brows in confusion as you look at the familiar quill in your hands. “Did the quill bother you that much?”

“Oh no, not that.” The smile on his face drops a little, the tilt of his eyebrows turns sad. “I had forgotten how… nice companionship could be. How nice having a friend could be. One that isn’t some sort of demented sibling at the very least.”

You try not to let the word ‘friend’ light up your entire face, but you’re positive that the sun would be jealous of the shine you give off. “I’m glad to have forced myself into your house then.”

“Don’t be so glad, the month isn’t over yet.” His face shifts again as he laughs, eyes crinkling with mirth when he reads your expression. “And don’t smile so much, your face is liable to crack.”

You’ve developed so much trust already. He’s called you a friend. You can’t help but think that this was all worth it if only for that. Perhaps Astarion was right, living in the present was rather nice.

You end the week in a journal entry, much like last week’s:

I’m finishing my second week at Astarion’s house, halfway through my stay. I didn’t make a lot of progress with learning about my past-self or the spawn, but I’m surprised that I don’t care as much as I thought I would at the start of the week. I’m sure mother would remind me that patience is a virtue, but it is certainly not one I was ever graced with. I am willing to try it for Astarion though.

Astarion has been my focus, and it’s been, well, lovely. He’s still a lot  interesting  difficult him, but we’re getting along a lot more than we were before. Sometimes I even see glimpses of the man I’ve gotten used to in my reveries. In just one week I feel like we’ve grown so much closer as friends. There have been moments where my heart and body wishes we were more than friends, but I don’t think either of us is ready just yet. Hopefully next week will go just as well and I’ll be able to get some real answers from him. He doesn’t run away anymore which feels like a fantastic improvement! I can’t wait to see what next week brings.

#astarion #astarion x tav #fanfic #astarion fic #astarion x reader #astarion fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion masterlist #gn reader #astarion x gn reader #astarion x gn!tav #astarion baldurs gate #bg3 astarion #when he's all but forgotten how to love again #whabfhtla #reincarnation trope #elf!tav #astarion x you

[dayurno]

recently reread ur de-aged kevin fic and in the end notes you said you were thinking of doing a sequel w neilandrew being de-aged and just wanted to throw my hat in the ring to say yes pls! you genuinely have such incredible writing and characterization and would LOVE to see your take on it!

wawawa i plan to write it!!!!! i did start a little bit after finishing de-aged kevin and had to scrap it off because i didn't like it, so it might take a little longer. nonetheless i feel like i have no reason not to share it so i'll attach under the cut the scrapped version of kevin with de-aged andreil for your enjoyment :=) if its a little wonky i ask that you bear with me theres a reason why i didnt keep this version

//

There is a little garden behind Fox Tower where you could fit a dead body without any real effort.

Not that Kevin would know, of course. But he is sure that he has never seen anyone besides himself tend to the ground there — perhaps once in the past there was another athlete who enjoyed gardening, but such a character has not been around for at least a few years. It took Kevin almost an entire week to entirely weed out the square of dirt between Fox Tower’s backdoors and the fence where Palmetto State University property ends and Fox Perimeter starts. 

Despite the loneliness of it, the ground is quite fertile; as patches of earth left alone by humankind often are. No one ever comes with Kevin when he gardens — Andrew finding it too soft a hobby and Neil, too pointless —, so there is no worry about someone else intervening with his flowers. Worlds apart from Evermore, Kevin quite enjoys the alone time tending to this garden provides, so he makes a habit out of it. 

He’s not sure how well he is doing. His first attempt had been to plant daylilies, because the name had amused him and they were considered beginner plants, offending as the thought is. Daylilies, Kevin’s come to find, are low-maintenance, highly resistant and pest-free — three things Kevin cannot relate to, despite them sharing a surname. Those turned out fine, but one cannot go wrong with daylilies; they’re too easy. The only way Kevin could’ve killed them is if he was an absolute moron.

His second attempt — and the one he is currently keeping a close watch on — were tulips. They’re harder to care for than their predecessors, and take up more of Kevin’s time than he had previously imagined, though he doesn’t fault them for it. He’d gotten seeds from a shop a few blocks down to where Andrew usually buys his cigarettes in Columbia, and hadn’t bothered to ask for more information; Kevin’s first mistake, he realizes.

His tulips have… multiplied. Perhaps too much — hopeless, Kevin sits amidst the rows and rows of golden ladies, dainty-looking but quite surely outnumbering him, and wonders how many more of them could cause a natural imbalance in the area. For how they spread over the garden, Kevin is not sure he wants the answer. Their yellow bulbs seem to mock him. 

Deciding this is now above him, Kevin wipes the dirt from his knees and springs up. He breaks the stem of a few tulips that have already bloomed, mindful that they must reserve their energy for a future reblooming, and checks for rotten bulbs before leaving. Surely, with time, his little garden will recover well enough so that it is not fully covered in tulips. Surely he’ll be able to plant something else, then.

If anything, Kevin is at least happy they don’t have thorns. Gathering the handful of flowers he’d cut off, he returns to his dorm, mindlessly wondering to himself if they have a vase wide enough to fit all of these tulips. When their whiny door pushes open under his weight, Kevin announces his arrival by calling out, “Do we still have that big vase from last year?”

No reply. Frowning, Kevin settles his flowers on the kitchen counter and glances over to where Andrew’s wallet and keys sit at their coffee table, even his half-finished pack of cigarettes left untouched. It is highly unlikely for Andrew to leave without at least one of those three items, creature of habit he is. How weird.

Grabbing for his phone, Kevin sees a flash of motion from the corner of his eye, and is just quick enough to sidestep a little body hiding behind the back of their sofa. The idea of something as small as this just hanging around their dorm is so baffling Kevin can hardly compute it, communication between his eyes and his brain coming to a screeching stop as he takes in the sight in front of him.

There’s a child. There’s a — there’s a child. 

He is quite small. His hair, a gentle wheat-like thing, curls softly over his forehead, leading down to big, round brown eyes and a thin mouth. The child’s face is very tender, his cheeks flushed from exertion, but he does not meet Kevin’s stare with any such feeling — instead, his eyes widen slightly, and he stumbles back like he’s been hit.

For a moment, Kevin even worries he hasn’t sidestepped as well as he thought and indeed had hit this child on accident. Taking a few steps back himself, Kevin asks, “Who are you?”

It seems like the kind of question the child should ask him, instead of the opposite. The little boy tilts his head back to look at Kevin — and he does have to tilt it very far —, before steeling himself to answer, “I’m—I think I live here now?”

“That…” Kevin hesitates, “can’t be right.” The child’s eyes water slightly. Growing more and more panicked by the minute, Kevin immediately retracts it. “But I’m sure it is, if you’re saying it.”

The tears don’t fall, but they don’t quite recede either; the little boy's face is so fair it starts to look splotchy soon enough, red dusting his nose and cheeks. “Are you my new brother?” He asks, with all the certainty of someone who’s had many new brothers before. A nagging chill runs up Kevin’s spine.

“I don’t believe I am, since I don’t have any siblings,” Kevin limits himself to replying. He crouches down to meet the child’s stare, eyeing his tulips from above his head. Kevin really needs to get that vase soon; it’s not good for them to be out in the open like this. “Can you tell me your name? Why are you here? Where are your parents?”

The little boy eyes him suspiciously. He answers none of Kevin’s questions, but he informs, “There was another little boy too.”

“Right. Well,” Kevin stumbles a bit, unsure of what to say — and what to believe in, even. Children often see things that aren’t there for adults; he does not want to see any manner of spirit today. Or any other day. “Can you go get him for me? Then I can help you figure out what you’re doing here.”

“What else… can I be doing here?” The child asks, frowning lightly. “This is a new home. They—at the last one, they didn’t want me. And I have to be somewhere.”

Recognition shivers through Kevin. “I see,” he replies past the lump in his throat. “I think I might understand. The—the little boy that you mentioned, did he have blue eyes? And, and red hair?”

Andrew crinkles his little nose. “Was orange, not red.”

Oh. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. “I understand it now.” Kevin’s thighs tremble too much for him to hold his crouch, so he sits back on his heels, kneeling at Andrew’s height. “How old are you? If you don’t mind.”

Andrew blinks at him for a moment too long before showing Kevin his spread palm — it is unbearably small, chubby, and quite pale, too. “I’m five,” he says.

And he is. He is five years old. He is very five years old by the looks of it, which is not the age Andrew Minyard should be, because before Kevin left for his garden, he was pretty sure the Andrew he left behind was twenty-one. 

“You’re five. Okay. That makes sense. Of course,” Kevin babbles, having gone half-stupid from shock. That this could be happening to him — that it could be happening to them again, after Kevin had spent a week of last month being six years old and with no recollection of it. What kind of rotten cosmic joke is this? “I see. Okay, well, let me just—” He rubs a hand across his face. “Hello, I’m Kevin. I am a collegiate athlete. That means I play Exy for a university. Have you heard of it?”

“Exy is on the TV all the time,” Andrew counters, but it seems to be all that he knows. He looks a little hesitant before he nods; tight and anxious. “Hi. I’m Andrew Doe.”

Without a surname makes one a John Doe. Kevin’s heart squeezes. “Hello, Andrew,” he greets, trying to work his face into something gentler. “I understand what you mean now. You called it a new home, correct? It’s not like that. I think what happened here is…”

“Do you work for my father?” A small voice cuts Kevin’s sentence short. He whips his head around to meet a boy a good few inches taller than Andrew leaning against the doorway of their bedroom, his hair a light ginger. When Kevin’s eyes meet his, Neil — Nathaniel? — hunches in on himself in self-reproach, placing little hands in front of his head. “Sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

Kevin blinks. “No,” he answers, softening his voice. This is—this is not the time to doubt whether gentleness is achievable or not; this is the time to force it until it breaks, or until it gives. “I don’t work for your father. I’ve never even met him before.”

 Neil pales. Perhaps the idea that someone does not know his father seems outlandish when Neil has been raised under his dominion — Kevin is sure it feels that way, for Neil to look so stricken.  Often when you are this small and your parents are the overlords of your world, it feels strange to learn that they are not the end-all-be-all of everyone else’s.  

Like a little tour guide, Andrew steps forward to explain, “I think you might be here because your mom and dad went away and children have to live somewhere.” 

…Of course, being five years old, his understanding of the situation is about as good as Kevin had expected. Andrew’s explanation of the foster system is fairly good, all things considered, but too realistic for a child his age. He should, at least, still believe that they mean to find him a family instead of sending him from home to home because there is nowhere else for him to be.

Neil pales even further. “Is that true?”

“Is true. Is what happened to me.”

“Alright, alright,” Kevin intervenes at last, and two pairs of eyes turn to him; both hesitant in their own way. He coughs into his fist, deciding that honesty is the easiest route. “To be frank with both of you, I’m not sure why you’re here, either. But… thank you, Andrew, for trying to explain it.”

The little Andrew’s face does something unguarded and surprised before he looks away, blushing lightly.

Kevin keeps his eyes trained to his tulips. “I don’t know what happened for you to get here, but you’re welcome to stay until we can figure this out.”

He is eyed with suspicion from both sides. “I,” Neil shakily starts, the beginning of a meltdown creeping into his voice, “I want my mama. Where is she?”

“I’m sorry,” Kevin replies, and finds that he means it, “I don’t know. If I knew, I’d take you to her.”

He would do no such thing, but it is important to say it, anyway.

Springing upwards before Neil can bring out the waterworks, Kevin takes a few steps next to where he’d put aside his tulips and returns with one in each hand. “Here,” he says, kneeling to their height again. “Want a flower? I just got them from the garden.”

Andrew’s hand reaches for it, but does not bridge the distance, hesitant. Neil doesn’t even try to get it. “Flowers are for girls,” he tells Kevin. 

“Hm. Do I look like a girl to you?”

“Yes.”

Kevin supposes that was a mistake on his part. It’s always the hair with children. “Well, I’m not,” he argues — argues! — with five-year-old Neil. “It’s very rude to not accept a gift.”

Neil eyes him, squinting quietly. He takes a few steps closer, looking more relaxed now that he’s figured Kevin is not working for his father. Coaxingly, Kevin offers one of the tulips in his direction — the bigger one, standing proud and yellow and delicate. It took a great effort for them to look this healthy. “These are called golden ladies. They’re perennials — that means they grow no matter the season. I plant them myself.”

A little hand curls around the stem of the smallest of Kevin’s tulips, catching it with all the clumsy delicacy of children who have yet to learn a finer touch. Letting Andrew take it, Kevin's mouth twitches. “Don’t worry about thorns, there’s none.”

He doesn’t mention the eco-system smasher Kevin had accidentally become in the process. Hopefully, no one notices the terrifying increase of tulips in Palmetto for the upcoming springs. 

Andrew doesn’t answer him, eyes trained to the tulip. The yellow of the inner petals matches the pale of his hair; makes him look more flower than child. Sweet, sweet boy.

Kevin turns back to Neil. “Won’t you take it even if you don’t like them? I don’t have a vase yet. I’m afraid they’ll just rot if you don’t take them.” This is a lie — but it’s a fair one. Children shouldn’t be so restrained.

The idea of imminent destruction seems to convince Neil to walk the distance between himself and Kevin to take the flower in his little hand. He says nothing. Kevin can’t tell if he likes it at all — he’s so put-upon.

A little hand flutters in the general direction of Kevin’s head. “Why is your hair…” Andrew asks. 

“What? Long?” The child nods. “What’s wrong about it?”

“It shouldn’t be like this.”

Well, that’s rude. Kevin huffs softly under his breath, absent-mindedly combing his fingers through his hair. “When I was a little over your age, I had a friend — a brother — who liked my hair like this. I think I just grew used to it.” 

It’s not the full story, of course. He can’t tell them about Riko, and how much of his preferences Kevin had taken as law out of admiration, at first, then fear, later on. He can’t explain, either, that his hair staying this way is his own way of mourning — a childhood left unfinished, a little boy abused into the insanity of Riko’s final years, brotherhood yet to be tainted by blood and jealousy. Children this young can’t tell Kevin carries all the marks of the grieving. 

“Oh,” Andrew replies. He looks like he wants to ask some more, but he doesn’t. 

“I can teach you how to braid it later, if you want,” Kevin offers. He has not even a sliver of a clue about what children should do in their free time. In his time, his mother took him all around the world during her trips, which didn’t usually leave Kevin much time for playing; then, after she died, Exy consumed most of his time between little league and Tetsuji’s endurance bootcamp. “It’s a useful skill. You can impress your future wife with it.”

He knows well enough that Andrew is never, ever going to get a wife; still, Kevin knows no other way to frame the importance — or, rather, mask the lack thereof — of this to him.  

Andrew nods politely. He, for one, is taking this much better than Neil seems to be — for good reason, Kevin imagines. Already registered in the foster system, Andrew must be used to adapting to new homes, new siblings, new adults with an eccentric knack for gardening and haircare. He’s indulging Kevin. A five-year-old!

“Well,” Kevin clears his throat, suddenly a little embarrassed. “Are you hungry? It should be almost lunchtime.”

No answer. It’s almost like dealing with the adults Andrew and Neil again.

Lunch is bland and unimaginative; Kevin follows the recipe obsessively, unwilling to make children choke down trash. It’s one thing for their adult selves to indulge Kevin in his lack of culinary talent, but children don’t yet have the taste buds for experimental food, nor the desire to put up with their caretakers’ inability to cook. More than once he resists the urge to add more spice — or even more salt. 

While he cooks, Kevin allows Andrew and Neil to get acquainted with each other. They talk quietly, eyeing the other with no less suspicion they eyed Kevin with, and seem happy to do their own thing. Skittish, for sure: but can they be blamed for it? Kevin doesn’t expect them to hit it off immediately, especially with Neil’s under-socialization. In the week or so Kevin should have them, it is likely they’ll progress on that front. 

Polite like a trained dog, Andrew waits by the kitchen doorway to help Kevin with setting the table. He’s far too small for such a task — he’ll drop any glassware Kevin gives him. Still, unwilling to let the child feel useless, Kevin asks him to set some napkins and cutlery out. Yes, that should be enough.

“Thank you, Andrew,” he says when he is done finishing up on their plates. Looking at the portions, Kevin is inclined to think they are far too much for someone of their size, but he doubts either have had access to an unrestricted meal in quite a while. At their age, Kevin knows he hadn’t. “It is very kind of you to help with the table.”

Andrew tilts his head towards his food without comment. He is almost unnervingly polite. It’s not the Andrew Kevin knows, and the contrast feels scathing.

Despite the children’s best efforts, their meal is not quiet. Kevin is not good with children, but he likes to think he is good with Andrew and Neil — as good as one can be, anyway. He prompts them into conversation by asking questions about their interests, their lives, their routines; half of it is trying to figure out how to care for these two, and the other half is emulating a chewed-out memory of how Kayleigh used to talk to him. 

She was never the kind of parent who baby-talked to Kevin. As soon as he was able to, she tried to engage him in conversation — however loose that concept can be for a five-year-old. Kayleigh, from what he remembers of her, had the ability to make anyone feel listened to; Kevin doesn’t remember ever doubting she cared for his childish babbling about toys and daycare, even if nostalgia had colored the memory a soft mouth-pink. He only wishes he would’ve gotten at least half of her social adeptness. From Kayleigh, all Kevin got was green eyes, a gaping hunger for success and an inescapable attraction to troubled men.

“I play Exy and I like books,” Kevin offers in trade for information. It’s — well, he doesn’t have many hobbies. The gardening and the cooking are a late product of much of Dr. Betsy Dobson’s insistence that Kevin must make something out of himself that isn’t Exy-related. “I like cooking but I’m not good at it. And I like gardening but it takes a lot of work so I don’t do it all the time.”

“It’s not that bad,” Andrew tells him, motioning to his food with small movements. He finished his plate in record time, inhaling Kevin’s poor attempt at a caesar salad like it’s a five stars meal. On the other hand, Neil is halfway through with his and looks done already. “Your food.”

“Not that bad?” Kevin tilts his head slightly, amused. He’ll take it, he supposes. “Thank you, Andrew.”

Hesitant, like perhaps he fears Kevin will be angry at him for it, Neil picks up the conversation where he left off to say, “I like… horses. But, um, like toys.”

 “Horses, I see,” Kevin repeats, a bit hopeless. Children’s interests are so loose. “And what else?”

Neil flicks him a suspicious glare. “What else?”

“I gave you four of my interests. A conversation has to be equal.”

Looking as if Kevin had sprouted a second head right in front of him, Neil does not do as he is asked so much as he stares at Kevin, mouth open in a little o. Has no one asked this child what he likes before? It feels out of character for the Butcher of Baltimore, sure, but Neil’s mother had seemed to care for him, at least from what little Kevin had heard about her. 

“No?” Kevin tries after a few moments of silence. “I’m just trying to be friends.” 

“Why would you be my friend?” Neil asks, putting down his fork with surprising care; as if to ensure it makes no noise. Even his voice is small and unobtrusive, despite the words. “Adults and children aren’t friends. Adults want children to be quiet.”

Kevin hides a wince. He hadn’t imagined the Butcher of Baltimore, in all his serial killer glory, would have indulged his child in conversation — and by the way Neil acts, he could’ve guessed for himself that most of Neil’s childhood had been trying to stay out of his father’s way. But no one ever wants to assume the worst out of a loved one’s suffering;  Kevin had held out hope there’d be at least a silver lining in Neil’s horror stories.

It is not unlike how Kevin and Riko were raised in the Nest, anyway. Their private tutors were stern, and despite much of their trying, there was no place for childhood in Evermore: they were told to keep quiet or else. The Master would often say that they were not to act like children — it hadn’t occurred to him up until now how cruel it is to forbid a child from being childish.

“Well, if I’m asking you, don’t you think I want to know?” Kevin argues. “Not all adults think the same thing. Do you think the same thing as every other child?”

A pause. Neil shakes his head, looking somewhat green, as if he had just realized what he said. From Kevin’s other side, Andrew stares anxiously. 

Rubbing a hand through his face, Kevin slowly puts out, trying to enunciate his words as gentle as he can make them, “I am not angry that you spoke your mind. It makes sense, what you said.” He shakes his head a little. Only a few minutes in, and he’s already ruining it — Kevin’s no good for anything that doesn’t involve a racquet. “But I would not have asked if I didn’t want to know. Do you understand?”

A small, careful nod. Kevin will take whatever he can get. 

“Good.” Kevin starts to gather the empty plates — his and Andrew’s —, and motions towards Neil’s half-finished one. “Do you not like it? I can make you something else, if you want.”

The sudden shift in conversation visibly vexes Neil, but, politely, he replies, “...Not hungry.”

From beside Kevin, Andrew flinches. Hurrying to dispel it, Kevin says, “It’ll be in the fridge in case you want it later.” Piling the plates into one of his hands, Kevin offers the other one to Andrew. “Come on, you didn’t get to tell me what you like during lunch.”

The child watches Kevin’s hand — the right one, smooth and unscarred if a little crooked from the years of gripping racquets — warily before accepting it, threading his little fingers through Kevin’s. His hand feels unimaginably small; so fragile it is a wonder it even exists. Kevin is reminded of the first time he saw a baby bird, back in Dublin: he’d told his mom he couldn’t tell if it was super ugly or super cute. She’d laughed for what felt like an eternity after.

Still sitting politely at the table, Neil watches their joined hands, frowning. Kevin can’t tell what he’s thinking — wouldn’t be able to even with an adult Neil —, but the face he makes claws at his heart. “N—” not his name,  “ah, do you want to come with?” 

Thus invited, Neil follows them into the kitchen. Kevin washes the dishes and listens as Andrew tells him, a little shyly, that he likes Sesame Street, street cats (“Really?” Kevin asks. “Aren’t their claws a little scary?” to which Andrew seems to lose some respect for him on the spot), chocolate and amusement parks, when he is allowed to go. It's a fairly common list — Kevin didn’t know what he expected a five-year-old version of Andrew to like. Something a little more unorthodox, perhaps.

But children are the same everywhere, at any point. Andrew soaks up the attention Kevin gives him, happy to answer all questions, if a little insecure on why Kevin would be asking them. Knowing where Andrew was at this age, he doesn’t doubt it’s been a while an adult has actually spoken to him with some level of care for what he has to say: when was the last time Andrew has actually felt companionship? Someone who hears what he says and asks questions about it? 

It feels sacrilegious to stop now. Already out of dishes to clean, Kevin scrubs and re-scrubs their plates until his hands ache as he asks Andrew questions, not unaware of Neil’s watching eyes.

“And how is it? California?” Kevin asks. The next thing he says is a bold-faced lie, because he’s visited Jean before, but he still says it. “I’ve never been. I heard it’s beautiful.” 

He’s heard no such thing. Jean seems to think California is where meaningful art goes to die, but he can’t tell Andrew that.

“Is okay,” Andrew tells him, propped up on a stool next to Kevin. His little legs swing mindlessly. “The traffic — there’s traffic. And Disneyland.”

