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purplehairedwonder · 3 years

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Inside a Broken Dream Chapter 3

Fandom: One Piece Rating: PG-13 Pairings: Gen, briefest hint of Lawlu that you can ignore Words: 3325 Characters: Trafalgar Law, Penguin, Jean Bart, Donquixote Doflamingo, Smoker, Tashigi Note: Story title comes from the Vertical Horizon song “Shackled.” Character and relationship tags reflect the current chapter. Obviously this is canon-divergent ;)

Summary: Two years after Wano, peace on the Grand Line is fragile. Trafalgar Law and the Heart Pirates are doing their best to help maintain the peace, but the return of a figure from Law’s past might shatter the balance of power entirely.

Previous chapters: 1 | 2

Read also at AO3 / FF.N

“White Chase-ya?”

Smoker’s eyes flicked in Law’s direction, and his lips thinned into a line. “Law.”

Law frowned. “What are you doing here?”

Smoker grimaced and leaned back against the wall of his cell. The Seastone shackles around his wrists clanked with his movements. “Somehow, I keep getting caught up in your shit with Joker.”

Law snorted despite himself. He supposed it was a bit of déjà vu, calling back to being locked up on Punk Hazard. Too bad Law was restrained with actual Seastone this time.

Penguin was looking between Law and Smoker, confused, but he clearly knew he wouldn’t get an explanation so instead asked, “Did Akainu really let Doflamingo out of Impel Down and give him a ship to go after Captain?”

Smoker grunted. “Is that what he said?”

Jean Bart nodded. “He also said he wasn’t interested in running errands for Akainu.”

“That much is true, anyway,” Smoker replied. His tone made it eminently clear that he was unhappy to be having this conversation with three pirates—but he answered anyway.

“What do you mean?”

“Sakazuki did want to go after Law,” he said, nodding in Law’s direction. “And after Dressrosa, he thought he could use Doflamingo to do it.”

Had Law had the energy, he would have straightened at that. As it was, he narrowed his eyes. “What does he know about Dressrosa?”

Law knew Penguin and Jean Bart were watching him—he’d been intentionally vague about what had gone on there and why, though Penguin knew far more than most of the Heart Pirates about Law’s history with the former Warlord, and he’d rarely mentioned it since. At the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. The last thing he wanted was his history with Doflamingo to become common knowledge. Sengoku knew because of his connection to Cora-san, but Law got the impression the man was content in his retirement to let things lie in his adopted son’s memory. Akainu, though… The less that son of a bitch knew about Law, the better.

Smoker appraised him from his cell before speaking. “Whatever Fujitora reported, I assume.”

Of course. Though he wouldn’t know the details of the backstory, Fujitora had witnessed enough to know there was a history there—one that was intensely personal on both sides. That could have been enough for Akainu.

Law let out a breath. “Right.”

“Captain?” Penguin asked quietly, but Law shook his head. Penguin frowned but nodded.

“Why the sudden interest in the Captain?” Jean Bart asked. “He’s been an Emperor for two years now.”

Smoker shifted, seemingly looking for a more comfortable position. “It’s not sudden. Sakazuki’s had it in for you since you saved Straw Hat Luffy at Marineford,” he replied, addressing Law directly. “He took that as a personal insult. And then you pulled that stunt to become a Warlord and made an alliance with the rubber idiot before proceeding to completely upend the status quo on the Grand Line.” He raised an eyebrow. “Need I go on?”

“I broke the gears,” Law had said when he’d destroyed the SAD production on Punk Hazard. And the effects had certainly avalanched after that, though Law hadn’t necessarily expected to see it.

“I’m sure he’s thrilled the alliance hasn’t ended either,” Law muttered.

Law had known that he was in this alliance for the long haul the morning after Doflamingo’s fall. Law had been sitting, his body broken and spirit afloat, among the drooping sunflowers as the sun rose over the toy soldier’s cabin. Luffy, who Law thought had been sleeping off his injuries, had sat down next to him with a murmured “Torao” and had gently entwined their fingers. Law had leaned into him in silent response. Thank you. Why am I alive? What do I do now? all running through his mind. Luffy had tightened his grip on Law’s hand, anchoring him.

“He knew targeting you would draw Straw Hat’s attention,” Smoker confirmed. “He was counting on it.”

“Is he trying to start a war?” Penguin demanded, aghast.

“The closer Straw Hat comes to finding Laugh Tale, the more anxious he gets. He’ll take any chance to stop that from happening.” Smoker shrugged. “Though it’s moot now; Doflamingo screwed Sakazuki over.”

“Which brings us back to the Captain’s original question: How do you figure into this, Smoker?” Jean Bart asked, crossing his arms. Law belatedly noticed that Jean Bart had shackles around his wrists as well, though they were of the regular sort since he wasn’t a Fruit user. A quick glance confirmed Penguin did too.

“I was assigned to lead the mission. Doflamingo was chained with so much Seastone I could barely get near him, and he was guarded by multiple soldiers at all times. He was supposed to be an asset, nothing more.”

Law raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You were coming to take me on, White Chase-ya?” Their last fight hadn’t gone particularly well for Smoker, though he had saved Law’s life by recovering his heart from Vergo. Law would always hate the Marines after what had happened to Flevance, but Smoker was one he grudgingly respected. Still. “Should I be offended that I didn’t even warrant an admiral’s attention?”

Smoker replied with an unimpressed look. “The admirals have been spread thin over the last two years, and you know it.” It was true; since Doflamingo’s fall and the end of his underworld empire, the dissolution of the Warlords, and Kaido’s defeat, the admirals had had their work cut out for them keeping the peace.

“Even so, attacking an Emperor without an admiral—” Jean Bart began.

“And with a former Warlord on board,” Penguin added helpfully.

“—seems like a mission that should be led by an admiral,” Jean Bart finished.

Law found himself wondering if Akainu sent Smoker because he had history with Law… and Straw Hat-ya.

Smoker sighed. “Like I said, its moot now anyway.”

“Because Doflamingo escaped,” Law supplied.