“You’ve been?” He asks again.

“Oh, um, no.”

It’s expected. “I have not either,” Kevin relates, making it sound like a bigger woe than it really is. His hands are rubbed raw at this point, and the soap pricks at the skin of his palms — soon, he’ll have to stop. Just a little more. “I don’t think I’d like it, either way.”

Andrew watches him curiously. “Why?”

“I don’t like crowds.” It’s not as easy as that, but Kevin leaves it as it is. The prickling sensation of the soap starts to crawl up his wrist, and he decides it is time to stop. Drying his hands off on a nearby cloth, Kevin prompts, “How about some dessert?”

It is the first time he’s ever said those words, and they horrify him, but the quickly-hidden flash of interest in Andrew’s face is worth breaking his streak for. From the stool beside Andrew, Neil frowns lightly. This child is too serious — Kevin tries to remember if he was like this back in little league, but his memory is not the best after so many hits to the head.

He rummages through their freezer. Andrew’s adult self is fond of indulging — there are a few half-eaten ice cream cartons tucked beneath frozen peas and other such vegetables, though most of them are flavored a cherry liqueur Kevin will most certainly not feed to children. Scavenging further he is able to retain a sealed chocolate carton, the frost covering it making his fingertips tingle. 

This has to be too frozen to eat. Helpless, Kevin turns to look at the two five-year-olds as if they have a better idea. It’s weird, now, to be the person Andrew and Neil look to for answers — Kevin is used to it being the other way around. He is caught thinking that he’ll probably struggle in the coming days, without his two little shadows making life easier for him. 

“I think if I microwave it a little bit, nothing’s going to happen,” Kevin mumbles to himself, aware that he is not inspiring much respect as an authority figure. He’s no Andrew, after all: Kevin’s still himself, despite all his best efforts to be someone else. 

The ice cream loses some of its original texture in the microwave, but, if anything, Andrew seems to enjoy it as Kevin passes him a bowl. Neil does not accept one himself, politely saying he doesn't like sweets, and the lack of attitude from him is disturbing. Kevin is used to Neil being a force of nature — seeing him this quiet, this contained, is not easy. It makes him think of the iron-shaped scar on his adult self’s chest. All that dead skin. 

Unwilling to let him be left out, Kevin cuts some slices of apple for him, which Neil takes with some degree of gratefulness. The little boys settle in front of the TV while Kevin manages to find a children’s channel, looking small on their ratty dorm carpet. Kevin isn’t sure children should be this small in the first place — he’s not sure if they are little because of genetics, or neglect. How much can you hurt a child until they disappear?

Kevin sits himself with them, cross-legged. He is too old to see the appeal of children’s television, so most of it is watching them from the corner of his eye and finding out what to say to Aaron to get him to come and help. 

You 14:36

Hello. I think whatever happened to me last month just happened to Andrew and Neil. 

As in, they have turned into five-year-olds. If you’ve forgotten. 

When there is no immediate response, Kevin huffs to himself and snatches a picture of their two little heads pending towards each other, deep in conversation about the show they are watching. Kevin is, at least, relieved to see them interacting at all: Andrew might have been to kindergarten already, but Neil has always been undersocialized, all tutors and nannies. If Kevin can’t be his friend, then at least Andrew can. 

The picture gets him a quicker answer.

Aaron 14:45

what the fuck what the fuck what the ufck

why doe sthis keep fucking happening to you 

Like it’s his fault!

You 14:45

This is not the kind of thing I can control. 

They are good children. Polite. Easier to deal with than I was, I wager. But  I need you to come and help. 

Aaron 14:47

why should i

what makes you think i could help you

You 14:49

Because he is your brother. 

Before Kevin can read Aaron’s answer, something hooks on his hair. Looking down, he finds Andrew’s hand hanging a few inches away from it, alarmed and wide-eyed at being caught. Behind him, Neil looks just as queasy, as if this had been their joint effort. 

“Can I help you?” Kevin asks, raising his eyebrow a little. When he gets no response, he concedes, "You can touch. Don’t tug or pull. And keep it away from your mouth.”

No response. Kevin doubles down, “It’s really fine. Here.” He pulls his hair out of its low ponytail, letting it curtain down his shoulders and back. It’s not often he lets his hair down like this — it can be too much of a hassle. Kevin ought to cut it one day, but the thought still makes him a little sick to think of. “As long as you’re careful.”

An hesitant little hand inches closer and closer, still warily watching out for Kevin’s reaction. When Andrew finds no resistance, he combs little fingers down the length of Kevin’s hair, faint and amazed. He’s not very gentle — children are too clumsy for it, still, and there is some tugging. It doesn’t hurt, though. Kevin allows it.

Resigning himself to being played with, Kevin gives them his back, leaning his elbow against the couch. Another pair of little hands clutches at a chunk of hair, and he knows Andrew has convinced Neil to get in on their impromptu hairdresser salon. At least they’re playing, Kevin consoles himself as he feels a pull on his scalp. At least they’re getting along. 

“I have hair ribbons on my desk,” he offers, knowing what he is setting himself up to and still going through with it. “Colorful ones. Satin. Would you like to see them?”

A pause on the tugging. “Really?” That was Neil.

“Yes. But I’ll have to get up to get them.”

“I can do it,” Andrew tells him, the ever-helpful little waiter. He’s so polite — Kevin wonders if they taught him there is a higher chance of getting adopted if you treat the foster parents with subservience. Probably. “Where is it?”

“Andrew, it’s fine—”

“I’ll do it. He’s still playing, so I’ll do it.”

So kind, giving Neil time to play by himself. Kevin, helplessly charmed, would allow him anything. “Okay. Thank you.” Motioning vaguely in the direction of their desks, he says, “It’s the one with the shelves on top of it. Yes, that one, with the books. Be careful not to hit your head!” Watching Andrew narrowly duck under a shelf gives Kevin half an aneurysm, but the child seems no less interested in his quest. “First drawer. There. Did you find it?”

“Yes,” Andrew replies, shoving a chubby fist into the drawer and pulling out a handful of hair ribbons, all different colors and sizes. There was an organization system to it, and his careless pulling has clearly ruined it. A little disheartened, Kevin doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “This?”

“Yes. Please keep the drawer closed.” 

The drawer snaps shut, and Andrew makes his way back to them, freshly acquired ribbons falling over his fingers and wrist in colorful flops. Kevin doesn’t see him sit back down, but he feels Andrew’s hand on his hair again. “Why do you have shelves?” Neil asks after a few moments of silence, their hands working ribbons in his hair via extremely clumsy braiding. “Um, just you, I mean. The others are empty.”

That he’s asking anything seems like a blessing, when the child is so quiet. “My—” Kevin hesitates. How to even describe it? “My… friend built them for me. The shelves. He got annoyed at me for leaving my books everywhere.”

 It’s true. Just as Kevin loathes Andrew’s habit of leaving his cigarettes anywhere, so does Andrew loathe Kevin’s astray book piles across the living room, left half-read or unfinished in his haste to get to class or practice. The shelves had been less of a compromise and more of a surprise: one day, they were simply sitting above his desk like they’ve always been there. Kevin never asked Andrew if he built them, but he figured the wood splinters on his fingers were reason enough. It took a lot of arguing for Andrew to take them out the right way, instead of just letting the splinters break on their own.

“Oh,” Andrew says, entirely unaware of the story being about his older self and focused on tying a bow on Kevin’s hair. “Where is he?”

“There’s two of them, actually. They’re away for work.” Kevin leans his head closer when the tugging starts to get a little painful. “What are you doing back there, anyway?”

“It’s pretty,” Neil murmurs, defending his work. Kevin doubts it is, but he’s happy to even have the little Neil’s attention at all. 

“You know how to braid?” He asks, trying to steal a look and getting his head gently moved back by Andrew. “By the way, what’s your name? You haven’t said.”

Neil hesitates, hands freezing. Kevin keeps talking, “Whatever you want to be called.”

 “Um,” Neil thinks on it for a moment. He seems to be rolling Kevin’s hair nervously around his fingers now; a nervous fidget. “My—my dad calls me Junior, but my mom calls me Nat—Nathaniel.”

 He doesn’t say it like he enjoys being called either.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” Kevin tilts his head in acknowledgement, because he wasn’t raised in a barn. “I’m Kevin. It’s nice to meet you.”

Shy little thing he is, Nathaniel doesn’t answer. 

The children play with Kevin’s hair for a few more minutes before losing interest, leaving him a mess of ribbons and tangles he decides not to deal with for now. He imagines they should be put to sleep soon — children this small sleep in the afternoon, do they not? At their age, Kevin is sure he had to be made to nap one way or another, what with his mother’s hectic schedule. It’s a bit of a parenting cop-out, he is aware, but… Kevin could use a nap himself. Sure the children do, too.

He makes a show out of yawning behind his palm. Two pairs of eyes turn to him, neither particularly moved by his display. Tough crowd. 

“Maybe we can all take a nap,” Kevin suggests. Nothing.

#asks #kandreil #my writing #thisis very scuffed i did some minor editing but its seriously not good. dont perceive me

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

You deserve it

Masterlist

A/N: I'm struggling, and I need a fucking hug. So I wrote this. It's probably fucking terrible but I need a fictional surrogate boyfriend to shower me with affection right now, because the real one is halfway across the country. Okay. Exquisitely self-indulgent hurt/comfort with tooth-rotting fluff.

Pairing: Mike (Hellraiser) x reader (you)

Summary: You're feeling like shit, and Mike helps you feel less like shit. That's it. That's the plot.

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort. Depression/ anxiety/ general really bad fucking day having reader, suicidal thoughts/ intrusive thoughts. I mention a boner once.

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @keanureevesisbae @fvckinghenrycavill @ellethespaceunicorn @peaches1958 @sillyrabbit81

“Babe I’m having a really shit day, okay?” You hate doing this. Cancelling plans last-minute is the worst under normal circumstances, but you really wanted to see this movie tonight with Mike. “You can go by yourself, it’s fine. Or take someone else. I’m just going to bed.”

“Alright, babe. Text me when you wake up, okay?” He’s so sweet. You really don’t deserve him. Then again, you don’t deserve anything. Yeah, to lay in bed, completely worn out from doing nothing, unable to move (because why the fuck not?) and hungry because you haven’t eaten all day – that involves moving, and as previously established: you can’t. Plus, even if you weren’t tired and glued to your bed, he’d probably have a better time hanging out with someone who isn’t depressed and horrible. And that rules you out.

You’re on the verge of falling asleep. Actually, you’ve been on the verge of falling asleep for weeks. It just doesn’t happen. So, like all those other times you wished there was a poison apple or cursed spinning wheel nearby, you just lay in bed with your eyes closed, curled up into a ball and trying to ignore the crushing weight of your overflowing to do list and the guilt over bailing on your boyfriend. It’s probably only a matter of time before he runs off with someone cuter, thinner, and more alive than you, anyway.

The door opens. The noise doesn’t make you turn around. In fact, absolutely nothing would make you turn around. Keanu Reeves in your doorway wouldn’t make you respond at this point, and Lord knows that’s saying something. You’re just done.

Whoever it is that’s in your doorway and likely isn’t Keanu Reeves, walks into your room. Honestly, if this is a murderer, good. No one would complain. It’s probably just your roommate, though. Massive disappointment.

“Sadie, just go please,” you sigh as you pull the comforter tighter around your shoulders. The unidentified intruder reaches your bed, and a bag drops to the floor with a loud thud and the suspicious crinkling and cracking of... Food wrappers? You freeze when this person sits on your bed – but they don’t stop there; they actually get into bed with you, which means it’s definitely not your roommate. This still doesn’t make you move, and you almost laugh at how completely fucked up a reaction that is.

“Guess again.” Mikey. It’s Mikey. You hadn’t even considered that possibility. How on Earth did you consider ‘murderer’ before ‘boyfriend’? But why is he here? He’s supposed to go to the movies and have fun, and leave you here until you’re ready to crawl out of this ditch of horribleness. You don’t want him here with you.

“Why aren’t you at the movies?” You ask timidly. He’s wrapping his arms around you and you’re resisting that, trying to think of the best and quickest way to send him packing. “Mikey, please leave. I need to be alone.”

“No.” What? What, ‘no’? “You want to be alone.”

“Yeah, same diff. Leave me alone, Mike. I want you to fuck off and go see the movie without me, and you just leave me here. Okay?” This fucking hurts. You don’t want to shut him out, but you can’t help it right now. Nothing feels right, you’re a mess, and no one needs to see you like this.

“No. Not okay. I’m not leaving.” He sounds angry. Annoyed, at least. And he’s right to be angry. You’re being horrible to him when he’s just trying to be nice. But you don’t want him trying to be nice to you right now. He’s probably only offering to stay because he feels he has to, or some shit.

“But you really want to see that movie.”

“Yeah, Sweetcheeks, I do. I really want to see that movie.” He sighs impatiently. “With you. I’m not watching it without you, so drop it. If we can’t go today, we’ll wait until we can. And if it’s not in theatres anymore by that time, we’ll rent it, or stream it or whatever, but I’m not watching that movie if you’re not next to me. Now stop being stubborn and let me hold you.”

There are tears in your eyes now, because of his little speech, and you’ve actually turned around in his – very persistent – arms.

“Hi, Sweetcheeks,” he says as he smiles down at you. “I’m happy to see your face.” As hard as it is for you to believe that, you can see in his eyes that he’s not lying.

Mike bends his head to kiss you, but you stop him.

“Baby,” he whines, but you shake your head.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth in days,” you admit. Heat surges through your cheeks, and it feels as if someone is sticking a million needles in them. The severely lacking ability to take care of yourself is one of your least favorite parts of this whole depression business. Not that the rest is a walk in the park, but being near Mike in your current gross state is embarrassing and horrible.

“Sweetcheeks, I don’t give a damn.” He kisses you hard, so hard that you are starting to think he’s doing this to make a point. “I’m crazy about you. All of you. And I’m still crazy about you when you’re like this. Although I wish you didn’t feel so shitty.” He moves off the bed again, dragging you to the edge of it as he goes along, where he scoops you up into his arms.

“What are you doing?” you ask as he carries you to the bathroom. Mikey sets you down on the toilet – the only place to comfortably sit in here – and starts to unbutton the flannel pajama shirt you have on.

“I don’t have the ener...” Mike interrupts you with another kiss as he keeps undressing you. He never tries anything, not even when he sees your boobs – although he does grin appreciatively for a second. You let him drag you into the shower, because by now you’ve figured out that resisting him is no use, anyway.

“Can you hold it together for maybe ten minutes until I get back?” He turns on the water, risking the clothes he’s still wearing. You nod.

“Mikey?” He turns around when he hears you call him. “Can you hand me my toothbrush?” Small steps, right?

When he comes back, he strips and joins you in the shower. Standing up was a hassle, so you’re sitting on the floor. He sits down behind you, with his legs on either side, and pulls your back into his chest. Mike helps you wash your hair, and your body, still not trying anything, even though he clearly has a boner from touching you all over. That doesn’t change when he dries you off and helps you into a pair of fresh pajamas.

“How do you feel?” Mike says when he wraps you up into the millionth hug.

“Better,” you say, avoiding his eyes. Yeah, taking a shower helps. It makes you feel better. But you just couldn’t do the thing. Why couldn’t you just do the stupid, silly little thing?

“Good,” Mike says, “let’s get to the rest of the evening.” He takes your hand and drags you back to your room.

“Jesus! Mike! You didn’t have to do that!” There are new sheets on your bed, and your pillows are piled in the corner, together with every stuffed animal you own, and several soft blankets. Ten minutes alone in the shower, and your boyfriend builds you a nest. It’s so sweet that you don’t even allow yourself to be embarrassed that you couldn’t change your sheets yourself.

“I wanted to. Because I wanna spend the whole night with you, watching movies, and cuddling. I brought snacks.” He looks kind of nervous when he says it. “Got you chocolate. Your favorite. But I’ll still go if you want to be alo-” The last syllable disappears into your mouth when you kiss him.

“Thank you, Mikey,” you say, no longer able to keep the tears from falling.

“You’re welcome. You deserve it.”

#mike hellraiser #mike hellraiser fic #mike (hellraiser) #hellraiser mike #mike (hellraiser) x reader #hellraiser mike x reader #mikey x reader #henrycavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill characters

[albatmobile]

The Art of Rehabilitating Snowbirds Chapter 25

𓅪 After not hearing from Roy or Jason for five years, you suddenly find yourself taking in extra income as a babysitter for Roy and Jason's child.

𓅪 Rated: E | TW: graphic violence, blood | 14k  includes: motorcycle smut, squirting, public sex, boss battle

fem!Reader x Jason Todd x Roy Harper [masterlist]

Chapter 25: Born to Die | ao3 - wattpad

It’s pitch black when you slip from the manor and into the quiet of the inky, starless night.

Jason and Roy had long elected to go to sleep in favor of researching and, after hours upon hours of hunting for clues the past couple of days, you nearly joined them.

But, even though your body aches with tiredness, you know sleep will only elude you. Especially when you’re this close to the end.

Your parents told you to go to Gotham Bay and, for once in your life, you follow their instructions.

Gotham Bay smells like fish and literal ass as you choke on the thick air surrounding the harbor. Your shoes squelch against the muck that liters the slick pavement, urging you to reconsider your choice, but you refuse. 

Up ahead, you see the final marker and turn the corner. “There you are,” You gasp, feeling your blood run cold. 

Yes, you’d come here to face the bad guys. That being said, you hadn’t really considered what you’d do when they ultimately came to collect.

“What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing?” Jason’s familiar voice berates you from behind, “Walking into a trap like some sort of suicidal maniac doesn’t really seem like your forte, babe.”

You sigh in relief when you turn and see your two dopey white knights.

With the original panic gone, the sadness starts to set in. 

You’re not dumb. You know the end is in sight, but you don’t see a way out of this. At the end of the day, the only way to truly end this is to give your parents what they want by turning yourself in.

“I,” You pout, realizing your reasoning isn’t as sound as you’d previously thought now that you’re actually saying it out loud. Nonetheless, you continue, “I just didn’t want anyone else to have to get hurt because of me.” 

Jason kicks lightly at the ground, leaving it up to Roy to talk you down.

“Well, too bad,” Roy easily steers you right back the way you came. You sigh, letting him guide you to Jason’s motorcycle that’s been hidden in a nearby alley. “We definitely would’ve been more than hurt if anything happened to you, princess,” He rubs your back. “Lian included.” 

You turn to look at him, but he’s just focused on getting you settled on the bike. He climbs on behind you, nudging Jason to lift you up onto his lap. Jason lifts you with ease as he deposits you onto Roy’s jean-covered lap. 

Your stomach flips.

Jason glances back at you before mounting the bike with your body sliding forward against his broad back once he’s fully seated. You gulp, unable to keep your raging blush at bay as the engine revs to life. 

Jason takes off down the street. His speed leaves you clinging desperately to him and you can’t help but scream as the bike reaches a scary speed that even Dick would have to give him a ticket for, relatives or not.

They both help you slip off the bike and quietly lead you back to Jason’s old room. Halfway up the stairs, you’re met with a sleepy-looking Titus. You give him a good scratch behind the ears as you pass. 

“What were you thinking?” Jason asks angrily, pacing around his old room. “Even if you had just turned yourself in, it wouldn’t have solved anything,” He glares at you like he can’t believe you would pull something so reckless. “Hell, all it would’ve done is give them the ability to move forward with their plan,” He crosses his muscular, scarred arms like he can’t even believe he has to have this conversation with you. “Are you trying to get yourself killed or something?”

Roy places a gentle hand on his shoulder as he slumps on the edge of his queen-sized mattress beside you.

The last time you’d been in here had been a few months following the Joker accident. You know Jason’s upset with you, Roy too, but you can’t help but look around the room.

Nothing much has changed aside from a few new books on the shelves and new, bigger clothing. The stain on the carpet from Jason’s spilled whiskey is noticeably absent, though, undoubtedly thanks to Alfred.

“What Jason’s trying to ask is, are you feeling alright?” He looks genuinely concerned and you don’t want either of them getting the wrong idea.

“I’m not fucking suicidal,” You sigh, shaking your head. “They offered me an out. They said no one had to get hurt.”

“Just you, then,” Jason looks disgusted. “You’re no fucking martyr,” He hisses your name out like a curse, banging his hand on his desk as he does so. Every object on the wooden surface jumps into the air as he does so, causing you to inadvertently startle. “You’re…” Jason trails off. “What you mean to us…”

“Yeah?” Your eyes widen, wondering if he’ll actually come out and say it. Hoping he’ll come out and say it.

Jason’s eyes flash with remorse and he makes to leave the room until you stop him.

“Jason, please,” He stops. “I just thought I was doing what was right after I did you both so wrong.” 

“We already talked it over, remember? We’re all good,” Jason gently chides you, placing steadying hands on your shoulders. “Stop holding that against yourself,” He looks you in the eyes to let you know that he’s serious. It’s like he’s waiting for a response because once you nod, he releases his firm grip. “It’s just…” Jason trails off unsurely.

“We can't lose you, princess,” Roy starts.

Jason shakes his head, finishing Roy’s statement easily, “Not when we just got you back.”

Back?

You’re the only one who’s been here the whole time, waiting.

“I never left.” 

They gulp, looking at each other before descending upon you with fervor only five years of separation could cause. 

You don’t label it and neither do they. 

You decide to go along with what feels right and, holy fuck, does this feel right.

Standing on the precipice of battle, they hold you together, if only for tonight.

“Princess,” Roy sounds barely restrained as he eyes you up your nearly naked form with barely withheld restraint, “I need you.” It’s rushed as it falls from his mouth.

You aren’t used to being needed and aren’t surprised when a rush of arousal surges all the way down to your clit.

This time, the sex is slow and deliberate as they get to know each and every inch of your body intimately. They make you come undone in ways you never could’ve imagined, trapping you between their muscular bodies as they slowly fuck into your aching cunt. 

After they’re done milking your first orgasm out of you, they both take turns watching as the other one forces another one out of you.

Roy lets you take control, pulling at his red locks and fucking into him ruthlessly amazon-style until he begs for you to allow him to come.

“Please, baby,” Roy whimpers your name soon after as he ruts against your brutal pace. “Please, you gotta let me come. Please,” He shakes his head, eyebrows furrowed together like he thinks he won’t last another second. 

Cute.

Jason’s grip around his leaking cock tightens. You take the hint  as you slow your pace with a cruel smirk, “No.”

“Fuck!” Roy’s voice cracks in his throat as he arches off the mattress to pound into you, nearly sending you off balance as he does. Jason quickly comes to wrap his calloused fingers around Roy’s thick cock before he can come. 

You bite your bottom lip, loving how Jason’s rough hand brushes against all the right spots. You glance up at his darkening emerald eyes as you grind against the delicious friction it offers.

“You fucking yourself against my hand?” Jason’s voice sinfully coats around your name as he questions you. You absentmindedly draw closer to him in response until your wide eyes are staring down his predatory ones. “Answer me.”