“Once we approached your territory, he was released from the strongest Seastone restraints with the understanding he’d be shot on the spot with a Seastone bullet if he pulled anything.”

Law grimaced. Idiots.

“Oh, so it’s your fault Captain got shot,” Penguin snapped. “Always so competent, you Marines.”

Smoker startled, turning to examine Law. Law gestured weakly at his wound, his shackles clinking. “Seastone bullet lodged in my shoulder.” His lips curled. “Thanks for that.”

“That explains a lot,” Smoker mumbled before raising his voice. “You’re right.” He said it as if it took a great amount of effort to make the concession. It probably did. “He took control of the ship almost immediately. He overwhelmed us, and he forced my men to cuff me, knowing I wouldn’t fight them.” His voice tightened as he spoke, barely containing his fury at the memory.

Something was still bothering Law. “Where’s your number two? The swordswoman.”

Smoker’s expression darkened. “He’s got her on guard duty. She was watching me when he attacked you.”

That explained why Law hadn’t seen either of them earlier; Doflamingo likely hadn’t wanted to risk losing any measure of control of the situation by putting familiar faces in the battle.

“Has Doflamingo said what he wants?” Jean Bart asked after a quiet moment, eyes flicking to Law before returning to Smoker.

Smoker shook his head before landing his stare flatly on Law. “He just called it Family business.”

-----

Law jerked into full consciousness, hissing as his shoulder flared and blinking as the brig door opened and light once more flooded the dim room. After the conversation with Smoker, the four men had fallen into an uncomfortable silence. Law had felt drained—and by more than just the excessive amounts of Seastone he was being exposed to.

At some point, night had fallen—the Heart Pirates’ confrontation with Doflamingo had happened near dusk, and Law had apparently been out for several hours after that—though the darkened brig gave little indication of the time of day. Law had slumped back against the wall in the least painful position he could manage and had drifted in and out of wakefulness, familiar dreams of gunshots, black feathers, blood, and laughter never far from the back of his eyelids.

Two Marines entered the brig and stopped in front of Law’s cell. Law watched as they opened the door and stepped inside toward him. Despite the movements Doflamingo’s strings were forcing them to make, they looked back toward Smoker.

“V-vice Admiral,” the second Marine muttered. “We can’t—”

“I know,” Smoker gritted out. “Don’t blame yourselves. Focus on staying alive now to fight back later.”

“Yessir,” both men agreed before returning their attention to Law.

Law inhaled sharply and his vision spun as the Marines hauled him to his feet.

“Captain!” Penguin called as the Marines pushed Law out of his cell and toward the door. Law didn’t resist; he didn’t have the strength to with the Seastone still in his shoulder. “Where are you taking him?”

They all knew the answer to that question. “Doflamingo wants to see him,” the first Marine said in unneeded confirmation.

“It’s fine, Penguin,” Law said over his shoulder. “He wants me alive.” For how long, Law didn’t know. But he could use this chance to do some reconnaissance—anything was better than just sitting in that cell helplessly.

“But—”

“Penguin.” That was Jean Bart. Law was, not for the first time since Sabaody, thankful for the former captain’s calm and presence of mind; it had made him an instantly popular presence on the Polar Tang, and Law had always taken his counsel, when offered, seriously. “He knows.”

As the brig door swung shut, Law caught a glimpse of Penguin’s worried look and Jean Bart’s level, if somber, stare.

Law was surprised when the Marines steered him up some stairs then into a bathroom. “He told us to tell you to clean yourself up,” the second Marine said, nodding to the small bathroom. The Marines left Law alone in the bathroom, waiting outside.

For a moment, irritation at being underestimated flooded through Law’s veins, but it quickly diminished as he realized there wasn’t much he could do from here—the Seastone was suppressing his powers and draining his strength, and the small window wasn’t big enough for Law to fit through; and even if he could have fit through the window, where would he go? They were on a ship in the middle of the ocean, and Law was an anchor. Not to mention, two of Law’s men were still prisoners in the brig, and he wouldn’t leave without them.

Law took the opportunity to relieve himself then checked his pockets—an awkward task with his restraints. He sighed in relief when he found his surgical kit; the Marines must not have gone through his pockets once he was taken captive—or Doflamingo hadn’t made them do so. His mistake. With this, Law could remove the Seastone bullet from his shoulder and alleviate its worst effects. Or Penguin could. He hoped.

Returning the kit to his pocket, Law turned on the faucet and splashed some water in his face. He dared a glance into the mirror and winced. His features were (unsurprisingly) more drawn than usual, and though his navy shirt was dark enough to disguise much of the blood, there was still an obvious dark stain on the shoulder. He wet one of the towels then gently pulled the cloth of his shirt away from the skin, wincing when the dried blood caused it to stick. Once he’d separated the fabric from his skin, he took the damp towel and gently cleaned off as much of the blood as he could. It was awkward with his restricted wrists, but he managed as best he could. As the blood came away, the purpling of the skin became obvious around the bullet wound. He prodded around the wound with his fingers, grimacing at its tenderness.

There was a knock at the door. “All right, Trafalgar. Let’s go.”

With a weary sigh, Law splashed another handful of water in his face then dried off with a clean towel. He opened the door and allowed the Marines to push him forward down the hall again. He knew when to pick his battles, and this was not one of those times. Law did his best to make a mental map of the ship and number of Marines he saw, though his foggy mind wasn’t making that an easy task.

Eventually, Law was directed onto the ship’s deck. Law squinted at the morning sunlight, which was a stark contrast to the dim brig. He stumbled slightly, and the Marines shoved him forward. Law pressed his lips into a thin line but said nothing. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw he was been directed toward a small table with two chairs—one predictably occupied by Doflamingo. He was eating breakfast as Smoker’s number two was forced to stand behind him as a bodyguard. Law could practically feel the anger radiating off her, which he knew Doflamingo was basking in.