You nod with owlish eyes, feeling the heat of a nasty blush smack across your cheeks. 

“That’s good,” Jason praises you, looking as if he’s ready to devour you right then and there, but instead, he lets Roy have his fun with you. 

He removes his hand, causing Roy to release a shaky groan as he does. You don’t realize you’re pouting at the loss of contact with Jason’s sexy-ass hand until Roy smacks you on the ass. “Try not to look so disappointed, princess,” He winks up at you, panting slightly as he does. “’Specially not when my dick’s inside you, gorgeous.”

He deliberately places gentle pressure on your pubic bone as he shallowly thrusts inside you. You refuse to settle back onto your knees to give him the angle he’s really craving. 

No, not yet.

You grab a handful of his hair and use your grip to tug his face right in front of yours. His verdant eyes roll back in his head with an obscene moan you’ve ever heard. With how loud it had been, you’re pretty sure it’s the most obscene moan anyone at the manor’s ever heard; no, this entire block’s ever heard.

“Fucking, slut,” Jason grits around his teeth. He mashes against Roy’s chapped lips, tearing into them as you increase your pace again. 

Your hips stutter when his girthy length smashes directly into your g-spot. “Roy!” You salaciously clench down around him, forcing his cock against your inner wall again until you’re seeing stars. You’re babbling now, completely lost in the throws of this overwhelming feeling of arousal, “I need you to come inside me, please, Roy.” You beg him, throwing your head back with a wrecked moan.

Roy babbles back, easily just as clouded in lust as you are. “I wanna give you all my come, baby. So good; you fuck me so fucking good, baby- so good, I wanna- fuck!”

“Oh, damn,” Jason’s voice rumbles against the wet pants and moans that bounce around his childhood bedroom’s walls.

Jason joins the two of you on the small mattress again as Roy’s come leaks out of your sore slit and onto your folds. Jason then positions himself behind your to slurp it up and lap at your over-sensitive clit that jumps every time he plays with it. He spreads your ass as far apart as it’ll go before pressing a bruising grip into your soft globes.

“I’m so fucking spent,” You groan, face-planting into the mattress right next to Roy’s still half-delirious state. “I’m so fucking sore.”

“I’ll tell you when I’m done with you.”

You don’t even have time to settle into the mattress before Jason’s flipping you around again.

Roy seems to brighten up at Jason’s dark tone that drips with sex. He slinks beside you to whisper the dirtiest things into your ear. Meanwhile, Jason smacks his cock against your twitching cunt with a wicked glint flashing across his eyes as he stares down at the two of you.

Roy’s soft, freckled fingers trickle from your lower abdomen to circle around your painfully erect nipples. He briefly squeezes one before enveloping the other with a salacious twist of his tongue. 

They skillfully work in tandem to draw everything they can out of you. All of the moans, all the hushed curses, all the squelching noises from your pussy.

Jason takes in your lucid, fucked-out form with a wolfish grin. 

Roy’s hand lightly caresses your throat, as if testing the waters. When you give no complaint, he slowly strengthens his grip until you’re withering around on the mattress for more. 

“You want me to talk to you like the whore I know you are, baby?” He nods sweetly at you, though you can easily see the lust-ridden heat that lies behind it. “Tell you how Jason should punish you with his huge dick while I spank the rest of the badness out of you?” You gasp, “Would that make you come, baby?”

You’re a wreck. 

All you can manage is a tear-filled nod as Jason continues to tease your entrance. 

You don’t even know if you’ll be able to come any more than you already have, but Jason seems convinced as he draws every breathy whimper, every choked beg out of your body.

“Want me to spread her for you, Jay?” He doesn’t even wait for confirmation, knowing it’s exactly what he wants. 

He situates himself behind you with his sticky, flaccid dick pressed against your lower back as he bares your come-filled hole for Jason to ravage.

You’re so fucked. 

Literally.

You don’t even feel like you’re on the Earthly plane by the time they’re finally finished with you.

•••

The next day, you help Jason and Alfred with breakfast while the rest of the family lingers about in the kitchen and dining room, chatting amicably. 

You’re completely sore after your body had been so wonderfully used last night. You can’t help but walk with a slight limp. Personally, you don’t think it’s noticeable at all, but in a room filled with the world’s greatest detectives, it’s obvious as day. 

They shoot each other knowing glances, but Dick has the gull to openly stare in what you can only discern as disbelief.

Steph and Babs though, they’re content to wear shit-eating grins on their faces any time Jason or Roy so much as look at you.

You don’t realize making pancakes can be so messy until Roy’s smearing batter down your nose. Jason retaliates in your honor, splatting a spoonful into his fiery waves and drawing a disbelieving gasp from Roy.

From here, Dick leaps gracefully over the counter to grab the other bowl of batter straight from Alfred’s gloved hands. He grabs a fist full of the batter and wastes no time in catapulting it directly at Jason’s face. This, coincidentally, also smacks into the side of your cheek and even manages to splash Tim, Connor and Stephanie, who stand just a few beats behind the three of you.

It’s an all-out war with screams and giggles ringing out in the kitchen as the Batfamily attacks their own with any and every food-related item they come into contact with.

“FOOD FIGHT!” Roy screams, holding two cans of whipped cream like they’re automatic rifles as he sprays them across the chaos unfolding in the room. 

Dick and Barbara quickly team up to knock him off the counter while Stephanie attempts to throw strawberries at you through your human shield, Jason.

Bruce and Alfred can’t help but smile. Regardless of the mess, it’s good to see all of you acting like the kids you are. 

Connor somehow nearly breaks the refrigerator by falling into it after slipping on a banana peel that Stephanie had left on the ground thinking no one would fall for it, yet…

The dent he leaves on the stainless steel fridge from his body alone is enough for Bruce to call it all off.

After you all clean up the pancake remains, seriously, how did all the batter end up on the ceiling (???), you pack your things and meet everyone out front. That is, after changing.

You only really have one nice outfit, a skin-tight, thick-cotton, white v-neck and a plaid skirt. You elect to go commando as you skip down the driveway to where everyone’s gathered around, with Stephanie, Tim and Connor still in their pancake-covered PJs.

“And you’re sure it’s all fixed?” You catch the tail-end of Damian’s question to Bruce.

“They had your window fixed two days ago. The caulk needed to be set for a day or so for it to be completely secure again, though.”

Lian gasps when Alfred pulls around in the limo, stepping out to open the trunk for Jason and Roy to load all of your things. “Can I go in the long car?” Lian makes puppy-dog eyes up at her dad. “Can I, please?”

“‘Course, darlin’,” Roy ruffles her inky hair, helping her buckle into the back seat as she excitedly squirms around in the seat. “We’ll be following behind you on daddy’s motorcycle, okay?” She nods and obediently lets Roy finish securing her in her Superman car seat.

Damian and Jon hop in the seat facing opposite hers, still picking pancake batter out of each other’s hair with playful smiles.

Alfred gets in the limo and drives off. Soon after, he shuts the door and bids the rest of the Batfamily goodbye. Meanwhile, the three of you hop onto Jason’s motorcycle and speed off to catch up.

“Just like old times,” Roy winks and you just shake your head as his hands move to caress your thick thighs. It doesn’t take long for him to realize you’re not wearing anything underneath. You’re practically sitting in his lap, so you know he’s noticed when his dick twitches against your bare ass. “And here I was thinking you were still holding out on us, princess,” He mutters lowly lowly against your ear. Roy’s fingers stealthily slip between your slick folds, barely rubbing your clit as he releases a low chuckle, “Fucking whore.”

You arch against him, feeling your adrenaline spike as Jason revs his engine and speeds up on the back streets.

“Please,” You groan, grinding down into the redhead’s erection.

Jason seems to be picking up on what’s going on because he makes a sharp right turn, forcing you to cling tighter around his muscular abdomen.

The vibrations alone last time had been enough to make your eyes cross in pleasure, but this time was different. This time they were both touching you, tormenting you in the best ways possible.

Roy’s deliberate flicks against your still-aching clit leave your eyes twitching. He holds you steady as your body seizes, preparing for the most insane orgasm of your life- in public, nonetheless.

“You’re gonna come for me and Jay right here,” Your breathing hitches in your throat, making it hard to swallow. “All of these people are gonna see what a slut you are, baby,” His words tickle against the shell of your ear, sounding even above the roar of Jason’s V8. “All for us.”

“Roy,” You warn shakily.

“Scream his name, princess.” You hastily remove his helmet to reveal the satisfied smirk that lies underneath and he easily does the same for you, wanting to take in all of your little tells.

Your orgasm couldn’t have come at a worse time.

Jason finishes exiting the side street, coming to a stop at a red light when you’re overcome with a familiar, icy pleasure as it blooms across your aching cunt.

“JASON!” He revs the engine again in response, causing you to double forward against him as Roy continues to rub your abused, sensitive nub. 

With your head thrown back against Roy’s shoulder, liquid erupts all across the back of Jason’s leather jacket. All the while, the dude and his friend in the pickup truck beside you stare with their mouths wide open in disbelief. 

Jason whips off his helmet, nodding his head their way as if to say, ‘sup.’

You’re panting, pushing Roy’s hand out of your skirt, feeling completely satiated. “What the fuck was that?”

“Pretty sure you just squirted all over our Jay.” 

Squirt?

You shook your head languidly in your after haze, “What, like piss?”

“I’m not 100% sure,” Roy rubs at the outside of your thigh with a smirk, “but even if it is, feel free to do it all over my face sometime, princess.”

“Seconded,” Jason says. 

His slitted eyes trail up your trembling form like he’s considering fucking you right here and now. He feels behind himself, dragging his rough fingers through the wetness you’ve left on his back and the seat. 

He stares at the dripping slick curiously before forcing his fingers down Roy’s willing throat. He swallows your come all while staring at you through his strawberry-lashed, half-lidded eyes.

A deep voice stirs you all from your lust-filled haze.

“I need to get me a motorcycle, bro.”

His friend nods dumbly in agreement.

You all put on your helmets back on just as the light blinks green, speeding off before the men in the pickup can pick their jaws up off the floor. You nearly come again, feeling the flipping feeling tickling stir below, but Roy purposefully keeps his fingers just out of reach for you to get any relief. 

Fucking dick. 

You’ll definitely make him pay later.

•••

Regardless of what happened on the motorcycle hours earlier, they’re gentle with every part of you as you prepare for the final battle.

You’re lying in front of the fireplace of Damian’s living room, with Jason stoking the fire as Roy cleans and redresses your wound.

“’S looking a lot better, princess,” He pats lightly at your side, peppering your face and body with gentle kisses. 

His intimate gestures draw a quiet smile on your face. You’ve never felt so happy in your entire life and, yet, you feel like you can’t even bask in it until you finally come face to face with your parents.

You arch into his hold, snuggling against his chest as his lithe fingers begin to play with your hair.

Gentle music warbles in from the gramophone Damian has playing in the kitchen as he and Jon talk in hushed whispers.

Your eyes lazily trail back to meet Roy’s tired eyes. You’re honestly surprised he isn’t trying to take it any further with his lavishing touch, especially after last night. Though, it’s probably for the best, considering the lingering company in the adjacent kitchen. 

Roy slowly blinks back at you, his eyes lightly crinkling as he does, as if he’s the one who can’t believe he has you.

Lian had been put to bed hours before, though it looks like she might be sleeping alone tonight as Jason removes his shirt before cuddling around the two of you with a heavy blanket. Earlier, Roy had brought out a pile of pillows from the bed to prop you up on. Now, you use the pillows to create a sleepy little nest for your fam-… for the three of you.

Laying down with the two of them wrapped up in this fluffy bundle on the floor, they slowly begin to mouth at either side of your neck. You wriggle contentedly between them, returning chaste kisses of your own scattered along their chiseled jawlines. 

The music slowly ebbs as the needle catches. It slowly slips from the disc, leaving you with only the crackling roars of the fire in front of you.

Jason caresses your face before languidly drawing it to his lips for a slow, toe-curling good night kiss that Roy attempts to top as soon as Jason’s lips leave yours. 

You drift off somewhere in between the light tickles of their gentle lips against your warm skin.

•••

The logs on the fire come crashing down as they die out some odd hours later. 

You wipe blearily at your eyes, glancing at the clock in Damian’s kitchen to see that it’s nearly three in the morning.

Jason and Roy still seem to be dead asleep, even as you wriggle out of their overwhelming heat.

The hum of the refrigerator is all that greets you as you pad around the penthouse. You’re looking for something… Something you know was dumped on the living room floor but obviously isn’t there anymore. 

“Oh!” You accidentally exclaim out loud when you find what you’d been looking for a few minutes later in Damian’s office.

You look around the room suspiciously as if booby traps are going to pop out of nowhere and alert everyone to what you’re doing, but it doesn’t happen. You snatch your laptop from atop one of his filing cabinets before scurrying back to the living room. Roy’s curled around Jason’s midsection, with drool leaking onto his abs. You roll your eyes at the sight, opening the corrupted laptop. 

After the last time, there’s now a giant crack stretched across the screen, crackling across the glass like lightning. The display flickers between a blinking blue error, colorful popcorn static and, strangely enough, the password box.

Your fingers hesitate as the password box flickers back onto the screen before typing, ‘tonight.’ 

You shut the laptop again, making quick work to remove the hard drive before throwing it into the last raging flame that remained. You silently placed the laptop exactly where it had been before getting dressed for what’s to come.

•••

This time, Gotham Bay isn’t so daunting when you approach.

You know this area has to be under high surveillance for them even to suggest you come back to the same location as the previous night. 

So, here you are. Waiting.

The cold, misty wind bites at your exposed ankles while you peer around for any signs of movement. You’re completely alone with only the squeals of Gotham’s signature cat-sized rats pattering about in the shadows to keep you company. 

Your weather app said it’s supposed to rain at some point and, although the sky is its usual murky fog, the moon still shines brightly. 

After wandering around the lot for a bit, you come to your final location: a dead end of warehouse buildings on one of Gotham’s loading docks.

The hairs on your arms stir awake, prickling your sensitive skin as they become erect. 

The familiar weight of eyes has been on you the entire time, but now it feels entirely different. 

There’s shuffling from behind you, then in front of you. 

Your arms come out to steady yourself as you back into the one area you haven’t heard anything from, but it’s a mistake.

You gasp as cold fingers grip your forearms with a bruising hold.

“I can’t believe the broad actually came here alone!” The Joker’s familiar laugh trembles against your ears in disbelief. “No, seriously,” His face falls into a frightening deadpan glare as he makes his way in front of you. All around him, hundreds of henchmen swarm into the dockyard. “I don’t believe you.”

His wretched voice slithers through your veins, wrapping around your beating heart like an unforgiving cobra. He watches your every minute reaction for any telling signs, but you offer him the truth. After all, it’d be fruitless to lie to him.

“I was just listening to my family,” You shake your head, wondering if you’ve made a mistake; no, wondering if you’ve misplaced your loyalty. You’ve already made your bed, though, so now you’ll have to lie in it.

The situation becomes all too familiar as Joker’s men swarm in to restrain your squirming form. Beefy arms tug and squeeze at every limb as if they’re trying to rip them off straight out of your sockets. You can’t help the grunts and protests you spout all the while, but Joker remains eerily quiet as he takes in the scene in front of him. 

It’s as if he’s testing that you’re really alone- like he still doesn’t believe you. 

His green hair bobs finally as he surveys the area once more before nodding with an impressed face, “Guess the girl really isn’t too bright. Maybe that’s why mommy and daddy want you gone,” His creepy smile catches your breath in your throat, “You truly are just a worthless disappointment now, aren’t you?” He giggles, “An orphan with parents! Who’d’ve thought of that contradiction?”

“I want to believe they’re my actual family,” You say.

“Them?” The Joker actually laughs, no theatrics, just laughs at your stupidity as he hitches a thumb over his shoulder at nothing. “And how does that seem like it’s going?” He snorts and comes around to tickle his fingertips lightly across your cheek. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, but first,” He skips around his henchmen, clapping frantically in their faces all the while, “How about a little family reunion? Let’s give ‘em a hand, folks!” 

His cackles are genuine as your parents emerge from the shadows. Their faces are smug as they take in your overpowered position.

“Mom,” You look at her with pleading eyes, begging her not to do this. “Dad, please.”

They shake their heads, “This is how it was always going to end. We’ll get what we’re owed.” Your mother’s wearing a full-length ball gown she undoubtedly stole and her expensive heels click against the ground as she cooly addresses you, “You won’truin this for us. You hear me?” 

She’s using her ‘don’t fuck with me’ tone and you are more than happy to oblige. Though you’re not used to being reprimanded by them, it doesn’t mean it’s never happened. You know exactly what kind of response she’s looking for.

You automatically nod your head, “Yes.”

You flinch backward into the men when she makes to slap you but stops just before the contact and, instead, caresses your face with her soft touch.

“Good.” You slink back at her familiar hostility and eye her cautiously as she continues to linger, “Do not forget blood is thicker than water.” You could scoff if you weren’t actually so terrified of your mother. Words jam in your throat, suffocating you all the while. “And do not mistake,” She glares at you as she releases your face with a jolt of her hand, “that for the lasting good of our family name, your blood will spill.”

“Mom,” You whisper, eyes staring after her retreating form in hopes that some semblance of sense will befall her, but it’s in vain. “Please, help me,” You beg. “Don’t make me do this, please,” You continue to plead, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Do what, exactly? Seems like you’re pretty tied up at the moment!” Joker pops right in front of your face with a wicked smile that has you startling backward into your captors. “Perhaps another introduction is in order,” Joker chuckles. “I think it’s time you met my other half,” His voice drips with amused malice with his manic eyes refusing to leave your pained ones. “Oh, Two Face!” Joker sing-songs off to the right of you.

The shuffling of men and their sniffles in the cold is all you can hear for the longest time, then scuffled steps.

There’s no way you’re actually going to meet Two Face, right?

Right?

A twinkling metal sound reverberates as the aforementioned man strolls forward, followed by crowds of men. 

Shit.

Two Face’s normal side is bathed in the moonlight first. You squint to get a better look right as his wicked side emerges from the shadows into full visibility. You can’t help but gasp. 

The comic books could never do his veneer justice. 

His hand is nonchalantly tucked into the white side of his suit while the scarred hand flips a hefty coin over and over again. 

Two Face’s daunting voice grumbles out your name with half a smirk adorning his grotesque face. “I’m sure by now you’re in on our little agreement, right?” The coin continues to glisten as it’s thrown into the night air with practiced motions. “How mommy and daddy sold you out when you were born?” You shake your head, “Oh, you’re not in on it?”

You spit at him, “Fuck you.” 

“Newsflash, brat,” He grabs your face in his hands with wretched venom. Your eyes are wide with fear as he shakes your face, seeming to switch between ire and calm sporadically. “The only thing you’ve been good for is your social security number. You’re worthless. They’ve had this organization created with the financial backing of this loon while you were still in mommy’s stomach.” You were truly born to die by the very people who’d brought you into this world. You shake your head as tears form, refusing to believe it but knowing it’s true, “Cry all you want, but you’ll be dead before the hour’s up.”

He motions for you to see the time on his silver Rolex. 

2:39 AM.

Joker snickers while the two of them circle around you like vultures closing in on roadkill. 

You’re completely vulnerable in this moment. 

“Go on!” Joker hypes Two Face up, “Tell the poor little thing,” He tugs at your cheek as if you’re a baby. “How she’s going to save Gotham!” He jumps up excitedly and, if you weren’t sure he was unstable before, you do now. Every movement is jerky and completely erratic, never flowing into each other so much as clashing in a grandeur fashion.

Your dad sighs, rubbing irritably at the space between his eyebrows, “Our organization was built with the backing of Gothamite’s with a vision for a Gotham. A Gotham with the right rich people, which, of course, means taking money away from those who don’t deserve it. Worthy Gotham families would funnel money into our insurance scheme and funded, well-”

“Our research,” Two Face stops pacing and his mangled side faces you. “With plans as grand as this, enemies of our organization would need to be dealt with swiftly and justly. A culling of Gotham’s wealthiest, so to speak. Thus, you came into play again.”

“Oh, oh!” Joker raises his hand up and down enthusiastically like he’s answering a question in class. “Me next!” 

“Why do I put up with this clown?” Two Face groans, turning to his main henchmen for an answer he’ll never find.

His yellow teeth are on full display as he gets in your face again, “You, my dear, are the only reason your parents were even included in the deal.” He eyes you, searching for any emotions, but now you’re more focused on the missing pieces. “Only under the stipulations that, A.,” He holds up a finger in front of your left eye, “the organization would kill you when it came time to collect our spoils and, B.,” Another pale finger, this time in front of your right eye, “that you’d be the test subject for our eventual enemies' medicine.” He nods with sinister delight as horror settles across your face, “That’s right. You’ve been a dead girl walking since birth,” He’s up in your face, practically spitting wretchedness through his now gritted teeth. “A pawn.”

Joker looks over his shoulder and nods for someone to come forward.

From the crowd, a skinny man with Joker face paint walks forward with a bulky briefcase and hands it to Joker with his head bowed, “For our vision.” 

Joker takes him in with a disgusted look and brings down a fist at the base of the man’s neck. You can’t help but gasp in alarm as the man seems to go from standing to crumbling to the floor before you can even manage to blink.

“Don’t worry!” Joker pouts with faux concern as he punt-kicks the crumpled man in his side, causing him to roll over at the sheer force with a resounding crack. “He’s just on break! You get it?” He erupts into a fit of laughter, eyes remaining insanely open all the while.

He wiggles his fingers greedily like he’s dipping them into some deplorable cookie jar. The case clicks open, causing you to flinch and tightly squeeze your eyes together.

You stare at the glowing green tubes embedded in the case in front of you.

You glare as you turn to your parents, wondering if they even cared you were about to die, but they’re facing the Joker.

They were the ones who originally created the account and scheme itself, and, hell, they were even the ones to get you to show up here, yet they seem to have forfeited control to the Joker. The way their eyes constantly flick to him and how they verbally defer to him on what to do next, how can they not see they’re the henchmen in their own plot?

They’re the real pawns.

And you? You’re just stuck in the damn crossfire.

“Why two?”

“Easy,” Two Face’s bald eyeball scours around in its socket as he eyes your chest up. “I like a nice, even two.”

Gross.

Since they seem content to spill all this information, you wonder if you can get them to divulge evenmore. You continue your questioning, “What does it do?” 

You’ve been injected before, yes, but you’re after anything that can get you one step ahead of them. 

“Oh, say no more!” Joker dances around Two Face gleefully, cutting him off in the process. The split man appears entirely done with his business partner now, as if he’s seconds away from capping the clown. “We wouldn’t want to spoil the fun, now would we?” His voice becomes menacing as he peaks around the black side of Two Face’s suit.

“Tell you what,” Two Face’s haughty voice seems only to be coming from the smirking side of his mouth. “Heads we inject you, tails we forget about the whole thing.”