As Law approached, Doflamingo looked up and smirked. He gestured toward the empty chair across from him, and, when Law was too slow in taking it, twitched his fingers so Law’s Marine escorts pushed him down by the shoulders. Law ground his teeth against the jolt of fresh pain that radiated down his arm and through his chest but refused to give the other man the satisfaction of making a sound. Doflamingo’s smirk widened anyway. After dismissing the Marines with the wave of a hand, Doflamingo turned his full attention to Law.

“You know Captain Tashigi, don’t you, Law?” he said, nodding to the woman behind him. Her eyes flicked to Law and softened slightly before hardening again.

“We’ve met.”

“Hm. On Punk Hazard, wasn’t it?”

Doflamingo knew full well that was the case, so Law didn’t dignify the question with a response.

“Still delightful company, I see,” Doflamingo said, raising an eyebrow. “Some things never change, eh, Law?”

“My apologies,” Law drawled. “The Seastone bullet in my shoulder seems to be suppressing my manners as well as my Fruit.”

Doflamingo’s lips turned upward, apparently pleased at the response. “Fufufu. You must be hungry. Eat,” he directed, nodding toward the food on the table. No bread, Law noted idly.

Law didn’t move. Doflamingo sighed dramatically. “If I were going to kill you, Law, I wouldn’t have only shot you in the shoulder yesterday.” A twitch of the lips. “Besides, is poison really my style?”

Fine.

Still, Law raised his shackled wrists wordlessly, indicating how awkward it would be to eat with the restraints on.

Amused, Doflamingo twitched his fingers, and one of the Marine guards from earlier came forward. He brandished a key and unlocked the shackle on Law’s right wrist. Law let out a relieved breath before he could stop himself, but the relief was short-lived as he realized the Marine was locking the free shackle to the chair; Law’s left arm—the unwounded one—was essentially useless. If he was going to eat, he’d have to use his wounded arm.

Law clenched his jaw, biting down on the words he’d like to spit at the other man, as Doflamingo chuckled. “Fufufu. You knew it wasn’t going to be that easy, Law. Now eat.”

Doing his best to ignore the intent gaze of the other man, Law resorted to serving himself from the dishes closest to him so he wouldn’t need to move his arm too much. He ended up with some eggs and fruit. He blinked in surprise when another Marine poured coffee into the mug in front of him. Doing his best to control the trembling in his arm, he gripped the mug and took a tentative sip to test the heat of the drink. It was tolerable, so he took a larger sip. Blessed caffeine. It helped clear the fog in his mind the tiniest bit.

Law picked, one-handed, at the food on his plate and took sips of coffee as he waited for Doflamingo to get to whatever it was that he wanted. He’d just popped a strawberry in his mouth when the other man finally spoke.

“I told you once that I would have been happy to settle things between us over drinks,” Doflamingo said. “Do you remember?”

Law paused, then swallowed the food. He looked up at Doflamingo, who had steepled his fingers and was staring at Law over them. Despite everything that had happened—despite how much stronger Law was now—that gaze still made Law feel ten years old.

“As I recall,” Law replied coolly, “Fujitora was holding me down with his gravity force after you’d shot me with your bullet strings.” He inclined his head. “But yes, I do remember.”

“I meant it, you know. You’re Family. We all were waiting for you to return to your rightful place.”

Law snorted derisively, memories of waking up chained to the Heart Throne after being shot with lead bullets bouncing around the back of his mind. “Is that what we’re doing here? Making up for lost time?” His eyes narrowed. “It’s hard to take you seriously when—” Law found himself suddenly without words as he thought about the previous day—about finding the smoldering wreck of Shachi’s ship and fighting to stop Shachi’s internal bleeding as he operated on his friend, about that damn gun—so just gestured at his shoulder with his free hand. He could feel sharp, fiery anger coursing under his skin, but the numbing effect of the Seastone doused it almost as quickly as it came on, leaving Law feeling cold and hollow.

“You know what kind of Family we are.”

Law distantly noted the use of the present tense but didn’t dwell on it. “And that’s why I never came back.”

Doflamingo was uncharacteristically silent for several moments before he finally spoke. “There’s been something I’ve been wondering since you came to Dressrosa, Law.”

Law inclined his head, waited.

“Where were you that night? Coraz- Rosinante said you were out of the Birdcage. But you weren’t, were you?”

Law blinked, startled by the question—and by Doflamingo’s use of his brother’s name. Whatever he’d been expecting the other man to say, that wasn’t it. He couldn’t read the look on Doflamingo’s face either. Law took a breath, collecting himself—what did it matter if he told him now?

“No, I wasn’t.” He could still feel snowflakes on his eyelashes and the walls of the treasure chest pressing in on him… “Cora-san put me in one of the treasure chests.” His lips twisted into an expression he knew was ugly. “I heard everything.”

Including Doflamingo declaring Law would be taught to die for him. It had haunted Law for years that, had he not heard those words and had the Family recovered him, he probably would have died for Doflamingo. Happily. For all the hatred Law carried for the man in front of him, he’d loved him once, too. The Family had called him a traitor when he put his vengeance plan into motion, but Law had been the one betrayed on Minion Island. He still woke up shaking and nauseated from nightmares in which he performed the Eternal Youth Operation, dying with a smile on his face for the man who’d murdered his savior.

Doflamingo stared at him for a long, tense moment as though placing Law into his memories of that night. It was… disconcerting. Then he nodded. “We never checked the chests.”

“No,” Law agreed.

Silence fell once more. Doflamingo continued to study Law across the table while Law tried not to think about getting out of the chest and walking away from the Family, sobbing soundlessly until he wasn’t.

Finally, Doflamingo seemed to shake himself out of whatever he was thinking and turned back to his involuntary bodyguard. “Take him back to the brig, would you, Captain Tashigi?”

#Caitlin's fic #One Piece fanfiction #One Piece #One Piece fic #Trafalgar Law #Heart Pirates #Donquixote Doflamingo

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randomestfandoms-ocs · 3 years

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Drop the Evie essay you wrote

okay so first of all it wasn’t really an essay the way some of my ramblings are, more like just me writing down all of my thoughts in a vaguely coherent manner bc my brain was running too fast to really organize it

and second of all, just to be on the safe side, these are the potential trigger warnings that I would give for the essay — I don’t know if they all actually come up or not, but better safe than sorry, so proceed with caution!

Potential TWs: being outed, parental neglect, character death (canon), suicide attempts (semi-canon), eating disorders, lots of mental health issues, and lots of general trauma and feelings of never being good enough, and canon typical references to drinking/drugs/partying/etc

so just like a fun fact, Evie’s vitamin water of choice is zero sugar strawberry lemonade and yes i spent too long reading reviews on different flavours all because gossip girl did an entire product placement episode

anyways now onto real thoughts let’s go lesbians let’s go

so okay evie has a... very negative experience with Lily’s various boyfriends and husbands. When Evie was younger she was always hopeful that this time would be different, that they’d be a family, that her mom would actually stick around, and every single time she’s been let down and left heartbroken. When her mom starts dating Bart, Evie is very against it but she just can’t be bothered to even try to talk to Lily — Lily will date him, maybe get married, play house, abandon her children, then get divorced, and the cycle will repeat, and Lily will never give a shit about how her children feel about it. Bart is just the latest rich man for Lily to set her sights on. Given the overall shittiness of most of Lily’s exes, Evie had figured she would be a lot more vocally against Lily dating again, but Bart...

Bart himself may terrify Evie, but Evie’s unwavering faith that Chuck will always protect her outweighs that fear, and Evie has long since given up on her mom caring about her opinions so she just takes comfort in the fact that Chuck will be there and tries to just ignore the rest — and the fact that Bart is pretty much always away does help with that. That being said, she was very distraught when Bart spends season 1 christmas with them, but then Bart’s “present” for her was flying Chuck home for a few days because Lily mentioned that Eric was teasing Evie about being excited about having Chuck as a brother, and he's trying to semi-win over the kids (aka bribe them into accepting him as Lily’s fiancé)

Evie speaks several languages! She started learning French and Spanish at a very young age, and then picked more up from Lily’s various husbands. She’s not fluent in all of them but she can hold conversations in eight languages — and four of them were from Lily’s boyfriends (and italian was half pieced together from French and Spanish), and she just keeps learning more because she tries to keep herself too busy to think at any given moment

Rufus is her favourite step-dad by far, but Chuck is her favourite step-sibling (and second favourite sibling, after Eric). That being said, Bart was surprisingly decent to her because even he quickly figured out that Evie has the innate ability to get Chuck to do basically anything, and he wanted her on his side, only he underestimated how much Evie hates him for treating Chuck like shit — as she says in 2x07, “if you want us to be a family, you should learn how to be a dad”

Evie has a bit of a thing for stealing coats lmao — it’s not unusual to find her stealing Chuck, Eric, Theo, or even Nate’s jackets when she gets cold or starts feeling particularly self conscious. At the housewarming party she actually gets to bothered by all the media watching her constantly that Chuck goes and gets her one of his blazers to replace the cropped one she was wearing, and she immediately feels a bit more at east

Evie is a jock like it’s understated but she’s on multiple sports teams at school and plays outside of school too — she’s also in dance classes several times a week, along with private vocal lessons, and being part of every theatre production at Constance Billard (musicals and plays), and is on the yearbook committee. Basically, Evie needs a fucking nap, and with a lot of pushing from Chuck and Eric and Theo (to balance out Blair “do absolutely everything in the name of Yale” Waldorf) she does eventually ease up on her extra-curriculars

She holds far too much power in the Constance-St Jude hierarchy. She’s a freshman, but it’s well known that Evie is completely untouchable. Some people (cough Jenny) might try to cross Blair, but no one is stupid enough to go after Evie — she’s not just Blair’s protégée, she’s also under Chuck’s protection. And when Jenny does try to cross her in season 3 (physical and emotional bullshit, public humiliation, telling the entire school she’d tried to kill herself and had been at Ostroff not “in florida”), well... she learns that even being family won’t stop her entire life from being destroyed

Speaking of Jenny... that’s a very messy relationship — I want to like Jenny, I really do, but I just... don’t so far. They’re a very sweet relationship early on, neither of them had dated before and they were just really smitten with each other and things were good. There were definitely some issues because of the Jenny-Blair war, but they’d been okay — or so Evie had thought, until Jenny dumped her by means of introducing everyone to her new boyfriend, Asher. Then of course there’s the party and Jenny outing her, and then just not talking to her for months until she needs something from them (an in to the White Party). Eric manages to convince Evie to play nice, but he does so under the impression that Jenny had apologized to Evie — he didn’t know she’d only apologized to him. Eventually Jenny does apologize and Evie tries to forgive her, and she keeps giving Jenny more and more second chances (especially once they become step sisters), but Jenny really just keeps hurting Evie to get on top because with Blair gone, Evie immediately becomes the new queen, and Jenny cares more about being queen than being nice. Little does she realize that part of why Evie became queen with no challenge is because she’s nice.

and regarding Evie’s other relationships... so serena was a really good big sister when Eric & Evie were kids — Blair was the responsible sister and Serena was the fun sister, but it was a good balance and it worked. But when the twins were around eleven and Serena was around 13, she became besties with Georgina Sparks, and everything went to shit. Serena started getting into partying and drinking and drugs and became just as flighty and unreliable as Lily, which takes a significant toll on the twins’ mental health — side note, one of their therapists at the Ostroff Centre believes that their significant codependency stems from the abandonment issues they have as a result of Lily and Serena just up and leaving them whenever anything “better” comes along.

And unfortunately for the twins, this was around the same time (grade 6) that Theo got sent to boarding school, so really they lost both their sister and their best friend at the same time, and Theo leaving also messed up the overall group dynamics and they half lost Nate too — he was still in their lives but he went from being the dad to Blair’s mom to being more of a big brother, and there was this sort of hole that didn’t get filled until a couple of years later.

And of course, a lot of it then fell to Blair to try to fill that hole and the holes left by Serena and Lily and went from being sort of “mom friend big sister” to “literally the closest thing we have to a mom”, which is also just a lot of pressure for a thirteen year old girl and part of why Blair and Chuck got a lot closer after he ended up becoming their dad was because she finally had someone that she could talk to too.