You raise a dubious brow at his blatant lie. These fuckers don’t know how many comic pages you’ve poured over since middle school. You’re already familiar with their little schticks and a motherfucker like Two Face isn’t about to fuck you over.

“Heads, I go free,” You nod your head at him, calling him out on his bullshit.

His mouth hitches, squeezing out a growl from the rotted corner, “I’ve already made my deal, accept it or get injected anyway, brat.”

“Well,” You roll your eyes, “that’s not exactly fair.”

He sneers as he rapidly advances on you, “YOU THINK I GIVE A DAMN ABOUT FAIR? YOU THINK LIFE IS FAIR? LOOK AT ME. DOES THIS LOOK FAIR?” He pants rabidly with an animalistic look in his already wild eyes. After a brief moment, he clears his throat, schooling his face as he wipes at imaginary dust on his color-blocked suit. Two Face seems entirely entranced as he flips his coin, holding his hand over it to prevent the result from being revealed. His voice is contrastingly calm and collected when he addresses you again, “How does it feel knowing your family doesn’t care about you?” 

Your parents may know you have Red Hood and Arsenal on your side, but they definitely don’t know you have the entire Bat Family too. Though they remain concealed, every member of the Wayne family stands at the ready on the surrounding warehouse rooftops to take down this horde of goons. 

You smirk when you hear Batman give the ‘stand-by’ over the comms system, “I wouldn’t know.” 

Two Face’s face contorts at your response and, before he can reveal the Heads that lay underneath his hand, you see multiple shadows flitting down from the sky.

From here, it’s a flurry of rapid-paced movement as everyone moves in at once.

Robin’s the one who whisks you off and hands you off to Arsenal. You quickly duck behind the barricade they’ve created for you on a nearby rooftop.

Below, the sounds of war cries, clanking and pained cries ring out into the bay, reminding you of the very real situation at hand.

Robin looks at you, grabbing your hand in his, “I need you to stay safe.” He shakes his head. “It’s selfish, I know, but just say the word and I’ll take you far away from here.” The whites of his mask hide effectively hide his usual tells from you, “It’s what father instructed me to do.”

Your breathing hitches, “You’re not going to?”

He’s going against Batman?

“I know you can handle yourself,” He sighs. “I also know you’d only blame yourself if anything happened to anyone here without you having a way to stop it.” He stares down at your connected hands, “Just promise me you won’t make me regret this.”

“Promise,” You nod at him.

He isn’t able to look at you after this and he releases your hand at once. Robin takes down two men before tackling another group of them back down to the ground, knocking them out with the landing.

When you turn around, Arsenal’s tugging his trucker hat low enough on his head that you’re only barely able to see the wicked glint in his eyes.

“Well, wasn’t that just fuckin’ special,” Arsenal doesn’t try to hide the jealousy lighting up his voice.

Roy… Jealous… of you??? 

That’s fucking rich.

“Oh, come the fuck on,” You roll your eyes as he fires off round after round of rubber bullets into the crowd of goons. “We literally fucked last night.”

He can’t argue with your logic and, instead, reach over for a fist bump. You leave him hanging easily with an unimpressed glare. 

“Damn, tough crowd,” Arsenal switches to his specialty arrows as a few of Two Face’s men get too close. 

You watch in a panic as the men attempt to close in on your barricade from either side of the building. You don’t have to worry for too long, though, as Arsenal wastes no time in firing off shots from his prosthetic. The arrows appear to have heat trackers in them as they trail behind the screaming goons. The burly men trample each other down the stairs in an attempt to flee from the fury of Arsenal’s bionic quiver.

You can’t help but watch with wide eyes, “Woah,” You absentmindedly go to feel up his weapon, regretting it instantly when you feel its radiating heat. “That’s fucking awesome, I can’t even lie.”

“New favorite superhero?” He wiggles his brows at you from under his trucker cap.

You roll your eyes at his shit-eating grin, “Focus.” 

“I’ll take that as a yes, princess.” 

The original barrage of arrows seems to have done their job, but, soon enough more of Two Face’s men break away from Nightwing and Batgirl down below. Once again, your barricade comes under attack as the burly men attempt to breach it again. 

Suddenly, Spoiler swoops in to start chipping away at the back of the wave, mainly Joker’s men, until Red Robin joins her at her side. You watch as they swiftly eye each other up with barely contained amusement at their predicament. Without hesitation, the two of them work in well-practiced coordination to tackle more of the horde heading your way.

The moshpit on the ground steadily thins as each Bat makes their way through the throng of henchmen, taking on multiple men at a time. 

This is good, you think.

Another glance around proves the two Robins are squaring off with Two Face, but still, Red Hood, Batman and the Joker are nowhere to be seen.

That’s… definitely not good.

A quick look behind you proves Arsenal’s already thinking the same thing.

Arsenal screams your name and you duck on instinct, watching in horror as two bullets become embedded in the armor of his stomach. He grunts, then cries out in pain as their weight sinks into his flesh. He makes quick work of the offending gang member before stumbling over to you.

“I can’t,” Arsenal chokes out as he slides down the front of the barricade, stomach clasped in his hands. Thin streams of blood trickle onto his pale arm as they weave syrupy paths in between the spatters of freckles. “I need you, please.”

You gulp, thinking back to how different those exact words sounded coming from him just the night before.

“I’ll protect you,” You nod at him sincerely, taking the Uzi strapped to his thigh in the process. You check the chamber out of habit, keeping a steady eye on the advancing men all the while. “I promise.”

A weak smile tugs at the corner of his chapped lips, “Go get ‘em, princess.”

You sigh, cracking your neck to either side and shaking out your arms as a mixture of Joker and Two Face's henchman clamor over the roof’s edge. They stalk toward you with disgusting, wanton looks in their eyes. 

You pump yourself up one more time, shivering as cold adrenaline settles across your entire body. They’ve got the wrong fucking one.

While they’re still some way off, you play crowd control.

You swiftly scatter the men with bullets, only halting when you need to reload, but quickly realize you don’t have the time. Though you’ve managed to knock out 90% of the hoard, five hulking men remain.

You throw aside the empty gun with disdain as Arsenal fires off quick shots from behind. He manages to distract two of them well enough that you’re able to square up with the other three.

One of them scoffs as he takes in your battle stance, “I didn’t sign up to hit no fuckin’ bitch.”

“This bitch just took out Frankie and Tommy in seconds,” He cracks his knuckles, grinning at you with a smile that's supposed to be terrifying but only causes you to roll your eyes. Henchmen always play into the same stereotypes, it seems, both in comics and in real life. “We’re takin’ her down. Then we’re takin’ her down,” He winks at you. 

The other goons start howling with laughter as they close in on you like a pack of wailing hyenas. 

You’re ready for them as you steel yourself with the skills they’ve taught you that you didn’t have the first time around at the gala. 

Round two motherfuckers. Ding, ding!

Your battle smile works its way onto your face, begging them to fuck with you.

They finally bite your bait and one of the men takes his swing. 

While they’re all large, bulky men, they’re entirely too slow for your speedy form. You dodge the haymaker easily, leveraging his uneven weight against him to send him sprawling straight across to the other edge of the roof. The remaining two men stare after him in shock. 

You use their distracted state to jump up and smash their skulls together. 

You waste no time in spinning around to help Arsenal with the two he’s been distracting. He’s already nearly at the ledge when you blindside the biggest goon by pummeling into him from the side like a bull, effectively knocking him away from Arsenal’s bleeding form. 

The other man is already extremely injured from Arsenal’s arrows and only takes a few swift hits before he’s knocked out.

The pleasant buzz of adrenaline feeds your ravenous hunger for vengeance, but it also blinds you.

You rush to where Roy is slumped over and panting in exertion, “R-” Even through his blood loss, he shoots you a glare and you correct yourself quickly. “I mean, Arsenal,” You shake your head quickly in apology. “Sorry. First day on the job and all, you know?” You try to joke, but the redhead is far too out of it to do anything more than gurgle around a small quirk of his lips.

While you’re tending to Arsenal, the first man you’d sent sprawling across the roof comes back to return the gesture. 

You’re airborne for what feels like a minute, though it can’t have been more than two seconds. 

You groan as your body skids agonizingly across the rooftop. The thick scratches you’ve just gained singe your skin, though the more pressing matter is that you’re currently halfway off of the rooftop. You blink, staring down at the battle below as you land in a way that leaves your head over the ledge. You blink again, realizing just how close you’d come to becoming sidewalk meat. 

Okay, no more looking down.

You hear thunderous steps advancing on you from behind, tussling through Arsenal’s barrage of firepower as they continue your way unhindered.

You pant, groaning as your scraped hands clutch around the ledge.

Now’s not the time to panic and it’s most definitely not the time to…

You look down again.

It’s a mistake.

You whimper, closing your eyes while praying that Arsenal can hold the dude off for just a while longer. 

You need to get back up. 

Though it’s not a technique the Wayne’s taught you, you pathetically wriggle backward like a snake, not even caring how ridiculous it looks so long as it gets the job done. Once you’ve backed up enough, you roll just in time to miss Joker’s henchman lunging to unleash a punch where you’d been trapped mere seconds ago.

“Holy shit,” You breathe with wide eyes as the humongous goon becomes momentarily preoccupied with nursing his mangled fist. “Oh, shit,” You nod rapidly to yourself, scurrying away from his distracted state, tripping in the process. The goon hears your curse and his attention easily shoots your way like a shark sniffing out blood. He’s definitely angry this time as he slowly breaks into a full-on sprint your way. You scramble up on your wobbly feet, heartbeat thrumming in your ears as you race with a worried face back toward Arsenal. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy SHIT!” You screech as you duck and dodge blindly out of the goon’s reach. 

You distance yourself from the far ledge and close the distance between you and the dazed redhead.

When you know you’re about to run into the vigilante, you halt suddenly. Your feet skid backward across the dirty rooftop like a move straight out of the comics as you suddenly spin to face the assailant head-on. 

Your face shines with determination as you lean into your fighting stance. Milliseconds later, you’re ducking before popping back up to unleash an unforgiving fist upside the man’s chin. His jaw, or at least you hope it is, audibly snaps and the once intimidating man crumbles to the floor like a child. 

You drop to your knees before you can think otherwise, mind still completely absorbed in the attack. You gasp, feeling the tickling presence of emptiness meet your back as your calves slip from the ledge of the roof you’ve unknowingly found your way to.

Then, you’re falling, cutting through the signature thick, grotesque smog of Gotham.

“NO!” Roy screams your name with a raw pain you never want to hear again. With the way things are currently going, you won’t have to.

The rushing wind helplessly pushes its transparent strength against your body as you come closer and closer to your demise.

So, this is how you die.

Sorry, Damian, for breaking your promise.

You close your eyes, smiling, ready for whatever comes next.

Jason’s died before and he seems… Well, he’s…

Who are you kidding? The kid’s still a mess, but, you know, now much less so.

It’s still comforting, regardless of Jason’s sometimes hostile disposition, that he has, in fact, died before. 

There’s no flashback of memories, there’s no words of wisdom, there’s no dramatic music. You’re alone with the beating of your heart and the wind.

The mere seconds tick on, feeling like minutes as you fall weightlessly into the unknown.

           |

                                                |

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              |

Instead of splatting onto the pavement below, the wind is sucked out of you as you land hard against... You squirm around to find none other than Batman. He glances down at you, checking you over for injuries before setting you down in a cleared area behind Nightwing.

There’s no time to recollect, well, anything, as you’re forced right back into battle.

“We need to get you out of here,” His eyes and stern tone leave no room for argument, though Nightwing’s quickly overpowered. “You shouldn’t be here in the first place,” He reprimands you, leaving you to shrug sheepishly in response. 

Before Batman can go for the comms, he’s swept back up into battle. His black cape flutters, obstructing you from view as he joins alongside the blur of Nightwing’s signature escrima sticks. 

From in front of you, you as watch Red Hood meets up with Joker in the midst of the sea of swarming bodies. 

This isn’t good… 

Red Hood grows more aggressive with the assailants, allowing his fists to come down harder and kicks to connect with a sickening power. You wonder if he’s even using rubber bullets anymore.

Joker, a few yards ahead of him, prances around, using anything and anyone in sight as weapons. In his fucked up mind, you suppose they’re mere props to further his deranged performance. 

Red Hood continues forward in the same merciless manner, blazing a war path with his usual ruthless demeanor. A particular cruel shot has you scrambling for Batman as Red Hood comes face to face with the man who killed him for the first time since the gala.

You stumble backward, unable to take your eyes off Red Hood’s brute power with sickening amazement. 

This isn’t right, though.

The Joker throws a grenade Red Hood’s way but he just picks it up and throws it back, shooting it in the air just before it’s set to hit the madman. The explosion shakes the ground but is only a brief roadblock as your vengeful lover pistol whips the Joker across both cheeks. You watch as he drags the madman up off the ground by his green hair.

The thunderous explosion is finally enough to get Batman heading Red Hood’s way, though not before their wily opponent can climb into a loading crane. 

Shit. 

Like the battle hasn’t already been fucking hard enough, now we’re bringing heavy machinery into play? 

This is so entirely fucked.

The crane stirs to life, unleashing a terrifying, beast-like roar while the man behind it cackles gleefully. His first move is to lift the cargo box already loaded onto the crane and swings it rapidly over the raging battle. The metal crate thuds over the few henchmen Batman and Nightwing weren’t able to save.

You hide, using the shadows for cover as more cargo boxes are wildly swung around in the air and dropped like bombs on the throngs of people below. The Joker obviously doesn’t care who he hurts, throwing caution to the wind as his men get tangled up in the bloodshed. 

So long as people are getting hurt, Joker’s happy.

Meanwhile, Two Face frowns as he takes in the fight. He searches around for his next move, hightailing it once he sets his sights on a nearby forklift to even the playing field. 

“Yeah,” He snickers, turning the key as the engine roars to life. “Now, this’s more like it.” 

His first target is a distracted Red Robin, who, upon hearing another motor revving, has enough sense to jump up, leaving Two Face to mow down his own men instead. The psychotic man seethes as he throws the forklift into reverse with a displeased grunt. 

Red Robin wobbles unsteadily before he’s thrown to the ground as the machine shifts into drive.

Without hesitation, you leap forward, snatching him out of harm’s way and nearly getting yourself run over in the process.

Red Robin looks down at you, stunned. There’s not much time to dwell, though, as the two goons not under the forklift lunge toward the two of you on the ground. Red Robin rolls the two of you to the left, then right, dodging each punch before popping up and unleashing a flurry of fists. 

Meanwhile, you scramble to your feet and wobble laughably into your stance.

The man quirks an unimpressed brow at you before following suit, “You gonna be a good girl for me, sweetheart?”

You huff. 

Men are so fucking dumb. If he’d just charged you instead of humoring you, you’d’ve been a fucking goner, but no. He wants to play? 

So be it.

Let’s fucking play.

He spits blood from his previous bat family encounters on the ground with a smile before charging at you with his bulky body. You wait until the very last second before simply stepping out of the way, sending him barreling into the brick behind where you’d been.

Now for the boss man.

Two Face seems to have forgotten you and Red Robin and you watch with horror as he bulldozes straight toward a distracted Batman and Red Hood. 

Batman shoves Red Hood out of the way of the metal rods the Joker’s unloading from a drastic height. It seems like he’s getting a better hang of the dangerous machine and it’s definitely not a good thing.

“I’m really starting to like this baby!” He giggles with glee, though it’s effectively cut off by wide eyes as Batman carefully traverses the windshield, bursting in through the opened door. “Uh, oh,” Joker slides across the seat in an attempt to exit through the other door but bumps into a seething Red Hood who blocks the only other exit. “Now, Batsy, can’t we just talk this out over a nice cup o’ joe-?” 

POW!

Even from where you’re standing, you hear the sickening crunch of the Joker’s now broken face. You watch as Batman takes the key to the machine and bends the metal with his bare hands to prevent further usage.

Red Robin sees Two Face getting closer to his family and makes a mad dash for the duo. He doesn’t slow any as he grabs Nightwing by the forearm to drag him over to put a stop to the father-son quarrel, “Back me up!” 

Nightwing quickly falls into step with him, “Right behind you.”

They throw Two Face from the driver's seat and lunge out of its path, leaving the forklift to crash into a stack of metal rods. The heavy metal clatters and tumbles to the ground with a roaring might and your heart stops when you realize you’re directly in the line of fire.

A flash of red and you’re momentarily weightless for the second time tonight. A quick look to the side proves Red Hood’s ditched the Joker to come to your rescue. You’re rendered speechless as he uncharacteristically, not to mention roughly, drops you back down to the ground to face Batman.

“How dare you stop me from delivering justice when this is the carnage he still leaves behind?” You can practically hear the pain behind his robotic impediment. When Red Hood socks Batman, you can practically feel the pain as his heavy fist lands in between the flexible joints between his armor.

Batman grunts at the contact, parrying without a second thought, “Justice or vengeance?” 

Red Robin seems nervous as he aids Nightwing in holding their brother back. Red Hood easily overpowers them, throwing the two of them off of his muscular body like rag dolls.

Red Hood gets in his father’s face and although you can’t see or hear any of the emotion, his actions ooze it. “Are they not the same?”

This is not a man you recognize, well, not since first meeting him, at least.

You can’t just sit by and watch him throw away all the progress he’s made over the years in the heat of the moment. You need to stop this before it escalates further and you all lose sight of the actual mission: getting everyone in the family out of here alive.

You can’t lie. Earlier on the rooftop, you'd experience the same blinding rage. Seeing Jason like this makes you realize that, no, they’re not the same.

“Gregor Samsa!”

His red helmet snaps toward you and you don’t waste a minute further as you come to his side. 

Batgirl and Spoiler are covering you guys. Meanwhile, Nightwing and Red Robin hesitate, not knowing whether to intervene in family affairs again just yet or not. 

“Kafka?” His warbled voice sounds confused even through the modulator. “The fuck does the book Metamorphosis have to do with anything?”

Batman’s eyes shift to you as he continues to let Red Hood hold him up by his chest plate.

“I understand your pain, love,” You scramble for what to say as everyone’s eyes land on you after the pet name. “No matter how much you grow your calloused exterior, you will always be that ostracized little boy. You don’t want vengeance like this.” 

“Fuck YOU!” He screams, causing your eyes to go wide.

Red Hood front kicks his father in the stomach, sending him sprawling into a rapid pack of henchmen. He then spatters the men with rubber bullets before grabbing Batman by the cape, thrashing him across the ground like a loose whip. 

You’re seconds from accidentally screaming out his actual name in horror. 

It’s looking bad and you know you need to reach him before it’s too late. 

Batgirl and Nightwing have taken to warding off henchmen while Spoiler leaps from place to place, trying to knock down as many of the goons who are waking back up as she can, but everyone’s steadily slowing down.

“YOU WANT ACCEPTANCE. You want LOVE.” You can’t help but shout again, “AND YOU HAVE IT. All around you, look,” You motion to each member of the bat family from wherever they are in the battle and he easily follows the action. “You and I owe that monster nothing, not even revenge,” You sigh as the weight of your words fully settles over you, knowing it’s true. “It’s not worth it.” 

He glances at his father once more before dropping his limp body and storming up to you. 

Even when he’s mad and terrifying, he can’t help but be dramatic. 

“So, what?” He gets right up in your face and looks down at you. It’s almost like he expects you to back up, but you don’t. You hold your ground and glare right back up at his dumbass. “We lock him up; he escapes, he kills and tortures again. Is that what you want?” 

It’s pointed at you and you know it.

“Not that this isn’t an amazing, touching moment,” Nightwing pants as he backflips and kicks two men upside the face at the same time, “but we kinda need some backup.” Numerous goons and Two Face lurk menacingly closer to your worn-out group. The assailants charge forward with war cries and the hero looks back towards his family, “Like, right now would be good.” He doesn’t even need to turn around to know to when to flip out of the way. 

Batman gets to his feet, catching you off guard. It’s enough distraction that Nightwing’s able to chuck you over his shoulder and hightail it away from the action.

“What are you DOING?!” You beat your fists against Nightwing’s back as you watch your loved ones get overpowered by the surprise attack. “PUT ME DOWN,” You wail, kicking at his firm stomach before leaning right next to his ear with a terrifying, low growl. “Dick motherfucking Grayson, you take me back there THIS FUCKING INSTANT.” Your gritted whisper steadily ascends throughout your sentence until it reaches a shrill screech.

You begin to kick again until he finally does put you down.

“Jesus, fuck kid,” He leans over like he’s going to puke all while flipping you off.

You have half a mind to break his fucking finger while he’s busy rubbing at the ear you screamed into, but you’re more preoccupied with getting back to Red Hood. Ten steps forward and you realize this is going to be a harder challenge than you’d previously thought.

Your brain buzzes numbly, feeling overwhelmed by the constant onslaught of everything. Through the buzz, you hardly remember thinking about anything at all other than keep moving. 

So, here you are. On the ground, embedded in battle, dodging attacks, hoping Arsenal is still safe on the roof and not, you know, dead. All while knowing that you’ve gone and put Nightwing out of commission by spazzing when he was only trying to save you.

You’re effectively surrounded until said hero backflips over the group of men’s heads, knocking a few of them out with his sticks along the way. 

You hustle to his side, circling back to back like you had when you sparred with Damian and him in the manor. Back to back with Nightwing, you feel all those sparring sessions smack back into your brain. 

He glances over his shoulder and down at you, “You ready to kick some ass?” 

You give him an apologetic smile, “I promise not to kick you this time.”

He snorts as the men close in, “Good thinking.”

You waste no more time as you unleash the flips and twists he’d taught you all those years ago. 

You hope to fuck that your kicks to his stomach didn’t set him back too much because you need his full effort behind you. Especially when all the exertion’s gone and torn open your stab wound. The pain radiating from it is becoming increasingly harder to ignore.

The goons you’ve got talk to fucking much and it’s driving you crazy. Their words and hollers only spur you on further, knocking the majority of them down with the other men in less than a minute. 

You’re startled when Nightwing suddenly calls out to you, “Switch!”

Your body moves on instinct.

The new group of men have been completely roughed up by Nightwing and all they need is a few more hits each before they’re out. 

Easy, right?

The first two take you on at once, while the third waits eagerly on the sidelines, screaming and chanting all the while to throw you off. You don’t let it work. 

Once again, you’re completely focused as they make to charge you but you duck and roll out of the way at the last minute. You watch from the ground as they barrel head-first into each other and slump in a pile to the ground. 

Your stab wound has already begun to leak through your shirt. The stabbing pain has become so familiar that it’s merely becomes another numbing sensation added on to your overwhelmed body.

That just leaves…

“Well, well, well,” The balding henchman advances on you. You wobble to your feet, hand covering your wound in the process. “You have moves, I’ll give you that.” He eyes you up and down.

You try to steady your panting breath, but you can’t seem to get enough oxygen into your aching lungs, no matter how hard you try. Nightwing’s grunts and witty retorts sound somewhere in the back of your mind, but a high-pitched ringing takes over the majority of your hearing. 

You’re shutting down and you know it.

A static settles over your body, humming with your declining energy and adrenaline. Now’s not the time to give in to it just yet, though. 

“You wanna fuckin’ fight, ‘er wha?” You tilt your head at him, albeit unsteadily, with your words starting to slur. You spit, tasting metallic ooze as you do.  

You hate how the weight of your head seems to be too much for your neck to support at the moment, but, hey, work with what you got, right?

He advances on you without another word. His strong fists are calloused and they graze your slowed movements with a heavy, unignorable edge. One hit from him will definitely be enough to knock you out if you’re not careful.

He scoffs at your unconventional stance and, in the same breath, brings down his fist in the center of your chest. The wind is painfully knocked out of you even after having stepped partially out of the way of the hit, proving your earlier point true- you need to avoid his hits, or you’re fucked.

You shake your head, unleashing a front kick, then a roundhouse to create more space between the two of you. Based on his smirk, he seems largely unfazed by your attacks and charges forward, ruining whatever measly distance you’d gained. 

You don’t have the will to try any flips, nor do you have the confidence that any of them will land, leaving you with whatever fumes of strength you have remaining.

Your head spins as you dodge a haymaker thrown toward your stomach and retaliate with a fist of your own. You have no time to celebrate the broken nose you’ve just given him before he’s coming back for more.

You can’t keep going like this. 

Whereas your energy leaks to the ground like a broken spigot, his radiates like a raging nuclear bomb that’s ready to envelop you whole.

Another hit, another parry; more energy gone.

You’re comically slow at this point, but he’s not going any easier on you, as evidenced by his kick that nearly costs you your balance.

“Nigh,” You pant, “Nigh-wing,” You cough, heaving blood in the process. You watch, hypnotized, as it spills onto the last clean part of your shirt. What hit caused it? You have no idea only that, holy shit, it’s a lot of blood.

It’s pathetic and the volume of your dying voice is only loud enough for you and the goon to hear.

“I said you have moves, but,” You look up just in time to get punched again with the same ferocity, “it’s clear that you’re out of them.” His kick lands right smack on your stitched wound.  

You throw your head back and howl as the pain stabs you to your core, “FUCK!” 

You’re thrown back by the force and watch as a sinister grin finds its way across his face, “I’m gonna enjoy this a little too much.” He winks and wastes no time straddling you. He puts an intolerable amount of pressure on the stitches that remain intact. You nearly puke when the rest of them burst apart at his action. “Good thing church is tomorrow, yeah?” He breathes a chuckle across your squirming form.

You ignore his odd statement in favor of lucidly squirming, but it’s in vain.

Nightwing calls out your name, but he’s got five assailants on him who show no signs of slowing.

You whimper and struggle against the man, but the movement quickly becomes unbearable. Your eyes go crossed in absolute agony when the henchman leans forward again. The sickly pressure builds until a blood-curdling scream unleashes from the depths of your being.

You black out and wake up in thin yet sturdy arms.

“The-, the fuggin’,” You slur through the pain and blood loss, “Ztitchezz.”

“I know,” Robin’s familiar voice coos in a calming manner. 

You’re set down somewhere relatively quiet, all things considered, though you’ve yet to fully open your eyes since being on the ground. 

“What’s it looking like?” That’s Nightwing. At least you didn’t leave him for dead like you did Roy.

“Nightwing, Arsenal needs back up on the roof over there.” 

Your eyes blearily blink open, blinking through the blurred haze to see Arsenal slumped behind the barrier, giving it his all. It’s obvious, even through your blood loss, that he doesn’t have much left to give due to his own blood loss.

“Got it, baby bird.” Nightwing gives him a tiny salute before somersaulting across the large space between the warehouse rooftops to race to Arsenal’s aide.

Once he’s gone, Robin walks over to where you slowly push yourself into a standing position.

“What are you doing?” Robin hisses as he rushes over to support you, “Stay down and out of sight. I should’ve taken you away from here as soon as everything went to shit. You have no business being here.” It seems like he’s repeating what Bruce told him earlier as he grumbles and tugs at his hair, “I think I messed up,” You don’t know if it’s your half-delirious state or if Damian’s always been this indecisive, but you watch him pace back and forth. He comes to a halt in front of you as you regain as much of your bearings as you can, “We’re leaving.”

First, Dick rips you away from Jason and now Damian wants you to abandon Roy?

Not happening.

No way in hell.

“Fuggin’ delusional,” You flick his nose and saunter, well, at least you want it to look like a saunter, to the edge, “‘F you thing I’m leavin’ah,” You wince at a particular tug of pain, “without them.”

“You’ll get yourself killed, you suicidal dumbass,” He spits in your face, “You’ll only bring us down. Your training means nothing.”

You thought you’d already felt the worst possible pain imaginable, but no. His words cut deeper into you than any sais ever could. You can’t help but remember this same sinking feeling when Jason and Roy gave you the SOS bracelet, but, hey, look how many times that actually did come in handy.

They’re all only trying to protect you, you realize, in the only way they know how, but it’s not going to work. You’re already too involved with the plan being too far in.

You smack yourself a few times on the cheeks, bouncing unsteadily from foot to foot and wincing all the while. You steel yourself for one final battle as you hurry to milk any and all of the few remaining dregs of adrenaline within yourself.

“You said it yourself. I can’t just sit by while my family gets hurt on my behalf,” Your slur is mostly gone and you use it as an opportunity to plead your case. “You’d have no time to take me anywhere and, even up here, I’m a sitting duck,” You duck as a stray bullet whizzes past the two of you as if to cement your point further. “Whether it be ricochet, blood loss, or suicidal tendencies, I really don’t give a fuck,” Your eyes burn into his. “You’ll have to kill me right here and now before I let you keep me away from the men I love.”

There’s a slight hitch in his breath. 

He eyes you warily as you slouch into a starting stance, albeit a weak one.

“I won’t fight you.”

“We’re wasting TIME, D-ROBIN!” Your desperate pleas fall on deaf ears. “Training means nothing, sure, but will is everything,” You spit his words back at him from all those years ago. “The will to act,” Your breathing is shallow as you face your friend down. “Well, I’m here and I’m ready to act.”

He glares at the near slip-up and swiftly approaches you, “You’re no fucking hero,” Your name hisses out between the cracks of his gritted teeth. “If I have to knock you out to get you to saftey, I will,” He closes the remaining space with ease and whispers the next part, “and I will do it all without hesitation.”

“Don’t make me do this, Dami,” You can’t help that their alias’ and their actual names have become jumbled in your pain-ridden brain as you slip up again. “‘M gonna make it easy. Turn away and let me go.”

His mouth shifts as he seems to fight off tears angrily, “Yeah?”

You know he’s not going to let you. At the very least, you had to give him the out.

You nod, “Yeah.”

Even in your slowed state, you know the hit is coming before he can even pull the punch. 

You reach expectantly for his right arm, using your strength and his light weight to send him sprawling off the rooftop when the inevitable hit comes. 

You know you don’t have long before he catches his bearings and swings back up with his grappling hook.

You shake your body off as you come to the ledge. 

Nightwing made the daunting distance between the rooftops look easy, though, up close, it seems impossible. You know Robin’s hot on your trail and also that, if you don’t hurry the fuck up, you’ll be noticed and shot.

So, with the pressure mounting, you fly.  

Kinda.

“OMPF!” Your body jerks against the side of the opposite building, smacking your wound against the brick with each reverberation. 

You don’t know how much attention you’ve drawn to yourself, but you can hear Damian behind you. You will not go gently. Your face scrunches up in a combination of pain, concentration and pure exertion as you lift yourself onto your forearms.

From here, you find yourself behind Arsenal’s barrier. He grunts as he uses his draining strength to tug you up to where the final stand is taking place. Below is filled with bodies, be they passed out or dead, littering the dock like leaves in the fall night. 

Red Hood shakes the ground with his landing when he joins seconds later with his guns ablaze. His dual handguns light up the rooftop with a barrage of rubber bullets that none of the goons are able to dodge.

“Rubber bullets?” The Joker cackles as Batman socks him in the stomach hard enough to send spit sprawling into the air,  “You’re getting soft on us, Hood!”

Red Hood wastes no time, swooping in to tug the Joker away from Batman. Batman makes to go after them but is quickly subdued by the last wave of henchmen that remain.

“Yeah? Not you, though,” His modulated voice is discernibly gritted as he unloads the rubber bullets and replaces them with ones that clink loudly into his gloved hands. “No, you get the fun ones.”

Your eyes whip over to him at his statement. 

After that touching speech, you still haven’t managed to get through to him?

“Oh, goody!” Joker claps gleefully, laughing when Red Hood unleashes haymaker after haymaker to his face. Each punch stains the vigilante’s leather gloves with an increasing amount of the lunatic’s face paint.

It’s horrid to watch, so you use it as a distraction while you finish pulling yourself up.

Roy’s- head in the game, you berate yourself- Arsenal’s worried eyes are the only ones to spot you so far.  He scrambles to kneel. His entire arm is painted red while fresh blood continues to ooze from the two bullet holes. “Hood, stop,” Arsenal’s weakened, breathy pleas fall on deaf ears.

Red Hood looks around rapidly as he becomes overpowered by a new swarm of Joker’s men. 

In his haste, he nearly puts a bullet in you.

You duck and roll out of the way with a pained groan. 

Now everyone notices your presence.

Not good, not good.

You shuffle backward away from the men who are significantly closer to you than any of the vigilantes.

There’s a brief moment of pause before chaos, once again, ensues and you become lost in the madness.

In the midst of Nightwing, Red Hood and Batman fighting off the swarms of goons, Joker manages to sneak up on you. You can’t even manage a  scream before he covers your mouth and drags you closer and closer to the edge, snickering getting louder with each step. 

When you finally come to the edge, you don’t have a chance to look back to see if anyone’s noticed when he does the unthinkable. Though, when it comes to the Joker, is it really unthinkable?

“I do love a good reunion!” He swings you around aggressively, “Now tell me- last time did you scream like this?” You try to hold in the urge as he tips you over the edge of the roof, but it’s in vain. A whimper, then a screech, unleashes from your throat. “Or like this?” He swivels you around and punches you square in the jaw. A pained cry escapes at the contact, much to your dismay. “No? Maybe more like this!“ His voice darkens dramatically as he brings a knife to your throat. “You knew this was going to happen sooner or later! It’s called parallelism, darling.” His words are rushed with uncanny glee, like he can’t wait to get to whatever horrors that are coming next.

Red Hood’s hulking form is on him in an instant, charging across the rooftop to halt right behind his lanky form. 

The way Red Hood’s holding his gun against the greasy, green hair on his head, you’re nearly sure he’s going to shoot right then and there, regardless of you falling or not. You know what this monster did to the one you loved, what he’s done to you and your found family. You, admittedly, love Jason and hate to see how the hurt this madman’s inflicted has lingered year after year, but this isn’t the right way. 

Batman voices the same thing.

“Remember who your real enemies are,” Batman nods his head at a conflicted-looking Red Hood as he stares down at his gun. He hesitates, looking from you to Arsenal, then back down at the chuckling clown.

Surveying the slowing battle, you see that Robin has your parents rounded up and Batgirl and Spoiler have Two Face at a standstill. Most of the gang members have already been knocked out, with the rest either fleeing or tied up, aside from a few still kicking both metaphorically and literally.

“Oh, enemies,” Joker drawls. “They’re like ex-girlfriends. I’ve got too many, HA!” He looks around at everyone’s serious faces, “Nothing? Really?” His face drops. “It’s all business with the lot of you, all about the money,” He spats with an exaggerated disgusted face. “What happened to the theatrics? That certain, je nais se quoi everyone nowadays seems to lack.”

“Shut up and help me, clown,” Two Face swings at Spoiler, attempting to flee to the roof, but she dodges and uses his force against him. He stumbles and ultimately falls back to the ground. “You do want your money, right?” He calls up to the madman. 

Joker looks at Two Face and your parents as he begins to cackle. He continues to hold the knife but uses the other to pull a gun. To your shock, it’s not trained on you but rather trained on his accomplices. He giggles so quietly you nearly think it’s a cough.

“Yes, it’s true, this started out as a way to get money, but that’s sooooo boring!” He drawls and Red Hood clicks his safety off. “I have a new… business,” He flounders his hand before producing, “associate, of sorts as it were. We share the same grandeur vision that this organization lacks. You see, a serum to kill off Gotham’s wealthiest families isn’t large scale enough for me, no. It’s just not effective for my type of work. Though, if you ask me,” He gets up close to you, “the potency, though ineffectually non-lethal, seemed just right the way you squealed,” He giggles gleefully, then stops abruptly, looking at you with wide, animalistic eyes, “So I ditched the old and got with the new!” He cackles as his remaining men suit up in gas masks. Two Faces men scramble, looking around for any sort of guidance but find none. You look and see Joker putting on his own mask, covered with a wicked smile dripping across its front, “Aw, shucks. Just for old time's sake, shall we?” 

Your brows knit together with worry as the knife is replaced by two needles wedged into your arm. You struggle, screaming all while ripping your arm from his hold, but it’s too late. Joker’s henchmen surround you, distracting Red Hood from Joker, but Arsenal’s already on his way for backup.

“What?” You feel the liquid coursing familiarly through your veins as it takes hold of you, washing across your entire body. “What did you do to me?” 

“I haven’t done anything yet. Just you wait.” He giggles in response, “Oh, Batman!” He calls, standing suddenly. You start to feel the injection take hold on you but are still able to hear an approaching helicopter. Already, your world becomes hazy as the familiar feeling courses through your veins with a sinister new twist. “Plans are so 2008, wouldn’t you say? But my new one might just have to wait! Oh, how I do love a sequel!” A rope ladder snaps down and Joker takes hold of it.

Over your comms, you hear Batman ordering everyone out.

In your steadily increasing haze, Red Hood and Arsenal come to your rescue.

He hums a jolly rendition of jingle bells loudly as the remaining Two Face henchmen on the ground and your parents succumb to the gas that spills in from the cargo bay. The chopper hangs low in the cloudy sky for a moment more as the Joker’s merry screeches echo across your ringing ears before the helicopter disappears into the twinkling smog of Gotham’s night sky, “And the Joker got awaaay!” 

His maniacal laughter crackles like lightning in the calming chaos of the night until he’s no more than a distant rumble in your fear-clouded vision.

Even though he’s physically left, the injections have you seeing renditions of him all around. From Robin Joker, to Arsenal Joker all the way to, quite honestly, the most terrifying one- a Joker-fied Batman. 

You desperately scurry to get away from the advancing group of Jokers, all wearing mangled versions of the Bat mantle. 

Your breath gets knocked out of you. You don’t even realize that you’ve fallen to the ground as distorted images of the Joker’s hands and the glaring lights of the city below suddenly overtake your sight. Through the haze, you vaguely note a scrawny person with long hair beside you(?) in the passenger seat, but you can’t be sure when your senses are still so warped. 

You shake your head and will the visions away to focus on the danger right in front of you. 

Joker’s horrifying smile is smacked across Nightwing’s semi-familiar outfit as he advances on you with hands held in surrender, but all you can hear is that horrid cackling. 

The group of Jokers, though howling, give you space. 

You scoot backward further with gasping, shallow breaths that only serve to suffocate you further. You start to shake, arching in pain when your back settles against cool brick. 

“Make it stop, please,” You cry weakly as visions continue to wrack over your mind, “PLEASE!” You scream until your voice is nearly raw.

Two Jokers remove their masks as they slowly approach your frightened form. You struggle to regain your breath as you fight off the toxin and prepare to fight off these fuckers too. That is until their faces slowly morph from contorted grins to the concerned faces of the men you love.

“It’s over,” They all try to assure you, but you just keep shaking your head in your hands. 

Your rocking ceases when they put their arms around you.

Though you’re reveling in their comforting contact, you could scoff at their naivety. How can they not see? How can they not SEE???

You pant, welcoming the cool rain as it begins to spill from to sky and onto your feverish face. The edge of the toxin is like an unescapable weighted blanket during a heat wave: relentlessly debilitating.

The drizzle picks up into a downpour, effectively dispersing the rest of the toxin

“No,” You manage as rain trickles down your parted lips, “it’s only the beginning.” 

You weakly pull Roy and Jason in to kiss them one after the other in front of all the Jokers before abruptly passing out. 

A/N: another one of my faves to write! did i get you w the falling scene?? lemme know!

Here’s the Spotify link again!

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Part 2 of the "Hydra took over SHIELD before Steve came out of the ice" concept! This is in the back of my head as one of the concepts that's likely to turn into a full story, but I know better than to make any promises. (Note: I use the 2008 date from the BW deleted scenes for Natasha's defection.)

This sequence immediately follows the previous sequence.

About 5.3K below the break.

*****

Alexander Pierce had come to tell Peggy personally the day after he had forced Nick Fury out of SHIELD.   At that point Howard’s son had been dead for six months, killed in an industrial accident that most newspapers had written off as the tragic but natural outcome of Tony Stark’s increasingly erratic behavior.  Howard had kept the two halves of his life so separate that Peggy could count on one hand the number of times she had actually met Tony Stark, even considering the years when he had still been in nappies.  She hadn’t gone to the elaborate funeral that Obadiah Stane had thrown for his erstwhile employer.

Pierce she had known quite well from his SHIELD days, before he had moved over to the State Department and later to the World Security Council.  He had been quiet and apologetic, with barely concealed anger underlying his words and a couple of SHIELD agents posted at the door to keep anyone from overhearing their conversation.

“Nick got away,” he told her after he had given her the Cliff’s Notes of the situation over at SHIELD – much worse than he had given out, Peggy had found out later, since there were still active sieges going on at half a dozen SHIELD stations worldwide even while he had been sitting in her room drinking tea.  “We’re doing what we can to find him, but cleaning up SHIELD is going to take priority.  Besides, he knows the entire playbook – he wrote the playbook, at least the parts of it that you and Howard Stark didn’t write.”

“You’re absolutely certain?” Peggy had asked.  “Turning us against each other is the sort of thing our enemies have tried in the past –”

Pierce had put down his teacup to gesture one-handed at the sling on his left arm.  “I got this when he shot me.  Personally.”  He picked up his teacup again.  “I wish I had any doubt at all.”

Peggy nodded slowly.  “Will you be all right?”

He smiled a little.  “Flesh wound.  It will take us months – probably years – to untangle all the damage he and his people have done.  We’re not sure yet how deep it goes.  I’m sure you can imagine the calls I’m getting right now.”

“Certainly an eventful start to a new administration,” Peggy observed; President Obama had taken office barely a month previously.

Pierce winced.  “The White House is responsible for a fair number of those calls.”  He glanced over at the door, then said, “I’m going to leave a protective detail here for you.  Right now Nick’s acting erratically and there’s a chance that he might come after you.  A small chance,” he hastened to assure her, “but a chance nevertheless.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Peggy said.

“You’ll hardly know they’re here,” Pierce said.  “Madame Director –”

“It’s been Peggy for years, Alex.”

He smiled again.  “Peggy.  It’s just until we catch Nick and his people.  Better safe than sorry, that’s what you taught me, remember?”  He hesitated a little, and Peggy might have passed the better part of her century, but she could still tell when he was acting.  Whatever he was going to say next, he had come here expecting to tell her.

“Spit it out,” she instructed him.  “It can’t be worse than anything else you’ve just told me.”

Pierce sighed. “Like I said, we’re still digging and will be for a while, but – it looks like Nick might have been involved in the Stark murder.  Howard, not Tony, I mean.”

Peggy actually stopped breathing for a moment, then started coughing.  Pierce jumped to help her, getting her a glass of water instead of more tea.  She waved him off until she had gotten her breath back, then croaked, “You’re sure?”

“No,” Pierce said, watching her.  “But it’s looking that way right now.  This didn’t start recently and it didn’t start when he became director of SHIELD.  He’s been at this a long time.  A regular Philby.”

Yes, Peggy had thought later, after Nick Fury had finally gotten in to see her without being shot or arrested.  A regular Kim Philby.  Only Pierce had been talking about himself, not Nick Fury.

After more than three years she knew her security detail quite well, since Pierce didn’t rotate them.  That was probably for Peggy’s benefit more than theirs; the more familiar with them she was the less she would suspect them of anything, like, for instance, being Hydra.  She was fairly certain that they were all Hydra; it wasn’t to Nick’s benefit to waste any of his SHIELD loyalists on her, not when every single one of them was needed in the Triskelion or at one of the satellite SHIELD stations.

She waited a full twenty-four hours after Nick had left before she got out her photo albums, trying not think about what he had said in the meantime.  There was nothing suspicious about that, she told herself; it was an old woman’s prerogative to dwell on her past if that was what she wanted to do.

There weren’t many photographs from the war – not hers, anyway.  She had a few from Bletchley, one from SOE, and a dozen or so from the SSR.  None of the SSR photographs in her album had copies in SHIELD’s files or anywhere else; Peggy thought that she was owed the privacy of her own memory, at least for a few more years.  After that, it would be up to Sharon to decide what to do with them.

They had all been so young, she thought, turning pages slowly.  It had been a lifetime ago, almost three-quarters of a century, and Peggy had buried everyone in those photos except for the ones who had never had graves – and who hadn’t died at all, as it turned out.

Steve’s alive, Peggy told herself, staring at a photograph of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes sharing a bottle of Coke and laughing, both of them looking impossibly young.  Nick had told her about Barnes a few years ago and that had been hard enough, even though Peggy had never had much to do with Barnes.  Steve’s alive, and Hydra has him.  They’ve had him for the last six months.

Peggy wished she didn’t know exactly what Alexander Pierce had done once he had made the decision to use sex with Steve.  She had done it herself – sat at her desk with a stack of personnel files, trying to determine which SHIELD agent would have the most appeal for their target.  It wasn’t just about looks, though looks helped.

An operator, she thought.  Someone physically capable, even if there was no one else who could go toe to toe with Captain America for more than a minute or two.  That she would be beautiful went without question.  Probably not someone who physically resembled Peggy herself, which meant that it wasn’t Sharon; that was something of a relief to Peggy.  Pierce was too subtle to be so heavy-handed.  Someone who wasn’t going to be overly-impressed by Captain America; Steve had never had much patience for that.  Someone with a sense of humor who could keep up with him intellectually.  Maybe a veteran, but maybe not.

And most importantly, someone whom Pierce thought was willing to sleep with Captain America for Hydra.

*

She was still thinking about that a week later when one of Pierce’s agents on her security detail knocked on her door.  The woman came in after Peggy had called her agreement, still holding her mobile phone.

“Madame Director, I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said.  “There’s been an incident at the Triskelion and Director Pierce would like to take you into protective custody for the time being.”

“What kind of incident?” Peggy asked, startled.

“Agents were killed,” said the Hydra agent.  “That’s all I know, ma’am, I’m sorry.  Let me help you pack a bag; Sarah’s bringing around the car.”