Also like full disclosure, Chuck never really intended to become their dad. He started off as a reluctant big brother because he was Nate’s best friend and Nate was the dad friend when they were younger, and Evie just kind of decided that she loved him and like no one can argue with Evie so all of a sudden he was part of the family. He doesn’t really become dad until the van der Woodsens move into the hotel because suddenly Eric and Evie are just always there, and he doesn’t even realize it until months later, after Serena is gone and he realizes that he’s been skipping parties to like play mario kart and shit with the twins and Blair is just like “lmao yeah buddy you’re the last one to get this memo”

and then there’s this list that I made of the NJBC’s roles in raising the twins and theo back when they were younger

Blair: holds their hands to cross the street, teaches them not to talk to people who wear sneakers or to strangers, teaches them how to dress themselves like respectable people, makes them finish their homework before watching tv, hates all of their nannies and only trusts dorota to take care of them Nate: teaches them to tie their laces and their ties, plays video games and sports with them, helps them with homework and doesn't get impatient when they struggle, lets them use his notebooks to draw in when they're bored Chuck: will destroy anyone who hurts them, teaches them street smarts and how to tell when someone is lying, is the one who lets them do dumb and reckless things because he'd rather they do them when he's there to get in trouble, still refuses to believe that they know what sex is Serena: reminded them that it's okay to have fun and draw outside the lines, stood up for them when lily was being a shit mom and always tried to protect them from the worst of her neglect, came up with games to play when they were sad to take their minds off whatever is upsetting them

And Theo!!!!!! Theo has been their best friend for their entire lives! They’ve known him since they were babies and the three of them have always been inseparable! Like highkey they were just a more functional NJBC lmao, and we love them for it! Theo getting sent to boarding school was really hard on all three of them but they stayed in constant contact and whenever Theo is back in the city, it’s almost impossible to see them not together. Theo does know that they were in the Centre, so once he’s back full time, he’s spending as much time visiting them as he can! Even when Eric and Theo are dating (and later when Evie and Theo are dating), the group dynamics really never change! It’s still always the three of them, and sometimes Jenny in s1, they’re still each other’s family, and they’re still just a bit too interdependent to be entirely healthy (it’s the trauma and neglectful parents)

on a slightly related note, neither of the twins drink anything other than champagne and sometimes wine, and neither of them touch drugs at all, and it’s entirely because of Serena. They’ve both seen how much she’s changed since she got into that scene, and especially since ‘liking partying’ turned into ‘alcohol addiction’, and they’re both too afraid of ending up like that to even take the risk. It’s something that definitely sets them apart from pretty much any of their peers, but they’ve gotten very good at just laughing it off with a “hey, I just don’t want to end up on Gossip Girl tomorrow” which people generally accept

(that being said, Evie did smoke for a while pre-canon bc cigarettes curb hunger, but she hasn’t smoked at all since ending up in the Centre, and once she’s out too many people have an eye on her for her to even try, and she does want to stop)

(TW ATTEMPTED SUICIDE, fairly detailed discussion) so okay the breaking point for the twins... lily had just gone awol again and Blair was away visiting her dad and evie was at the archibalds’ house hanging out with theo, who was home for a weekend, and eric didn’t want to call anyone because lily’s disappearance had left him in a spiral of feeling annoying and like people didn’t really want him in their lives and there wasn’t a specific trigger but instead of the spiral slowing down or evie/chuck/blair being able to pull him out of it, it just kept getting worse until he was slitting his wrist in the bathroom — only Evie had just gotten home and when he didn’t reply to her calling his name, she got freaked out and started looking for him and when she saw him, she just... couldn’t deal. She called 911 for eric but then she was just in the bathroom and covered in his blood and she didn’t know what to do and she needed to calm down so she grabbed a bottle of valium that she thinks was Lily’s but instead of just taking one pill she ended up taking all of them and downing them with a bottle of vodka serena had hidden — once she realized what she’d done she called Chuck and basically just said “I think I fucked up” and Chuck freaks out (understandably) and rushes to their suite and gets there basically just in time to see both of them being loaded into an ambulance; he claims he’s their brother and rides with them to the hospital where he calls blair, and arranges for his jet to pick her up asap, and then tries (unsuccessfully) to get in touch with lily

#lizziesxltzmxn #ask #answered #evie van der woodsen #about evie #freshman generation

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erudite-rebel · 4 years

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Title: Forced Offerings Summary: The recounts of Bartholomew Oobleck regarding an incident which took the lives of his parents when he was a child. Characters: Bartholomew Oobleck, Qrow Branwen, OC’s Notes: I’m posting a bit of writing I did. A few people who follow will be familiar with my Magnus Archives AU, or at the very least have seen me spam about it and draw art for the (3) other people who I know that listen to the podcast. I’m actually very proud of this little bit of writing, though I understand not everyone would want to read it. I’m trying to get myself back into properly writing, and though this is fanfic I think getting it out there and maybe receiving feedback could help?

It’s a horror story. One I kind of want to adapt, honestly, to a Creepypasta to submit to NoSleep, but for now it can remain like this.

Warnings for body horror, gore, and guts.

“There has to be some sort of rational explanation for-”

“For someone wearing someone else’s skin like a meat suit?” Qrow’s words were calm. Somehow he was always calm. Even after all of this.

Barty leaned against the chair, hands gripping the back of it until it was twisted and pressed against the table. He had dark bags under his eyes and was unsure of the last time he’d had a proper sleep. Every piece of him felt tired, from toes to fingertips, and he knew if he laid down there would be nothing to gain for it. Just wakefulness, watching, waiting.

“I always thought I wanted it to be real, Qrow,” he said. “All my life. Ever since the wanting to know dug its claws into my head for the first time. Even when we both should have run away after the incident. I- but now I’m here. And I really do know now, even if there’s so much more that I don’t. Hidden. Layers waiting for me to scrape away and dig down into them.”