“Well, that’s dreadful, but I don’t see what it has to do with me,” Peggy said, hoping that her poker face could still hide an adrenaline spike.  The only reason she could think of for Pierce to want her moved was that something had happened with Steve.  Nick got him out.

“There might be some threat, ma’am,” the agent said apologetically.  “Where do you keep your bags, ma’am?”

Since she searched Peggy’s room regularly, she knew perfectly well, but Peggy directed her anyway.  She packed up her jewelry and her photographs while the agent packed her clothes; Peggy knew Nick well enough to guess that he had his own agents watching the home and they would be moving in at any moment.  Once they took her, she wouldn’t be coming back; better that Hydra do her packing for her than waste time making Nick’s SHIELD loyalists do it.

“I need my pictures,” she told the agent, who nodded in understanding and wrapped the framed photographs carefully in several scarves before closing the suitcase lid on them.  She helped Peggy into her coat and turned towards the door, where the man who had just come quietly in promptly tazed her.

“Phil Coulson, Madame Director,” he said, catching the Hydra agent and lowering her to the floor.  “Nick sent me; Abe’s boy is out of the hospital and Nick thought it would cheer him up if you came to visit.  Is this everything?” he added, looking at her suitcase.  “I hate packing.”

“That’s everything,” Peggy said, amused.  “Is Abe’s boy all right?  Our friend told me there was some trouble with the surgery.”

“He’s sleeping now, but he’ll be all right,” Coulson said, and Peggy felt a knot of unease loosen in her chest. “Not to hurry you, but we’ve only got a fifteen minute window.”

He bundled Peggy and her bags out of the home and into a waiting a car, which was driven by an Asian woman who looked vaguely familiar.  At the other end of the block, two identical cars turned out of a shaded driveway and peeled off in opposite directions; through the window Peggy saw that they had the same license plate as the car she was in.  She sat quietly in the back with Coulson for another twenty minutes of circuitous driving until the Asian woman said, “I think we’re clear.  Melinda May, Madame Director.”

“Pleasure,” Peggy said, then looked at Coulson. “Is Steve – Captain Rogers – really all right?  Give me a situation report.”  She hesitated.  “This is about Captain Rogers, isn’t it?”

“Last I heard,” Coulson said.  “I don’t know much; Director Fury can tell you more when we reach headquarters.”

“Tell me what you do know,” Peggy ordered.

Coulson exchanged a look with May in the rearview mirror, then said, “Sometime in the last five hours, Captain Rogers killed the scientist Hydra’s had working on – on him, along with some STRIKE agents.  The agent Pierce and Sitwell have had handling him is one of ours; she was meeting with Fury today while Captain Rogers was supposed to be in the lab.  Captain Rogers broke out of the Triskelion and trailed her to the meet, where he disabled another half-dozen SHIELD agents – ours, this time.  He apparently had a nice conversation with Fury before Hydra realized he was gone and activated his governor implant.  That was about half an hour ago.  Last I heard he was going into emergency surgery to remove the implant.”

“Pierce put a governor implant in Steve?” Peggy said, shocked and then annoyed with herself for being shocked.  Of course Alexander Pierce would have put a governor implant in Steve Rogers.  “Of course he did.  Steve – Captain Rogers – broke himself out?  What’s been happening in there?  What have they been doing to him?”

Coulson just shook his head.

*

Nick told her more once they had arrived at the SHIELD black site.  Peggy had no idea where he and his SHIELD loyalists had been hiding out for the past three years, but since they were still running around, apparently Pierce didn’t know either.

“Rogers wiped the computers in the lab, stole the data, and set a time-delayed explosive on his way out,” he informed her.  “The Triskelion’s on high alert right now, so none of our people still inside have been able to tell us exactly how much Hydra knows or if they managed to save any of the data or biological samples.  We have to assume they’ve got some of it stored off-site.  A good kill on Nagel,” he added. “Rogers is still under and can’t tell us what sent him over the edge today, but from everything I know about Nagel he’s a nasty piece of work.  Romanoff says he did a number on Rogers while they were at the Triskelion; he’s been working on him ever since he came out of the ice.”

“Wilfred Nagel?” Peggy said. “I recognize that name –”

“Yeah, he’s a son of a bitch.  When Romanoff – my agent – found out what he was doing to Rogers she told us we had to exfil him first chance we got.  That was a couple weeks ago.”

Peggy took a deep breath. “What was he doing to Captain Rogers?”

“Testing his enhanced healing, among other things.  Romanoff said Rogers was terrified of him.”

“Steve’s not afraid of anything,” Peggy said reflexively, but she knew from Nick’s expression and the gentle tone in his voice that it was the truth.  She also knew that “testing his enhanced healing” was a polite way to say “torture,” though from what she knew about Dr. Nagel he probably hadn’t even thought about that.  He would have been one of Arnim Zola’s protegees if Zola had lived longer.  She shut her eyes, breathing hard, before she looked at Nick again and said, “Where is he now?”

“Just came out of surgery.”

“I want to see him.”

Nick nodded.  He took her down several hallways to a makeshift but very clean series of rooms being used as a medical bay, stopping her in a room with a large window into a second room.  Beyond it, Peggy could see a woman sitting by a hospital bed.  She was young and very pretty, currently engaged in braiding her curling red hair into a thick plait.  Most of her attention seemed to be fixed on the man sleeping beside her.

It was Steve.

He looked like Steve, Peggy thought with a shock.  He looked like the Steve Rogers who lived only in her memory and her photographs, like he hadn’t aged a day in sixty-seven years of Sleeping Beauty slumber.  The shield was propped up at the foot of the bed.

Peggy took a deep breath, her heart hammering.  She pressed her hand to her chest in an attempt to calm herself down, then made herself ask, “Is that her?”

“Natasha Romanoff,” Nick said.  “Alexander Pierce’s handpicked choice to handle Captain America and fortunately one of our agents; she would have been my choice too.”  He hesitated for an instant, then went on, “You’re not going to like this part.  She’s ex-SVR, Red Room-trained; defected in ’08, the same week that the fiasco at Stark went down.”

He was right; Peggy didn’t like it.  She was a little shocked that Steve evidently had.  “Red Room?” she repeated, focusing on that.  “I thought the program had been shut down in 1993, 1994, not long after the Soviet Union met its ignominious end.  That girl’s, what, twenty-five?  Twenty-six?”

“Twenty-seven, same age as Rogers, give or take seven decades and a few years.” Nick shook his head. “The Red Room just went underground.  Romanoff killed the guy running it when she left.”  The corner of his mouth quirked a little. “So she and Rogers have got that in common.”

“Pierce isn’t dead, is he?” Peggy said, startled.

“Not that I’ve heard, but I doubt he’s going to last much longer,” Nick said.  His fingers flexed a little, like he was thinking about wrapping them around Alexander Pierce’s neck.  “This is it, Peggy, I can feel it.  This is how they lose and we win.”

*

“I’m sorry about this, Nat.”

Natasha finished tying off the end of her braid and looked up at Clint, frowning.  “About what?”

“Getting you into this.”  He pushed away from where he had been slouching by the door and came over to her, pulling up another chair next to Steve’s bed but angling it so he wasn’t looking at Steve.  “I made you some promises four years ago and six months later you were dumped into Hydra.”

Natasha shrugged.  “I knew what I was doing.  You and Fury and Hill made it pretty clear to me what I was getting myself into when I decided to stay.  Besides, it’s nothing I’ve never done before.”

Clint tipped his head towards Steve and said, “Not this.”

Natasha glanced up at him, frowning. “What you think I did?  I’ve done it before.  Besides, this wasn’t that.”

“They made you sleep with him.”

“No, they wanted me to sleep with him,” Natasha corrected.  “I slept with him because I wanted to.  There’s a difference.”

His mouth worked briefly.  “You should never have been in a position where we ended up having this conversation.”

“I had plenty of chances to get out, Clint,” Natasha reminded him, flicking a glance at the two-way mirror that took up most of one wall.  She was pretty sure that there was someone behind it, keeping an eye on them; whoever it happened to be was certainly getting an earful.  “It was my choice to stay under, not yours.”

“But you shouldn’t have –”

“Four years ago you said I had the right to be able to make my own choices,” Natasha cut him off. “That means all of my choices, Clint, even the ones that you wouldn’t make.  Even the ones that you wouldn’t have to make.”

He winced.  Clint was more of a soldier than a spy; he could flirt with the best of them, but like Americans Natasha had known he didn’t have the temperament for the kind of work she had been trained for.  Even if he hadn’t already been too closely associated with Fury to pull it off, he wouldn’t have lasted more than a year undercover with Hydra.  Natasha had no idea who the other loyalists at the Triskelion were and had forced herself not to speculate; it was safer for all of them if no one knew who the others were.

“Sitwell and Pierce couldn’t have made me sleep with him,” Natasha added. “They knew that.  If they had wanted someone who would try to jump into bed with him immediately, there are other people they could have chosen.  It wouldn’t have worked, anyway.  He’s not that kind of guy.”

“And I’ve got no idea what kind of guy he is, Nat,” Clint said. “Everything I know about him comes out of reports and History Channel documentaries.”

“Didn’t one of those say he was abducted by aliens?”

“Yeah, but according to the alien I know, that one’s not true.”

Natasha’s eyebrows went up. “What alien?”

Clint waved that aside.  “That’s not important.  What is important is that I don’t know anything about this guy except that Hydra’s had its fingers in his brain for the past six months and he didn’t even notice.”

“He noticed,” Natasha said pointedly, “or he wouldn’t be here right now and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Convenient,” Clint said suspiciously.  “So what the hell were they doing to him in that lab today that finally made him snap?”

“Does it matter?”  There was a scratchy note but no emotion in Steve’s voice.

Clint and Natasha both jumped; Natasha hadn’t realized he was awake and Clint clearly hadn’t either.  Steve flinched when she bent over him, his mouth trembling a little and tears leaking slowly from the corners of his eyes, and Natasha knew immediately that he had been awake for a lot longer than he had let on.

“It’s just me,” she assured him.  “It’s just me.  Ignore Barton, he’s being an idiot.”

Clint had already gotten up to pour some water from the pitcher on a nearby table, his expression suggesting that he knew he had fucked up by having this conversation where Steve could overhear it.

“They took the implant out,” Natasha assured Steve before he could bring himself to ask about it.  “Mine too.”  She turned her head and held her braid out of the way so that he could see the bandage on the back of her neck.  “Mine was easy to take out, yours not so much, but it’s gone.  How do you feel?”

He moved one shoulder in a shrug and didn’t say anything, but he let Natasha help him sit up.  He looked suspiciously at the cup Clint brought over and didn’t make any move to take it; Natasha finally took the cup out of Clint’s hand and took a sip to prove to Steve that it was just water.  His hands were shaking, but he took it from her, and she closed her hands over his and held it steady until he could drink without spilling water all over himself.

“I’ll tell Fury you’re awake,” Clint said, beating a hasty retreat.

“I knew you were under orders,” Steve said eventually.  “I’m not – I knew.”

“You shouldn’t listen to anything Brock Rumlow says, either,” Natasha told him, which got the corner of his mouth to turn up briefly before he went back to frowning.

“If I hurt you –”

“You didn’t hurt me.”  Natasha put her hand to his cheek to make certain he was looking at her and said, “You never laid a hand on me I didn’t want you to.”

Steve stared at her for a long moment, then nodded.

“Do you hate me?” Natasha asked him softly.  “For lying to you?”

He shook his head. “You didn’t lie to me.  You didn’t tell me everything, but you didn’t lie to me, either.”

Natasha took the empty cup from him and set it aside, returning to her seat on the bed next to him.  “I am so sorry that this happened to you,” she said when his gaze flickered up to hers.  “I wish I’d been able to get you out earlier.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I still should have tried,” Natasha said, and was a little surprised to realize that she meant it.  She had weighed the chances of an exfil early on and discarded the option as unviable in those first few months; Steve was watched too closely.  Even the ops they had had been on had always been in company with STRIKE and had been in isolated areas that made it nearly impossible to run.

“It would have gotten both of us killed,” Steve said bleakly, his mouth working silently.

Natasha wondered if he had been running the same math that she had and when he had started doing so.  “Probably not killed.”

He grimaced and made a gesture of acknowledgment, knowing as well as she did that the two of them together were too valuable to Alexander Pierce to risk that.

“Nat,” he said hesitantly.  “The ops we ran for Pierce –”

He didn’t have to finish the question. “I don’t know for sure,” Natasha told him. “I can find out.  But for what it’s worth, most of what they’ve been doing at the Triskelion is what SHIELD – the real SHIELD – was doing four years ago.  I think the ops we were on were like that.  They’d – Sitwell and Pierce would have wanted to have you on softballs first, and push it up from there to see how far you’d go.  Not that they talked about it with me at all.”  She bit her lip.  Rumlow had said a few things that in retrospect made her think that he had known very well what Pierce was doing, whether or not Sitwell had ever told him.

Steve shut his eyes, breathing hard, and put his head in his hands.  Natasha had known what she was doing; Steve had just found out he had been running missions for Hydra since he had first gone into the field three months ago.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, not sure whether or not to reach for him.  She would have known what to do back at the Triskelion, when she knew they were under surveillance and that Steve had no idea what had been done to him, but now he did and Natasha didn’t know what to do.

Steve’s gaze cut sideways, then went up as the door opened and Nick Fury came in.  Natasha sat back, feeling self-conscious and obscurely guilty.

Fury considered her for a moment, then turned his attention to Steve.  “How are you feeling, Captain Rogers?”

“Like I’ve had a chunk of metal pried out of my spinal column,” Steve said, hesitating before he added, “Thank you.”

Fury nodded acknowledgment.  “I’ve got someone here who wants to talk to you.”

Steve looked wary, then his eyes widened as Fury stepped back so that Coulson could wheel in an elderly woman in a wheelchair.  She smiled a little tremulously and said, “Hello, Steve.”

“Peggy?”  He stood up like he meant to go to her, and then stopped, his expression uncertain.

“It’s all right,” Peggy Carter said. “I don’t bite.”  She held out a hand to him, smiling.

Despite the thinness of her face and the mass of wrinkles, her bones were still elegant; Natasha could see the beauty of the woman she had been seven decades earlier.  She had seen pictures of Peggy Carter before, some video footage from later in her life – there was none from the Second World War – but none of it compared to the woman herself.  There was a blazing aliveness to her despite the fact that she had to be, at Natasha’s quick estimation, ninety-six or ninety-seven.

Natasha eyed her a little warily.  She knew perfectly both who Peggy Carter was and who she was to Steve; she also knew that her great-niece Sharon was back at the Triskelion.  To the best of her knowledge, Sharon was part of Pierce’s inner circle, Sitwell’s second in command.  There was always the chance that she was another one of Fury’s loyalists, but Natasha wasn’t willing to bet money on it.

Steve went hesitantly to Peggy, his bare-footed passage near-silent.  He only touched her fingertips at first, like he was afraid she would vanish, then went slowly to his knees in front of her. “Hi.”

“You’re late,” she told him, reaching down to turn his face up to her.

“Traffic,” he said, trying to sound light, but his voice was trembling on the syllables.  Then he put his head down against her knee and started to cry.

Fury caught Natasha’s eye and moved his chin slightly in the direction of the door; Natasha nodded and got to her feet.  As Natasha passed her, Peggy reached out to touch her sleeve.  Natasha paused and looked down at her.

“Thank you,” Peggy said.

Natasha nodded in response and followed Fury and Coulson out.

“How’s he doing?” Fury asked after he had closed the door behind them.  Clint was waiting in the corridor; he nodded to Coulson as the other man left, presumably for the observation room that looked in on the hospital room.

Natasha thought the answer to that was fairly obvious, but said, “He’s scared.  He just found out about Hydra a few hours ago, remember?  He doesn’t know anyone here except for me – and Peggy Carter,” she added, glancing back over her shoulder at the door, “– and he doesn’t have any reason to believe that we’re any different than them.”

Clint scowled. “We didn’t put a fucking chip in his head.”

“You know he has no way of knowing that,” Natasha said. “It’s not the first time he’s woken up in a hospital bed after emergency surgency.  Though the last time it wasn’t to a stranger standing over him accusing him of rape.”

“That’s not –”

“That’s what he heard,” Natasha said, a little surprised at how angry she was.  “You had no right to say that about him.  Or about me.”

Clint shot a slightly panicked look at Fury, whose expression suggested that since he had gotten himself into this mess he was perfectly capable of getting himself out.  “You two need a minute?”

Natasha nodded, her mouth tight.

“Get this cleared up fast,” Fury advised. “Pierce isn’t going to give us much time.  Even if he doesn’t know for sure, by now he has to guess that we’ve got Rogers.”

He was already reaching for his earpiece as he left.

“You have no idea what it’s like there,” Natasha told Clint.  “You’ve been here for the past three and a half years.  You don’t know.”

Clint took a deep breath, then said, “So what’s it like?”

Natasha thought for a moment before she said, “Everyone’s watching each other all the time, telling on each other to Sitwell or Carter or Rumlow.  They’re always looking for loyalists, people who didn’t buy Pierce’s story about Fury but weren’t involved in the sieges.  Sometimes people just disappear.  If you know about Hydra, then it’s worse.  You’d think it means they trust you, but it doesn’t; it just means they have more to lose if they’re wrong about you, so they watch.  All the time.  I know every inch of that apartment Steve and I had in the Triskelion was wired.  I’m pretty sure he did too, but we never talked about it.  You don’t talk about it.  No one does.  Everyone knows, but no one talks about it.  You go on ops, you don’t know why, you don’t ask; you just hope they’re one of the ones that SHIELD would have run anyway and not one of Pierce’s pet projects.  Steve and I weren’t the only ones with governor implants there; everyone has them, even Sitwell and Rumlow.”

“Nat…”

“I grew up like that, Clint,” Natasha said bluntly.  “It’s all I’ve ever known.  Even the six months I was at SHIELD, I know Fury had me under surveillance; I know you were reporting to him about me.”

“Nat –”

“Do you know the difference between being in the Red Room and being in Hydra?” Natasha asked him.

Clint shook his head.

“When I joined SHIELD, I thought I was going straight,” Natasha said.  “But I just traded in the SVR for Hydra.  The difference is that I knew whose lies I was telling and why I was telling them.  All that time I was under it was a chance to make up for all the pain and suffering I’d caused.”  She raised one shoulder. “That I was still causing.  That maybe I could wipe out some of the red in my ledger even while I was adding new lines.  I didn’t do it for SHIELD or for Fury or even for you.”  She swallowed hard, surprised to find her hands were shaking a little.  “You had no right to say that to me.”

Clint took a deep breath, clearly fighting back an assortment of automatic responses, then finally said, “You know I never liked the idea of you staying in.  I just want you to be safe.”

“What’s safe?” Natasha said, shaking her head.  They had been working together closely the six months she had been with SHIELD, but since Hydra had forced Fury out she had seen him perhaps a dozen times.  “You and I, we’re not the kind of people who get to have that.  I owe you for getting me out of the Red Room, but I don’t owe you that.”

“You got yourself out of the Red Room,” Clint said.  “I just threw you a rope, that’s all.”  He hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Natasha said.  She wasn’t sure if he actually meant it, but it was probably the best she was going to get.

Clint ran a hand back through his hair, looking tired.  “Are you in love with him?”

Natasha glanced up at him, startled by the blunt question.  “I don’t know,” she said.  “Maybe.  I don’t know.”

#cut scenes and concept writing #ws steve au concept tag #as always comments are appreciated

[obsessedwithlute]

All That I'd Got ~ Lute x OC Fic *Chapter One*

@oneoftheeggs

"Heaven is just as fucked up as Hell is. Maybe even more so."

Adam took in a little girl and raised her to be his weapon. But something clearly went wrong when she fell in love with the Exorcist. So what to do besides banish her to hell? Clearly, he underestimated her, because she somehow manages to survive being Angel Dust's roommate.... And now she's out for revenge.

He was late. Why the hell was he late? Elorie had followed him for a week, memorized his schedule, enlisted a fucking hacker to gain access to his calendar.

And yet the one day her existence depended on his showing up, Angel Dust couldn’t be bothered to arrive at the bar. Such was her luck. The bartender stormed over to Elorie’s table and demanded to know why she hadn’t bought a drink.

Elorie decided not to mention she’d never consumed alcohol and ordered something random. She took a few sips of the drink while staring at the decrepit door. It tasted like shit.

Suddenly, the door slammed open and the very pink-clad spider demon she had been looking for stormed inside. Not one to wait around, Elorie made her way across the bar towards Angel Dust and clapped her hand on his shoulder.

The sinner spun around and stared at her. “What?” he demanded. “It’s my night off, so you can wait until tomorrow.”

“Not interested,” Elorie said. “Trust me, I picked your night off for a reason. We need to talk, free of distractions.”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” the pornstar asked.

“No,” Elorie told him. “I’m just someone who needs your help.”

“This is hell, toots,” Angel told her. “No one helps anyone here.”

“Believe me, I’m painfully aware,” Elorie said. “But still, I’m asking for your help. Because what do I have to lose?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Angel Dust asked, winking.

“I suppose this is the part where I tell you my whole backstory and repent for all my sins?” she asked, tilting her head to one side.

“What…”

Shit. This is hell. Remember that, you idiot.

“Okay, so because you obviously can’t take anything other than a straight statement, I will simply give you one. I want to live in your apartment. I will pay half the rent. I will not be leaving except for when I want to and when we’re out of food.”

“Straight?” Angel laughed. “Perish the thought.”

“Yes or no? I don’t have all day,” Elorie hissed.

“Elorie, we’re dead. Neither of us need food.” “First of all, I like food. Second of all, why do you care? Third of all, give me a fucking answer.”

Angel Dust slouched into a chair. “Why don’t you answer a question of my own first?” Elorie towered above him, glaring. “And that question would be…?”

“Why do you want to stay at my apartment?”

“Uh, I need a roof over my head. I’m virtually broke but somehow Lucifer still implements fucking rent fees. And you’re my ideal roommate.”

“How the hell am I your ‘ideal roommate’?” Angel demanded.

“You like pink, you won’t be around a lot and you’re only ninety-eight percent an asshole,” Elorie said primly.

“Most people would consider that to be a high asshole percentage,” the spider demon said, batting his eyelashes.

“Well, it’s your lucky day, because I don’t!” Elorie announced. She stared at him. “Think of the extra alcohol you can buy with that money that won’t have to go to rent…” She waved her hand in front of his face like a crystal.

Angel smirked. “Well, who am I to say no to alcohol? Ground rules are feed Fat Nuggets when he asks and no asking questions.”

“Who or what is a Fat Nug-”

Angel Dust waved his finger. “Uh-uh-uh. I said no questions.” Elorie rolled her eyes.

c. 100 years previously

Elorie stomped her foot on the arrow buried in the ground. She let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. She’d been trying for weeks to find a weapon she could actually fight with, but to no avail.