When he looked back up Qrow’s face was near unreadable, as it always was. As though his old friend had at some point become a spy. “You can still get out, Bart. Quit. Forget.”

Barty laughed weakly. “You don’t… you don’t think I tried? I attempted to write up a letter of resignation, and it was as though the keys had transformed, like staring at some unknown machine as the cursor blinked. So I took up a pen, determined to write it, and I forgot how to write. And when I saw Ozpin I… the words. They wouldn’t be spoken. I don’t think I can quit.”

He sagged then and pulled out his chair, sitting heavily down. His head was laid in his arms, trying to think it through, but what was there to think of? To understand? He was trapped. A group of beings wearing skin suits had attempted to break into the archives. He’d looked at one of them wearing the face of a person he’d taken a statement from. Veronica Chase of Leeds.

“Everything I remembered pointed to… to the world being a very dark place, but I think I. I was too young to understand just how horrific.”

Cool fingers curled around his. Barty squeezed them on reflex, trying to convince himself not to do anything so childish as cry. There was so much going on. Too much going on. And he knew Ozpin, Qrow, perhaps some of the other assistants, he knew they knew more. And those secrets, that untold knowledge, burned like a hunger in him as much as recording statements had become. A part of him, one he didn’t yet know how loud it truly was, wanted to devour that knowledge.

Qrow’s voice broke into his thoughts. “...Have you ever spoken about it?”

Barty considered the question a moment before he lifted his head. Qrow was no longer unreadable. He was sad. Maybe angry as well.

“I haven’t.” He’d alluded to things to Qrow, when they were young and just a few stupid, desperate children, but he’d never told the full story. Perhaps not even to the police.

Qrow nodded to the tape recorder. “Maybe now’s the time.”

“You mean give a statement?” He sounded incredulous, as though that was the last thing he ought to be doing.

The other man shrugged, but thin fingers curled a little tighter. The gesture was soothing. “Couldn’t hurt.”

Barty sat up straighter, looking at the recorder waiting for him to merely press record. It called to him. With a sigh he picked up his glasses and placed them on his face, straightening his back. Qrow’s hands retreated over the table to his lap, and the other man was silent as he slouched and stared at Barty.

The record button depressed with a satisfying click, and the gears within ground softly with their age. The sound tingled along his spine like light, tickling fingers.

“Statement of Bartholomew Oobleck, regarding a series of deaths at Eastwyke Museum of Artefacts and Antiquities in 1996. Statement taken on November 22nd, 2020. Audio recording by Bartholomew Oobleck, Head Archivist of the Beacon Institute, London.” He paused a moment, as memories returned, like he’d merely opened a door. He remembered being a young and curious boy, and the scent of dust and paper and age in the museum’s storage. It was almost as if he were there, and he knew he’d be able to tell the story down to the deepest detail, and when he began to talk he wasn’t entirely sure who he was talking to - Qrow, the tape, or himself.

“Statement begins.”

I don’t suppose there are many people who would remember the Eastwyke Museum of Artefacts and Antiquities anymore. Or if they do, they might pretend not to. The galleries had originated from the private collection of Duke Francis Egerton, who had been the Duke of Eastwyke for perhaps a decade in the eighteen hundreds and primarily concerned himself with gathering rare and unusual antiquities. In the 1950’s several of his descendants saw fit to open it to the public, perhaps to use it to make a little money or invest. Despite that it didn’t see tourism. The patrons were mainly students from Oxford, or travelling academics. Anthropologists, archaeologists, Egyptologists… even had an entomologist come in weekly to just sit in the insect room and take it all in. No, not many people would remember it, but it was my childhood.

My parents, Pearl and Mathis Oobleck, were archaeologists. They were often abroad with work and digs. Sometimes I went with them, sometimes I stayed at home with my grandfather Tennyson, who had a little cottage on the grounds when he worked as curator. When he retired the mantle passed to my father and they were home a little more, unless going off to expand the collection. It was… a happy enough childhood. Maybe lonely sometimes, but I had an entire world of secret knowledge to explore, a library to devour and help curb my hyperactivity. I was content prowling those halls, which felt more like home to me than our cottage.

When I was nine the proprietors purchased a considerable number of artifacts from a private auction, something to do with a portion of Duke Egerton’s original collection that had made it into the hands of a branch of the royal family they’d had a rivalry with. The purchase caused quite a stir. All sorts of wild stories were told… not the least of which was that many of the artifacts there were once bought from grave robbers. I never heard the truth of it, though I suspect it was. Most private collections are just that. Stolen.

I was forbidden to go near the newest items. While it was next to impossible to keep me out of the storage rooms, I had learned early not to touch anything, and was not allowed in the room where they were held without an accompaniment to make sure I kept my hands well off. I remember standing in the middle of the room, hands stuck firm under my arms to resist the temptation to touch the pottery or old weapons. I must have looked like I had seen Father Christmas as I turned every which way trying to get a peek at it. I was a horrible annoyance, I suspect.

One part of the lot, though, I remember very well. It had been a beautifully preserved set of canopic jars. I recall being told they were from the eighteenth dynasty. They were made of black stone, each head carved with exquisite detail, the polish hanging on despite the millenia since. All over the surface of the jar were carved hieroglyphs, uncharacteristic of the usual designs. Several people believed the jars to be fake, as the material was wrong for the time, and the glyphs were unusual, but carbon dating seemed to suggest it was an immutable fact. I think there was a lot of discussion whether to open the jar and study the remains inside.

The largest advocate for their authenticity was Dr. Herbert Renshaw, a loud and corpulent man. I never knew him well. He was the sort of man who didn’t have patience for even a docile child, let alone a hyperactive boy with a million questions. He usually didn’t want me about so I didn’t hear much of them until he’d found me one day loitering near the entrance of the archive where they were being kept and he asked if I would like to come inside.

I remember finding that odd, chiefly because I knew he didn’t care for me, but also because of the look in his eyes. I was never much good at deciphering human emotions when I was younger, but even then I thought there was something of a gleam to them. I readily agreed, though, and darted inside the moment I was allowed to.

We didn’t have much in the way of conversation. He talked at length about the glyphs carved into the rock, and how they’d seemed to be in several different languages. His speech had been rapid, I remember, and I’d had difficulty following along. All the while I’d been edging closer to them, feeling captivated by the staring eyes of the figureheads atop the jars. I felt as though they were looking back at me, urging me in.

I hadn’t even been aware of reaching for them when Dr. Renshaw’s hand slapped down hard over my own, knocking it away. Knuckles stinging, I’d turned and fled as he glared. But even now I’m not sure if I ran from the slap, the look in his eyes, or the fact that there had seemed to be radiant, physical heat from those jars.

For the next few days I was kept busy with my homeschooling and hardly got a chance to go into the museum beyond writing a maths test in my mother's office. Whenever I was in, though, I happened to see Dr. Renshaw. Normally he was a neat and tidy sort of man, with expensive suits and his moustache waxed within an inch of its life, yet… it seemed as though he was keeping less care of himself. Hair unbrushed, buttons undone, bowtie lank or missing. And as he walked he’d mutter to himself and turn a wild sort of gaze on a person, something that made you feel less like a person and more like an object.

When I asked my mother about it she dismissed it as him being overworked and told me to concentrate harder on my studies. I tried, but the memory of the way he walked and stared wouldn’t be banished from my mind.

It was on a Monday that it truly started. I had left one of my science textbooks in my mother’s office and needed it for that day’s lesson, but it was on Monday’s the museum was closed, so I took my father’s key and let myself in the back entrance. I was hardly afraid. I knew these halls like the back of my hand.

As I was passing through one of the archives - it had been stuffy and hot with summer, without climate control - I heard an odd sound. A sort of whimpering coming from further in the dark. At first I rooted in place, wondering if I should run and get my father, too afraid to call out. When the sound came again I crept through the shelves, terrified of what I might find, when I came upon one of the librarians, Maggie Law. I’d always liked her. She let me read what I like and sometimes would sneak me toffee’s or other sweets. I’m certain she had a kind, round face, but now all I can remember is how she’d looked there in the shadows. Yellowing skin and eyes, soaked with sweat, hands clutched over her side. I remember her crying, her voice so broken and small as she said ‘he pulled it from me, he pulled it from me.’

I ran then, straight for my parents. It had taken them a good five minutes to get me to talk enough sense to call an ambulance. I remember watching from my window as she was taken away, staring through old warped glass at the blue lights.

I also remember something else, though. Dr. Renshaw. His face looking out from a window at the same scene. Even though I couldn’t see him clearly, my vision what it was, I felt sick just to look at him. I felt dread.

More attacks followed. The following day the groundskeeper, Kevin Rutherford, was found dead, torch in hand. I overheard the police telling my parents he seemed like he must have had a heart attack while patrolling the grounds that night. The day after that an archaeologist named Judith Churchill was found in a state of shock in the parking lot, having finished up late that night.

The museum closed. Everyone by that point was terrified, and the police were doing regular patrols. I was thirsty to know what was happening but my parents refused to tell me, so I’d taken to listening in on the telephone whenever someone rang. I eavesdropped on one such call and learned that Maggie Law had died. Hepatic encephalopathy, they’d said. I remember struggling an ancient medical textbook down from a shelf just to look it up. It’s a condition caused by acute liver failure.

I was in a right state after that. My parents were making sure to keep the doors locked. I remember my mother tucked me in and told me not to worry. I try to always remember that.

It was around ten pm that a knock came at the door. Unable to sleep I’d made a little tent of a blanket and was reading by torchlight when I heard it. Curious who it could be at that hour with so much going on, I crept from my bed to go to the stairs to watch the front hall. I thought perhaps it might be a policeman, that there’d be some news.

It was my father who answered the door. On the threshold stood Dr. Renshaw, and he looked haggard. Deep bags below his fever-bright eyes, cheeks almost sunken, hair a mess. I remember he had a hand tucked into his jacket.

My father invited him in, of course. There’d been concern in his voice as he shut the door and warned him he shouldn’t be out so late with such strangeness going on.

I remember the door swinging shut. I remember Dr. Renshaw pulling one of the jars from his jacket and noticing the eyes of Qebehsenuf, the falcon, somehow staring out from its black and smooth surface. And then Renshaw reached for my father.

Words do not feel as though they can describe. I watched as his hand seemed to sink through clothes and skin and flesh without a drop of blood. I remember my father’s face going stark white as my mother asked what was going on. And then Renshaw pulled his hand back.

It was like nothing I had yet seen. Pink, almost purplish, tubes were gripped in Renshaw’s hand. My father screamed then, falling to his knees, watching as this mass was pulled from him. There was too much even for Renshaw to hold and it slipped to the ground with a wet splat, and seemed to move like a languid snake.

My father fell over then, as my mother screamed hysterically. All I remember clearly was Renshaw looking up at me as he held my father's intestines like fleshy ropes, letting them drag on the ground and slap his clothing. Our eyes met. They were like I had never seen before. There was something mad there, but also elation or euphoria I couldn’t understand.

I ran then, bolting for my parent's room. I remember crawling under their bed and curling up beneath the headboard, hands over my ears as I listened to my mother scream before it just… ended. I waited to hear boots upon the stairs, for Renshaw to come and stick his hand into me, but he never came. All I heard was the door swing shut.

I didn’t leave until morning when the police arrived. The maid found my parents, and the police found me. Had had to drag me from under the bed, in fact. They didn’t let me see their bodies, and the funeral was closed casket. I told the police who I’d seen but Renshaw had disappeared along with those canopic jars. Jars I worry that had gotten full on what was stolen from his coworkers.

I went to go live with my grandfather after that. There was a lot of therapy. I was pushed harder than ever into my schoolwork, and I treated it like a drug to quiet my mind. Eventually I think I half convinced myself it was a hallucination by the time I went to high school. Now I know better.

Statement ends.

#rwby fanfic #bartholomew oobleck #qrow branwen #rwby oobleck #rwby qrow #horror fanfic #tma au #freeform; my writing #is anything really real anymore?; tma au

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thattimdrakeguy · 5 years

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Wonder Comics Young Justice is scary.