The arrow cracked in half and Elorie bent down to pick it up and throw it away. A few tears pricked her eyes, but she brushed them away quickly. “Crying won’t make you stop sucking,” she whispered to herself.

Elorie disposed of the arrow and stormed back to the training grounds, struggling to lift up a sword that was too heavy for her, but just maybe if she could wield it, it would show them just how strong she was!

Strong enough to be an Exterminator, to be worthy, to be noticed.

Elorie’s wings tensed as she dragged the blade over to a dummy target and swung as hard as she could at it.

She collapsed to the ground, out of breath.

“Wow,” someone said from above her. “Who the hell thought it was a good idea to have a little kid at the training area?”

Elorie looked up and wrinkled her nose when she saw who it was. “Lute,” she hissed. “You’re barely three years older than me. We’re both just little kids. But I need to practice so I can get better.”

“Mm-hm, and how’s that working out for you?” The angel rolled her eyes. “You can’t fight with that thing. I doubt that even I could.” “You’re not that good,” Elorie protested. “And besides, we both Adam would make me an Exorcist sooner than he would you.”

“I’m better than you. And I always will be. Just because you’re Adam’s sister doesn’t mean that you’re better than me. When has he ever played favorites with you?”

Elorie racked her brain for one time, coming up empty. “Well- well-” she sputtered- “If you’re so good, why don’t you teach me?!” Lute laughed. “Yeah, no. I’ve got better things to do with my time.” She paused, something strange flickering across her face. Then she sighed and searched in her pocket for something, removing a glittering, sharp javelin. She threw it in front of Elorie. “Here. Just… take it. Pretend you’re stabbing me or something.”

Then she raised her wings to the air and left.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lute #hazbin lute #hazbin oc #hazbin hotel oc #hazbin fanfic #hazbin hotel fanfiction #listen in my mind lute is gay and secretly on hell's side alright #hazbin hotel angel #hazbin angel dust #angel dust hazbin hotel #first time writing rivals to lovers so please excuse my shit #also if anyone recognizes the reference in the title please tell me i will be overjoyed

[acourtofthought]

This was in my drafts and was waiting to post it but after that earlier anon I felt Elain needed a little love.

I know I (very vocally 😂) have always been for the theory that Elain is being set up as High Lady of Spring. I thought I'd previously noticed all the hints but a few more jumped out at me as possibilities.

(The above is one I had noticed before but the rest were new to me. But still, it is interesting how Elain easily dismisses the command in Rhys's voice)

Elain telling the story of Nesta seducing the duke. Certain items made her truly look the part of the daughter of the "PRINCE of Merchants". A princess wearing an AMETHYST gown and diamonds and PEARLS at her neck and ears.

SJM has Elain take off the ill-suited black dress and replace it with an amethyst gown (see above).

Her mate gifts her pearl earrings (see above).

She sits at the head of the table.

Individually, they don't seem like much but when you put them all together they do make an interesting picture.

And when you add them to everything we've been told of Elain or about the magic system in general, why wouldn't be be an amazing candidate to preside over a land?

She had come alive here, and her joy was infectious. There wasn’t a servant or gardener who didn’t smile at her, and even the brusque head cook found excuses to bring her plates of cookies and tarts at various points in the day. I marveled at it, actually—that those years of poverty hadn’t stripped away that light from Elain. Perhaps buried it a bit, but she was generous, loving, and kind—

Elain had taken charge of planning and finding me a last-minute dress.

Elain, who flitted about the room, personally greeting each guest and dancing with all their important sons.

Elain, to my surprise, had a horse, a satchel of food, and supplies ready

“We keep it secret—we send the servants away. With the spring approaching, they’ll be glad to go home. And if Feyre needs to be in and out for meetings, she’ll send word ahead, and we’ll clear them out. Make up excuses to send them on holidays. Father won’t be back until the summer, anyway. No one will know.”

“My sister Elain can convince anyone to do anything with a few smiles.”

“Feyre gave and gave—for years. Let us now help her. Help … others.”

A lady—that’s what Elain would become. What she was risking for this.

“Today,” I pushed. “We don’t have any time to lose. Order them to leave now.” “I’ll do it,” Elain said, taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders. She didn’t wait for either of us before she strode out, graceful as a doe.

Elain beamed. “Good. I think there are a few bedrooms ready—”

“Eternal youth. Do you deny the benefits? A mortal queen becomes one who might reign forever. Of course, there are risks—the transition can be … difficult. But a strong-willed individual could survive.”

“That many people? Not without first finding a safe place, which would take time we don’t have.” Rhys considered. “If we get a ship, they can sail—” “They will demand their families and friends come.” A beat of silence. Not an option. Then Elain said quietly, “We could move them to Graysen’s estate.”. We all faced her at the evenness of her voice. She swallowed, her slender throat so pale, and explained, “His father has high walls—made of thick stone. With space for plenty of people and supplies.” All of us made a point not to look at that ring she still wore. Elain went on, “His father has been planning for something like this for … a long time. They have defenses, stores …” A shallow breath. “And a grove of ash trees, with a cache of weapons made from them.”

“Graysen—we’ve come to beg you …” A pleading glance at his father. “Both of you … Open your gates to any humans who can get here. To families. With the wall down … We—they believe … There is not enough time for an evacuation. The queens will not send aid from the continent. But here—they might stand a chance.”

“Grab onto him!” Elain ordered / Elain screamed at her, “If you want to live, do it now!” / But I saw, even as I ran, Elain’s pale hands lurch—gripping the girl by her neck, holding her as tightly as she could. / Elain moved. As Azriel battled to keep them airborne, keep his grip on them, my sister sent a fierce kick into the beast’s face. Its eye. Another. Another. It bellowed, and Elain slammed her bare, muddy foot into its face again. The blow struck home.

Elain stepped out of a shadow behind him, and rammed Truth-Teller to the hilt through the back of the king’s neck as she snarled in his ear, “Don’t you touch my sister.”

“It’s their tradition, though,” Elain countered, her face still flushed with the cold. “One that they fought and died to protect in the war. Perhaps that’s the better way to think of it, rather than feeling guilty. To remember that this day means something to them. All of them, regardless of who has more, who has less, and in celebrating the traditions, even through the presents, we honor those who fought for its very existence, for the peace this city now has.” For a moment, I just stared at my sister, the wisdom she’d spoken. Not a whisper of those oracular abilities. Just clear eyes and an open expression.

“I asked Nuala to do it in that order,” Elain said as the others gathered round. “Because you’re the foundation, the one who lifts us. You always have been.”

“I would like to build a garden,” she declared. “After all of this … I think the world needs more gardens.” (Elain's vision is to bring life to the world around her, not just Velaris)

Tending to the gardens of Feyre’s veritable palace on the river, helping other residents of Velaris restore their own destroyed gardens

It wasn’t a guarantee that a High Lord’s firstborn would be his heir. The magic sometimes took a while to decide, and often jumped around the birth order completely. Sometimes it found a cousin instead. Sometimes it abandoned the bloodline entirely. Or chose the heir in that moment of birth, in the echoes of a newborn’s first cries.

Her sister’s delicate scent of jasmine and honey lingered in the red-stoned hall like a promise of spring (thank you for the reminder on this line @bookeater34)!

“Yes,” Elain said. “She was trained in dance from a very young age. She loves it, and music. Not in the way I enjoy a waltz or gavotte, but in the way that performers make an art of it. Nesta could bring an entire ballroom to a halt when she danced with someone.”/ “The entire ball stopped when Nesta entered,” Elain said. “She made an entrance of it, perfectly cool and aloof, even at fourteen. She barely glanced the duke’s way. Because she’d learned about him as well. Knew he grew bored of anyone that chased him. And knew that the wealth on her that night dwarfed anything that heiress was wearing.”/ “The duke was vain, and Nesta played into that. The entire room came to a standstill. Their dancing was that good; she was that beautiful. And when it ended … I knew she was an artist then. The same way Feyre is. But what Feyre does with paint, that’s what Nesta did with music and dance. Our mother saw it when we were children, and honed it into a weapon. All so Nesta might one day marry a prince.” “Nesta never spoke of it afterward,” Elain said. “I just observed.” Nesta was wrong, Cassian realized, to think Elain as loyal and loving as a dog. Elain saw every single thing Nesta had done, and understood why.

But she hadn’t hesitated to come. When Feyre had offered to let her remain home, Elain had squared her shoulders and declared that she was a part of this court—and would do whatever was needed

Elain, who it had gifted with such powers, found her so lovely it had wanted to give her something.

It was Spring, and yet it wasn’t. / Distant—because on the estate, nothing bloomed at all. The pink roses that had once climbed the pale stone walls of the sweeping manor house were nothing but tangled webs of thorns. The fountains had gone dry, the hedges untrimmed and shapeless. The house itself had looked better the day after Amarantha’s cronies had trashed it. Not for any visible signs of destruction, but for the general quiet. The lack of life. / No whisper of sound behind him. On any acre of this estate. Not even a note of birdsong. / This place was a tomb.

And though he roams these lands, he does not see or care for the neglect he passes, the lawlessness, the vulnerability. Even his manor has fallen into disrepair, half-eaten by thorns, though rumors fly that he himself destroyed it.”

And too bad the lord who ruled these lands was a piece of shit.

But Elain … The Spring Court had been made for someone like her.

But yes, Feyre—there can be High Ladies. And perhaps you aren’t one of them, but … what if you were something similar?

Elain is wise, observant, loving, prefers to handle things in a diplomatic way rather than throwing tantrums, is friendly to almost everyone, is liked by many, was blessed by the Cauldron, and had an upbringing that did expose her to the world of Lords and Ladies and an upper class society.

I have no doubt Lucien will stand beside Elain and help fill in the spaces where it is needed. For now he'd have a better understanding of Prythian as a whole and it's military forces and they would make an incredible team. But I don't know that I see him as the magic chosen High Lord of Spring considering he is currently set up as High Lord of Day (which might not be for centuries). Maybe he'll end up as Interim High King for the war ahead but there will be peace at some point and he'll need something to do until he takes over for Helion.

The missing link to it all is Spring because Tamlin is not the ruler Prythian needs him to be (it actually doesn't sound like he was ever the ruler Prythian needed him to be: "It was what, long ago, he’d once thought life at Tamlin’s court would be.")

Rhys may have been chosen as High Lord of the Night Court by the magic however he made a 19 year old female with no proper schooling and who hated the fae one year prior, his equal. A female who originally looked down on the residents of Velaris for hiding away during Amarantha’s reign (Rhys having to remind her his people were blameless). He made it so her word is law just as his.

Rhys is the most powerful High Lord in the history of Prythian however even his power does not exceed that of the will of the Mother / Cauldron. Fate / Destiny has already chosen the three Archerons to be of importance to the future of Prythian. One High Lady of Night with powers to match that of its most powerful High Lord. One sister with the Power of Death who changed the course of Illyrian history by helping to lead an all female fighting unit and the remaining sister with a future not yet known but with many hints at having the ability to restore a broken Court. A female who the Cauldron blessed and found worthy and who by definition would be the equal and match in every way to Lucien, the eventual heir to another courts throne.

#elucien #elain archeron #pro elain archeron #pro elucien #high lady elain #acotar theory

[msjr0119]

This life

PART ONE

The majority of characters belong to Pixelberry from The Royal Romance/Heir. This is an A/U - with only parts being linked to canon.

Series warnings ⚠️: Adult language, sexual, adultery, loss of a baby.

Based on the Netflix series- Sex/life. A few parts of dialogue are from the tv series.

Please do not read unless you are over 18 🔞

Tags: Because I’ve been gone MIA in like forever I don’t know who’s here anymore 🙈… so only tagging people who have asked previously.

@ao719 @kingliam2019 @txemrn

Previously: Introduction

****

School psychologists aren't supposed to write books or diaries about sex. Doing so would be considered 'unethical' and 'a fireable offense'. Lucky for you, ethics was never my strong suit.

****

“It’s good to see you, Brooks.”

“It’s Cooper-“ Due to the shock, this was the only thing that Riley could mutter. Finally making eye contact, he gave her the refined look of innocence. “My surname is now, Cooper.”

They say that New York City is one of the worlds best places to take a run. Running was never my forte- I impersonated Phoebe in that one episode of Friends. The emotional pain that I felt in this moment, I’m not sure how many miles my body could suffer before shutting down…

“Riley! Wait!”

****

Olivia Nevrakis was never one to leave the house without looking presentable. Her attire generally consisted of stiletto’s which matched anything that contained sequins. She always used to say that she wore these type of shoes for self defence. In the frantic attempt to catch up with Riley, this one time she accepted that sneakers would have to do.

“Where’s, Riley?” Liam questioned as he scrutinised the unusual appearance from their friend.

“I’m glad I’ve found you- I don’t know. I assumed that she came back here, to you both?”

“What do you mean, Olivia?” There was no need for an explanation- the figure that ambled towards them confirmed the reason behind Riley’s disappearance.

“What the fuck is he doing here?”

“It’s a free country, Linz…. Liam, looking good bro!”

“Listen to what I’m about to say, Drake.. I am not your ‘bro’…” Exaggerating the word ‘bro’, Drake took a big gulp as Liam squared up towards him. “If anything happens to Riley- I will kill you this time!”

“You haven’t got it in you, Li-“ The tension between the two old friends, could have exploded due to the overload of built up anger that had been formed over the years. Olivia ‘sacrificed’ herself, separating them both- as they continued providing death stares. Neither wanted to throw the first fist or insult any further- in that moment there was the realisation that they both wanted the same thing. For Riley to be found- safe. Drake stepped back, and to everybody’s surprise expressed a slight bit of remorse.

“I fucked up, Li. I know that. I regret it each and every day. At least she has Preston to look after her, he’s a lucky guy.”

“Preston is an intelligent and caring….” This slight description stabbed Drake in the heart- if given an opportunity Lindsey would continue to dig the ‘knife’ as revenge for the pain that he had caused her sister. “Preston… he’s… The most an amazing three year old.”

“Excuse me?”

“Preston is my nephew- Riley’s son.” Awareness had finally hit, Drake- he had his wires crossed. Wishing that he hadn’t mentioned Preston, the confirmation of his identity now pulled on his heartstrings. Concealing his true feelings, he nodded to the trio- before leaving without another word.

“Lindsey, Liam- myself and Drake… it’s not what you are both assuming. I would never do that to, Ri. I can explain. It was just bad timing.” Olivia pleaded her innocence- she now knew that the jetlag would have to be put on hold whilst she explained the unexpected return of Drake Walker.

****

January 3rd

Let’s try this again. Drama. Life is always full of it in my case. The life of Riley Brooks. It probably would make more entertainment than the Kardashian’s.

Alcohol acts in crazy ways. It affects people differently. It can make you feel invisible- or at least it did for me tonight. I still can’t remember how I had the energy or knowledge on how to get home safely. Walking up the drive, I noticed my snobby and nosey neighbours- Hannah and Neville peering out the window. My brain was informing me to provide them with the middle finger gesture. Instead I gave a friendly neighbour wave along with the biggest fake smile that I could provide. The curtain soon shut as the pair probably scurried away like the rats that they are. What dickheads. If I know Hannah well, I can predict that she will visit tomorrow with a basket full of freshly baked muffins waiting for the tea to be spilled. The women here believe that they are the real life ‘Desperate Housewives’. Riverside may appear to be a seemingly perfect neighbourhood but like Wisteria Lane - here it more than likely also hides; many secrets, crimes, forbidden romances and domestic struggles.

Betrayal. It can occur in different ways. But you never expect it to happen with people whom you loved. The same two people who you trusted with all your heart once upon a time.

My husband is as gorgeous inside as out. I’ve never once caught him looking at another woman. To be honest, I’ve never caught him in a lie- or had proof to prove any potential deceit. So what’s the problem?

“Honey, where are you?”

“I’m upstairs, Nate.”

“Ri, things have been super crazy at work. You have no idea.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We’re talking post-merger madness. Everyone is just angling for a position. They are all trying to show off for the new boss, you know.” Katrina- fantastic, little miss perfect Katrina. You can say her name, Nate. “She’s great, she wants to do all the things that I want to do- but on a much larger scale.”

“Wow.” Attempting to show a slight bit of interest, Riley didn’t realise how sarcastic that she may have sounded.

“Yeah, people are swarming- but she sees me. She loves me.” Nate noticed that Riley was in a daze, as she didn’t respond to him immediately. Laying next to her, he planted an attentive kiss on her forehead. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. I just miss you.”

“Excuse me. It’s her.” Acting dumb, Riley knew exactly who was on the other line. It’s a bit late for a work business call. “It’s her, my boss…. I won’t be long, Ri…’Katrina, hey! How are you?’” Laughing during his conversation, Riley couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed like that towards her.

The problem for Katrina, Nate Cooper is married to me. Before I met him, I had been contorted into a high percentage of the positions in the Kama sutra. Shouldn’t we all? There was rich guys, poor guys, tattooed guys, the one night stand guys. Any kind of man. Do I sound like a whore?

“We’ll sit down tomorrow just you and I, to discuss it Kat. See you then, bye.” Kat? Pet names now. The old boss was known as Mr Wilson- not by first name terms.

“Told ya, Ri. She loves me.”

“Who doesn’t?” Riley replied again in a sarcastic type of way.

I bet people often wonder why I married some man who was so straight-laced as to say. Honestly, it’s because of all the past encounters- especially, Walker. My nerves were so shot by the time that I had met Nate. As I’ve said previously I was vulnerable. My heart was riding on fumes- the stability that he offered was a soothing balm. At the time, I wanted us to live for a hundred years and die at the exact same moment to avoid any pain. I hoped that our souls would find each other on the other side- if that truly exists. We could fall in love all over again….I just also want to fuck Nate’s brains out, mainly as a distraction from the impromptu night that I have just had. Is that too much to ask?

****

January 4th

Last night or rather this morning was a complete disaster… When you have the urge to fuck your partner- you need to do it there and then, right? Why is it so hard to both be in the mood at the same time once you are married with kids? The way things are at the moment, I feel I’m like a reborn virgin.

“I’m sorry, I forgot to ask. Ioana mentioned that Liam and Lindsey came over. You should have gone out.”

That supportive look that he provided, was the complete opposite of what he would have really expressed. If he knew the truth, the calmness of his voice would be a different matter. Is he a controlling husband? Maybe. Protective- yes. What he doesn’t understand, is that I need to let my hair down once in a blue moon.

“I wasn’t up to it.”

To prevent my lie from being exposed I turned my phone into ‘Do not disturb’ mode.

“Besides, you’re back now….”

I reach down, making the first move. Faking orgasms- does anyone else do this?

“It’s so good.”

“Sorry, Ri- I can’t…. I’m too tired.”

Drake would never do that. He would see to all my needs. Why am I comparing them?

“Pass me the vibrator.”

It’s been nearly two years since Nate went down on me for example. I grew an entire human being in my body in half of that time.

“For fuck sake!”

I feel like screaming, due to the frustration of not only Nate ‘dying’ on me but now B.O.B does it too.

“Fuck it.”

After a slight yawn followed by a stretch, Nate snuggled into Riley-completely oblivious to his wife’s dissatisfaction. “Night baby.”

It wasn’t always like this. As much as children are a blessing- is this the reason that explains the loss of Nate’s libido or is it truly down to his work load? The passion we had has now declined, faded into something that is now virtually non existent. This must be the definition of growing up; getting married and living the family routine with a waning passion. Now I’m starving. Internally screaming at him from inside my mind trying to make us feel - something. Love is a drug, that’s what they say- right? Adrenaline. I can get that feeling again, every time I close my eyes - going back to any one of those nights in the past- I feel it. It’s not some allusive high that I’m chasing- it is - or was, real. That was the other Riley Brooks- the true, me. A wild-child. How can a girl fuck up with every relationship? I don’t know how I manage to do it? Maybe I should have worked on my brief relationship with Liam- my now brother in law. But, that’s a different story which included a poor teenage waitress in a dive bar and Lady Liberty.

****

January 5th

For this entry, I cannot allow for it to be discovered by Nate.

Deceit- the act or practice of deceiving; concealment or distortion of the truth for the purpose of misleading; duplicity; fraud; cheating. For me, today is just not informing my husband about the full truth. It’s in my past and something that I don’t like to ponder about. I’m still living through this nightmare behind closed doors. If he was ever to ask the reasoning behind this date- I have Lindsey as ‘my excuse’. We have previously had a discussion - to get our stories straight if Nate was ever to discover the true events about this day. The fifth of January always creeps up, then it’s gone in an instant- until it reappears each year.

****

Slowly walking up the path, there was the sense of tranquility. Silent neighbours. The slight wind enabled the tree branches to sway in sync.

“Hey, Linz”

“About fucking time, Riley! I’ve been worried sick about you! Are you okay? I’ve tried ringing you-“

“I’ve had no missed-“ Riley soon remembered that she hadn’t deactivated the ‘Do Not Disurb’ mode on her phone.

“I’m fine- I just… every year, we always meet here at the same time. Where are you? Why have you put flowers down without me?”

“That’s what I’m trying to explain, I’m stuck in traffic. I’ve rang you a few times mainly about the delay but also to discuss about you leaving the other night without telling us.”

“Linz, if you didn’t put these flowers here- who did?”

“Riley-“

“Linz, I’ll ring you back.” Sensing company, Riley focused on the shadow hovering over her.

“There’s a bunch of New York’s finest flowers from, Olivia. She wasn’t sure if you wanted to see her or not as you haven’t returned any of her calls. So I offered to bring them…. It’s been too long since I’ve been here, myself.”

The callused hand gently removed the crinkly yet rusty coloured leaves that floated effortlessly in-front of them.

“The teddy is a gift from me. I hope that you don’t mind?”

Reaching out to the bear, Riley pulled it close to her chest- holding it tightly, it felt to her as if the world had just crashed. Again. The defence mechanisms that she would usually excel in, were now paper thin. Before she could have reacted, his hands gently drew her closer towards him as he knelt down to her level.

“Please…. Don’t touch me. I’m fine.”

The heat from this touch rapidly creeps into my consciousness - needing to pull away, I couldn’t. It’s like a magnet, drawing us closer- unable to separate this unexpected bond. Pulling his head back, he ran his hand through my hair before gently wiping away the tears that were now everlasting.

“You clearly aren’t fine, which is understandable. If you want me to go, I will.”

As I sink further into his torso attempting to hide my emotions, I inhale his aftershave- which has now sent me into a coma. My heart and brain have different scenarios imaged in my mind. What am I doing?

“You have a right to be here as much anyone- Drake.”

- - -

Jackson

Our sleeping angel

01/05/2014

Sweet little flower

Of heavenly birth

You were too precious

To bloom on earth

Love you always, Mommy and Daddy xxx

#choices trr #theroyalromance #riley brooks #drake walker #trr fanfic #tw mention of sex #tw swearing #tw baby loss #tw alcohol #riley x drake #trr au #olivia nevrakis #Liam Rys #tw sex #riley x liam #tw adult themes #tw adultery

[silver-ink-iron-words]

Major Shift, Part 3

Part 1, Part 2

Dara was chained. Like an animal, of course.

Their claws had finally receded – turned back to small, squishy human hands. Their fingers were smothered in bandages.

Previously, the shifters had only used ropes to confine Dara. But they were now lying on the cellar floor, weighed down by the heavy manacles on their wrists.

They should have been prepared, emotionally, for what happened earlier. The shifting was inevitable from the moment they were bitten. They hadn’t thought that willpower would be enough to hold it back. No, nothing like that.

It’s just that they had never expected to still be alive by this point.

Suddenly, the cellar door opened, and they heard footsteps come down the stairs. The ceiling light clicked on, and Dara gasped slightly when they saw Corbin’s tired, bitter expression.

The shifter was in full human form – no wings in sight. He stepped forward, and Dara was certain they were about to get a knife in their chest.

Which is why their eyes widened when Corbin pulled out a key.

“Why?” Dara asked, as Corbin knelt down to unlock them.

“David believes in you,” he said, not looking Dara in the eyes. “But he’s the only one. The rest of us would be more than happy to see you murdered by your friends.”

“How touching,” Dara said. But it was, strangely, comforting to hear. They normally would have suspected a trap, but the genuine bile in Corbin’s voice made them begin to believe that they might actually get out of here.

Corbin finished with the locks, and pulled the manacles off Dara’s wrists. He stood, and turned his gaze to the wall, hands in his pockets.

He was clearly waiting for Dara to leave.

“I, um,” Dara said, rising. “I – thank you.”

It was a little sickening, to thank a demon. But it also would’ve felt wrong not to.

“Just get the hell out,” Corbin muttered.

Dara wrapped their arms around themself, and went for the stairs.

Then they paused on the bottom step.

They felt the ridiculous urge to apologize. It was stupid. They hadn’t done anything wrong. They hadn’t. Their words earlier were justified, especially considering that they’d been talking to their kidnapper. But Corbin wasn’t really their kidnapper anymore, was he?

“I was lying, before,” they said. They released a breath. “I don’t know who you lost. But if they were killed by us, then they didn’t suffer. We take care not to do unnecessary harm.”

Corbin sniffed quietly, but didn’t say anything.

That’s fair, Dara thought. They started up the stairs.

“Why?”

Dara stilled, and cast a questioning look back at Corbin.

“Why?” he repeated. “You know we’re not different from you. So why do you still kill us?”

Dara frowned. They didn’t owe an explanation to a damn shifter.

But . . . maybe they could give one to their rescuer.

They gently leaned their back on the stairwell’s wall.

“Why does anyone kill anyone?” they said, hearing their voice ring in the stillness. “Every soldier knows that the guy in the foxhole across from them is just as human as they are. But they all try like hell to kill each other anyways.”

Corbin’s eyes were still cast to the side. “A lot of people have argued that war isn’t an excuse.”

“Yet here we are, fighting in one anyways.” They peered over at him. “I’ve lost people too. By the way.”

Corbin said nothing for a beat. And then he looked up, meeting Dara’s eyes for the first time in their conversation. “Just because you’re technically a shifter now doesn’t make us friends. Or allies. I won’t hesitate to kill you if you threaten my family.”

Dara raised their brows casually. “Right back at ya.”

They then left the cellar, and Corbin made no effort to stop them.

----

Dara tripped and stumbled out of the treeline, cursing under their breath. They hated this damn forest.

But at least they’d finally found the house they were looking for.

They trudged across the immaculate yard. Ambled up to the door. They rang the doorbell and waited with blood pounding in their ears.

“Sir,” they said, when the door opened.

The High Huntsman flicked on the porch light, and his eyes sparked with recognition. Dara wondered for a moment why he needed the light, and then realized with a start that their night vision must have improved.

“Dara, child,” the High Huntsman said. “What happened to your face?”

Dara resisted the urge to touch the angry red talon scratches. “I was kidnapped by shifters, Sir. With all due respect, I feel it’s self-explanatory.”

The High Huntsman shook his head. “Savages.”

Dara’s fingers twitched, as they remembered their own transformation. But before they could say anything, the High Huntsman had an arm around their shoulder and was inviting them inside.

When Dara was sitting in an armchair with a mug of hot chocolate in their hands, the High Huntsman finally asked the question.

“What happened to you, child?” he said, voice tinged with concern.

Dara’s jaw tensed. “I will explain everything fully, I promise. But before that, I need to ask . . .” They swallowed. “Sir, why did you leave me to the monsters?”

Dara had suspected that the High Huntsman hadn’t wanted them to see. Their suspicions were confirmed by the old man’s grim expression.

They remembered being in that crumbling, dilapidated house, silver-bullet gun in hand. If they hadn’t been standing by the window, if they hadn’t happened to look out at precisely the right moment, they would have never seen their team quietly escape while shifters swarmed the building.

They were hoping for an explanation from the High Huntsman, maybe even an apology. They were not ready for the irritation in their leader’s eyes.

“Are you half-animal already, child? You forget yourself.”

Dara winced. Was the wildness really overtaking them this quickly? It was a scary thought.

“If you must know, it is because that damned Shifter King is planning a major assault against us.” The High Huntsman’s eyes bore into Dara. “We are all in danger, child. And so I did what I had to do. We need an agent on the inside.”

Dara blinked, as their mind worked to make sense of what they’d just heard. “You knew he’d come to collect me.”

“In all honesty, I expected him to take you as soon as you were bitten.” He smiled. “It was a touching surprise when I learned that you tried to come back to us.”

Lily must have told him.

When Dara was first bitten, they ran. They’d stumbled and hurried and cried, arm bleeding all the way. They’d made it to base, and encountered their friend Lily, who was overjoyed to see them alive. They should have told her about the bite, but when they looked into her eyes . . .  they lost their nerve. Instead, they ran again. They had made up their mind to return to the hunters after all, when the Shifter King intercepted them.

To know that this whole ordeal was part of a plan . . .

“You could have told me.” Did the High Huntsman think that Dara would have refused to do it? Did he doubt their loyalty?

The High Huntsman simply grinned. “Your reactions needed to be genuine, child. The Shifter King would have suspected, otherwise.”

Dara’s hands clenched around their mug.

I could have died.

But instead of saying that, they let their shoulders slump. “I wasn’t able to gather much information. I’m sorry.”

The High Huntsman’s mouth pressed into a disapproving line. “Then you need to go back, child. And this time, try not to disappoint.”

Part 4

#hero x villain #villain x hero #shifter #werewolf #werebear #hero #villain #shapeshifter #whump #whump drabble #whump writing #writing snippet #fantasy #urban fantasy #fantasy writing #okay so #i was writing out part 2 #and it started getting crazy long #so long that even major cuts wouldn't bring it down to a reasonable size #so i split it into two parts #here's part 3 early #i think this is technically the first continuation i've done that no one's asked for #not a prompt

[stiricidewrites]

All the Things We’ll Leave Behind: ch 30, pt 15

Last bit of the chapter~

Like the last one, this one includes more explicit discussion of a potential threesome and boundaries.

Previously

~

lwj’s eyes flicked around the bedroom. He’d sat on the bed. He couldn’t stay in here long, not without making his friend feel worse than he probably already did. He hadn’t actually said if he’d changed his mind, lwj realized. Considering this—whether this would happen, whether he was okay with it happening—was useless, if jzxuan had decided it wasn’t worth it.

Wasn’t worth what?

Risking their friendship? Risking one of them catching feeling for the other? Risking something disrupting what they had between them now?

“I…” lwj trailed off, ears burning as images of jzxuan shirtless and stretching that morning, his ass flashing the doorway as he reached for the judgmental rabbit, of his scent, sweet as desert, flashed through his head.

He wasn’t even sure when he had smelled his friend like that. His brain could just be making shit up.

“We can discuss it,” his mate was saying, absently babbling to the world as lwj tried to sort through his feelings—not to mention bring his scent back under his control. “I just figured you should probably know all the details.” He glanced away, looking rather uncomfortable suddenly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have offered something like that without talking to you about it first. I mean! I told jzxuan you had to agree, but—”

His mate broke off, dragging a hand through his hair—or, trying to. His fingers caught on a handful of knots, and then he was swearing and tugging at them. He looked greatly in need of a shower, not to mention a proper night’s sleep.

“It is fine,” lwj said, trying to resist looking away, in case his mate noticed how his own ears burned. “I also… implied.”

wwx blinked at him, eyes wide and surprised, before everything about him sharpened. “Oh, yeah? Wanna tell me about it, baby?”

lwj felt even his cheeks begin to burn, a rare true blush. “I— we were wrestling and…” He trailed off, eyes shooting towards the bedroom door, drawn by the sour scent sweeping in from the living room. “I should go back.”

“Ah…” wwx’s eyes glittered, although a look of concern flashed through them. “Yeah. Don’t leave the little— Fuck! What is it?”

“You have a call,” someone said—his mate’s assistant, lwj assumed.

“Can’t it wait?”

“They have already been waiting.”

“Fuck,” wwx growled, hand once again trying and failing to run through his hair. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

lwj couldn’t see the assistant, but judging from the way his mate glared and added, “I swear on this entire fucking company, I will be out in a minute—maybe two,” he imagined the man had given his boss a look of general disbelief.

wwx sighed as a door closed, his attention returning to lwj. lwj liked his mate’s attention on him. “Go tell the little alpha whatever you like. I’m down for pretty much anything,” he said, giving lwj a cheerful wink, even as his expression filled with something… anticipatory. “And, feel free to do whatever the two of you want—save for, like, actual sex.”

lwj blinked back at his mate. “You don't… want to be here?”

“Well, yes and no?” his mate mused as he fiddled with things on his desk. “I want to be the first one to fuck you, and I want to be there if you decide to take the little baby alpha~”

lwj frowned at the older man, although wwx was so busy reordering paper that he didn’t seem to notice. Little baby alpha. He might be a little older than jzxuan, but not by much. Did wwx think of him that way as well? As a baby?

“Other than that, feel free to mess around with each other, if you like.” The man’s eyes shot back to his phone, pupils huge, and lwj hoped his next call wouldn’t be on video. It was rather obvious that wwx was… not in a professional mindset, at the moment.

“Just let me know, and feel free to send pictures—or better yet, videos.” A smile cut across wwx’s face. “Oh! And don’t think I’ve forgotten that you still owe me— WHAT!?”

wwx glared towards the door again, his assistant telling him that it had been several minutes, and he needed to stop having phone sex and work. “Asshole,” the other man muttered when his assistant was gone again.

“You should go,” lwj said, voice more than a little sad as he moved through the house. His eyes caught on jzxuan’s back, his friend still leaning against the kitchen island, his fingers tapping across the countertop. “I— We will talk to you later.” He watched as his friend’s shoulder’s tensed, something unsure but almost hopeful sneaking into the nervous scent he was releasing.

“Ah~” wwx sighed, something knowing flittering through his eyes. “Yes, we will talk later—all of us.”

“Goodbye, Xian-gege,” he said softly, coming to lean against the counter next to his friend. He turned slightly towards him. “Have you changed your mind?”

It took a moment for jzxuan to meet his eyes. A moment more for him to whisper, “No.”

#fanfic #mdzs fanfiction #wangxian #stiricidesbottomji #omegaverse

[dayseternal-blog]

Little Samurai + Perspective Flip?

Hello anon! Thank you for the unusual fic-specific ask!!!

For anyone who didn't see, I previously answered an off-screen moments for White Lilies.

I love love love Little Samurai. I chose this beginning scene to do a perspective flip to answer kind of a...plot hole...in the fic. Why is Hinata so quiet? Why was she so over-protected?

------

The buzz of summer insects in the night drown out the voices.

The darkness hides her.

Her covers protect her.

From it.  Them.  The something that’s been trying to find her.  The something of her nightmares, the something of a childhood memory too long ago to distinguish as fact or fiction.

She’s safe for now from her own imagination.  Maybe safer than she’s ever been before.

“N-naruto-san?”  She can barely hear herself.

“Hm?  Yes?”  His bright voice is a shot of color, another veil of protection between her and the outside.

“Are…”  Could he be her guardian spirit?  “Are you…human?”

“...Yeah.  At least I think I am.  Besides my height, my body seems to work the same way yours does.”

She considers how he eats, needs to take a bath, goes into the garden for privacy.  She supposes he may be human.  “I…I see.”  A part of her doesn’t think so.

“My parents told me that they couldn’t have a child.  So they prayed everyday to our local deity, and my mother gave birth to me not long after.  I was smaller than her pinky finger.  I’ve grown, but I’ve always been...small…”

He was born!  From a mother!  From a family!  She blinks into the dark, trying to make sense of it all.  How did he even survive to this moment… “Why...did you leave home?  W-wasn’t it, wasn’t it dangerous?”

“Yeah!”  He sounds happy about it, and she turns toward his voice, wondering if he’s smiling, too.  “But nothing is too dangerous for me!  I’ve survived worse.”  He sounds so certain.  So proud.  “And I need to get stronger.  My parents are too old to be working so hard.  My mother always worries that my father will hurt himself in the woods and that we won’t be able to help him in time.  My mother is always hurting her back from bending over doing her work.  I wonder how they are now.  I hope they’re doing well…  I promised them that I would return for them, so I need to become a rich and powerful samurai as quickly as I possibly can!  It’s my duty as their son!  If I’m sent from the gods as they claim, then I’m sure I will do it!”

She listens silently, processing his words, wondering how he plans on accomplishing his dreams.  Isn’t he too…small?

“I know you probably don’t think I can do it.  My parents didn’t want me to go, either, but I’ve fought off all kinds of creatures, you know!  I’m the best fighter from my village!  The night before my parents finally let me leave, I fought off an adult centipede that was right about to sting them in their sleep, just like how Fujiwara no Hidesato killed Ōmukade!  It almost tried to eat me, but I’m not afraid of anything or anyone!”

She imagined the little Naruto battling the many-legged, twisting, skittering insect, its skin as red as blood and as hard as armor.  She herself would never be able to face such a creature on her own.  Especially not anything bigger than herself!

“Getting here wasn’t easy, either, but I never back down from a challenge!  The open waters of the river tossed my boat and me around.  At times I thought I would be sick.  Sometimes the birds tried to grab me, but with my sword, they couldn’t even get close!  It is the gods’ will that I would arrive here.  The gods brought my boat to a stop here.  The toad I rode from the riverside knew to bring me to your residence.  And today I have finally started my samurai training!  This is my destiny, Hinata-sama!”

She realizes that his life has likely just…always been like that.  Unbelievably dangerous.  “You’re…brave,” she trembles out into the dark.

“Heh.  It’s nothing.  When you’re as old as me, you’re ready for life’s trials!”

As old as him?  She hadn’t once wondered about how old he is.  He’s little, so she just assumed that he was…little?

“Wait.  How old are you, anyway?”

“...um-”

“You must be, what, like 9?  Ten?”

Her eyes widen at his extremely off guesses.  “I, I am 12 years o-old!”  As humiliating as it is, he’s seen her naked, so how could he possibly assume that she’s still a little kid?

“Twelve?!  That means you’re only a year younger than me!  You should be working, doing stuff at your age!  Not just sitting in the room all day!”

Her brows furrow, and a strange feeling of frustration wells up.  “I, I’m not s-supposed to, to work,” she manages to enunciate.  “I’m supposed to, to be a, a lady.  Ladies don’t w-work.”

“But you don’t even go anywhere!  You mean you cannot even go anywhere?”

She pouts.  “I, I go to p-places.  I go to, to the baths e-every evening.”  Even if it’s always with all the ladies of the household, and even if it’s hardly a few paces outside of the gate, it still counts.

“Just there?  No where else?  Are you serious?”

There’s the shrine, but that’s only once or twice a year, and even with the samurai escort, she doesn’t like it over there…

The edge of the town…

The dark trees…

“Why not?  Don’t you want to see what’s out there?”

“I…”

Was it a nightmare?  Her whole body grabbed…

Jostled.

Growls.

Her father's yells.

And his scolding.

“I don’t…think I can…”

“Huh?  Why?”

The voices, the dark, the blazing firelight.

The noise.

The shadows.

Watching.  Always watched.

She shuts her eyes and hides in the silence.

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

It's not really clear in Little Samurai that Hinata was nearly eaten by demons when she was a little girl, which alarmed her father and confused/traumatized Hinata. The demon that attacks her in the fic mentions that she's renowned for various reasons, most notably that she's loved by the gods, and that he's been desiring her for years, and the attack is slightly foreshadowed with the fact that she's always closely monitored, never allowed to leave, and requires a samurai guard whenever she leaves the immediate neighborhood. I couldn't really explain any of this with the entire fic in Naruto's perspective, but I tried to put whatever crumbs I could through his observations.

Eventually, Hinata forgets her fears under Naruto's constant holy protection and cheerful companionship. She already hardly remembers the incident at age 12, and by the time she's 16, her mind is full of daydreams and anxiety for the future rather than memories of the past.

:DDDD Thank you again for the ask. Revisiting Little Samurai was really fun!!!

#anon #about little samurai #unusual fic-specific ask #thank you for reading!

[artbyyeewen]

A Small Peep

A Small Peep. That’s what my mother used to say. A small peep. My earliest memory of this is probably when I was five. It was my birthday. I remember because of the party hats: mine pink, her’s purple. I was so excited to open my present which she had wrapped with the large leaves outside our house. I begged and begged and eventually we compromised with her saying I could have “a small peep”. I don’t even remember what I saw or what the present was revealed to be but I remember the moment, I remember it well.

 Another instance I remember well was Christmas before I turned 8, my first visit to The Peep. She said she had a surprise for me and, covering my eyes with a cloth she found laying around, she led me there. After what genuinely seemed like forever to 7 year old me, she let go of my hand and verbally confirmed we had arrived. I hadn’t seen it, but I heard it and smelled it too. As we ventured beyond the usual meadows and fields the tractor sounds had grown more and more distant as had the sounds of the village children playing soccer. For a moment, I basked in this previously unknown sensational feeling of anticipation. A chuckle brought me back to earth. Then, my mother spoke, “Exciting isn’t it? It’s time to open your eyes now, don’t you think? Just a small peep.”

Sigh.

The last time she said ‘a small peep’ was in her last moments. She was lying on her bed, head perched on a pillow. On her bed was a pure white bedsheet, and said pillow, of which she claimed had previously been white as well, but it looked more like brownish yellow if anything. Unsurprising, considering the bed had been there since prior to the War. 

She was motionless, seemingly saving all her strength for speech. Very bluntly, she abruptly stated “I’ll be dead very soon and I know it’ll devastate you. (pause, she slowed) But remember, even in the worst of times there’s always goodness, at least a small peek, always. I love you so much Ollie.” And shortly later, she died.

It was like a movie her friends had said. 

That’s one thing I wish I got to try from the days before: movies and tv shows. It was also one of the first things I properly discussed with Sam. But I’m getting ahead, so here’s a little rewind.

The Hybrid War 

The first few months after her passing were particularly devastating. How much I wanted her alive constantly lingered in my mind. It still does, just less. Expectantly, my aunt took over taking care of me.

 She was always a busy woman and she never wanted kids of her own. But she tried, she really did. We often made dinner together, gardened together and even went on long walks together sometimes. But I always avoided the Small Peak. What was once my place of happiness and hope had become my hell on earth.

#short story #short fiction #short stories #story

[agirlinthegalaxy]

Ever thought about how in the MCU, out of every Avenger on the team, they decided that Clint should be Wanda’s connection in the team? Clint, who was forced to attack and murder allies, friends, under mind control, just. accepts and encourages someone who put his team through the same thing. Considering he was also the only Avenger that Wanda didn’t get to manipulate, it honestly reflects rather poorly on him like. Wanda didn’t attack him, so it’s fine. Imagine if it had been Loki instead of Wanda.

Furthermore, we still hadn’t gotten a ton of backstory for Clint yet in contrast to the other Avengers. When considering which Avenger to have Wanda connect with, Clint, and Steve for that matter, were probably the absolute last two that they should have picked. Just consider:

Natasha - honestly, I think that Nat would have been the best choice. It could’ve replaced that weird Bruce/Nat relationship, first of all. Secondly, for all that Wanda is canonically an adult, the narrative had this weird thing about acting like her and Pietro were kids, but anyways: Natasha as a mentor/maternal figure, tying into that she’s unable to have kids and therefore takes Wanda on as that kind of figure. Furthermore, Natasha helping Wanda take out the red in her ledger?  The connection about being young, vulnerable, and exploited by others who turned them into weapons to be used on others? Could have been a vibe.

Tony - controversial, I already know, but I think that this relationship could’ve been really good. Tony, previously the Merchant of Death, and Wanda, the Witch of HYDRA, who start out despising each other and then finding common ground as Wanda starts her journey to redemption that Tony is still on. Learning to see similarities in their flaws, prioritizing their desires (Tony’s carelessness vs Wanda’s revenge) over others, seeing the actual damage that they’ve done through this? Plus, Wanda’s parents’ death from a Stark weapon when Tony stopped weapon manufacturing as soon as he became Iron Man, etc. Idk, it could have been good.

Thor - again, Thor’s character development from careless warrior looking for a fight to the more cautious, responsible protector and king of Asgard and Avenger could have been great for Wanda’s journey from. well. terrorist and HYDRA experiment to Avenger. Beyond the character development, he’s more knowledgeable about magic and even leaves in AoU to go find out more about it, which connects to Wanda’s powers. It’d also be a way to potentially lay groundwork for a Loki redemption, but even if not, Thor trying to help Wanda in the ways that he “failed” Loki and seeing it as a second chance.

Bruce - tbh, not my favorite, but. Both the subjects of experimentation that gave them incredibly dangerous abilities that makes them threats to others and people struggle to trust them because of those abilities. Plus science vs magic is always fun!

And this really isn’t intended to be anti any of the Avengers, but it just shouldn’t have been Clint connecting with Wanda. If anything, he should’ve distrusted her and then they build their relationship from enemies to wary allies to friends. Wanda’s connecting Avenger should’ve been one who we’d either seen or at least knew about redeeming themselves or growing as a person. That’s actually why it also shouldn’t have been Steve, whose journey thus far hadn’t included the same need or redemption or growth that any of the others did. (Neither did Bruce, but he ranks at a higher option because of the nature of their powers and experiments.) Because Wanda’s journey should have been significantly more focused on redemption than it actually was, because as it stands, I don’t think that she ever actually redeemed herself, even before Multiverse of Madness. Just. having Wanda be focused on redemption, and the person she’s closest to actually reflecting that.

#i have actually no idea what to tag this as bc i dont particularly want to be yelled at by mcu fans today #honestly i havent really been into the mcu in years bc of how over their writing i was by the time civil war happened #i just gave up on the franchise at that point bc like wtf was that mess #idc who you were rooting for that movie was a disaster #ive seen a few of the standaloney ones since but not really any of the main ones except for maybe multiverse of madness #ugh there was so much potential in it all too :(