Weird thing about the latest Young Justice series is that the first arc gave me everything I wanted, and it was written better than most people will give credit for (mostly, t’wasn’t perfect), and then the second arc was about everything someone could worry for and was written terribly.

I don’t know if I ever seen a comic turn such a turn in quality so fast.

First arc had great character moments, strong characters, amazing and fun use of the DC Universe, best art ever mostly (may have taken a bit for Tim, but by issue 3 it was the best Tim ever), and a super satisfying reunion.

Second arc couldn’t draw Tim or Bart, character moments barely existent, plot didn’t even always make sense, tedious as could be, and Tim randomly has a new name and costume that aren’t even explained why Tim changed it, and are both just horrendously done to the point of it being painful.

Like same comic, same characters, same writer, but the quality turn was so massive.

First arc dipped after issue 4, but there was still fun there and plot growth, with conclusions. It was still something you could critically called really good. Besides that baby subplot that was mainly useless and poorly written most of the time.

I’m hoping for this next arc to be really good. John Timms art for Tim and Bart, along with both components of Tim’s new identity will be MASSIVELY distracting to the point it’s a detriment of enjoyment, but Bendis is capable of being a good writer.

It’s sort of scary having a writer who can change between being the best thing in comics and your worst nightmare just in-between an arc being at the helm of your favorite characters. It shouldn’t be so worrying having your supposed-to-be monthly enjoyment be something you fret. I think that’s the worst part of having a bad writer on a comic you like, because you enjoy the characters, and it’s like that thing you cherish then just-- CRASH, and it burns, and you still wanna be loyal cuz MAYBE it’ll get better, but you aren’t sure because a thing just happened that’s gonna ruin a lot of enjoyment each issue. It’s just-- woof. Real friggin’ bad.

Maybe good things will come though, but given the signs, Bendis is gonna have to be on his A-Game to really bring it, because that last arc was nasty.

However I think he does get the characters, that first arc showed me he understood them enough. I’m not sure what it is with that last arc that made it happen. I’m not sure if he was busy on other projects so it was filler. Maybe DC forced him to make Tim change his identity, which would explain how out of nowhere it was. Maybe Bendis just didn’t care. Maybe he thought it was good. It’s really hard to tell.

One of those things that’s hard not to wonder about.

So far with this “Warlord” stuff, if they actually are changing Conner’s identity to that ... it’s just ... ehhhh. If the stories good, MAYBE, but I don’t know anything about Warlord to even know if it’s a good name for Conner if that’s what the one cover is supposed to mean.

Almost each cover is a nightmare. This edgy garbage were the characters look like absolute maniacs. Some stuff that looks STRAIGHT out of the NEW 52 TEEN TITANS, and I can feel that in my bones because I read the New 52 Teen Titans (well, some issues) lately, and it’s the same covers they would have.

Being a fan of a comic shouldn’t be like this.

At least the rest of Wonder Comics is still super enjoyable.

Sucks that what most people are looking forward to is like this. I just wish they gave us something that was actually something to look forward too, and not just more fear. Like who promotes a comic people liked with stuff that already scared the crap out of people before.

It’s like they don’t understand their audience.

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bald-tales · 5 years

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The Bears Den - part four

This is the final chapter to one of the very first stories I ever wrote on Buzzedhard. I had lost the copies and am unable to access the site. There is some subtle changes from the original.

When Ken returned to the barbershop he couldn’t believe the changes in Luke who was well on the way to becoming one of the dens latest pipe bears.

The weight gain was considerable now. Along with the new hair colouring, Luke’s beard and eyebrows were a deep fire-engine red. Taking up the edging trimmers, Ken began to carve out a new beard from the mass of whiskers that had rapidly grown. He trimmed the hair carefully away from the cheeks and shortened its length except for the chin area. He left a few inches of thickness creating a tail back goatee, leaving a thick moustache that he separated from the rest of the beard.

Soon the lather machine was warming up and Ken spread the white foam all over Luke’s stomach. He shaved all the areas clean where he had trimmed the hair. Luke was fascinated with Kens use of the straight razor; he knew he’d like a lot more of this, the feeling over his growing belly was incredible.

Ken made short work of the hair he wanted shaved. Luke’s chest was next as Ken edged the razor around the sides and top of the chest area creating a very well manicured chest, a stark contrast to the hair on Luke’s arms and legs.

Ken left the back hair for now, he thought it added a certain appeal to his creation. Ken then proceeded to fashion Luke’s new beard. He shaved the sideburns off leaving smooth skin down to the jaw line. He scrapped away with precision the whiskers on his cheeks and neck leaving a very defined edge on the beard.

Before long, Luke’s beard was a real creation, one that would need constant maintenance. He then waxed the long ends of the moustache turning them upwards, showing the moustache to be growing separately to the rest of his beard. He fashioned the end of the goatee into a point which finished just under his chin. Ken didn’t want to hide that now lovely double chin. The beard went back to follow his jawline.

“Now for some real fun!” Ken said out loud as he stuck another needle in Luke’s arm. “That will dull the pain as we work on some metal improvements to your body.” As he watched the kids eyes start to glaze over he then jabbed another syringe into each of Luke’s ball sacks. They would be filled with a heavy saline solution that contained more growth steroids. He would then do the same to each nipple. He watched in amazement as each ball started to expand rapidly. Ken knew these little beauties will hang nice and low with the extra weight.

Ken now wheeled a small trolley over. Luke looked down but didn’t say anything, he just sucked on that pipe which Ken had refilled with the same mind-altering drugs. On the trolley there was an array of various metal rings and barbells. Ken went quickly to work knowing the kid wouldn’t feel anything. Ken pierced Luke’s ear first putting a oversized silver ring that would start stretching that meaty lobe straight away.

He proceeded to work on the other ear but went with 3 smaller rings. He then went to work on those growing nipples next, ensuring they would stretch out and protrude even more under the weight of those 0 gauge rings. Finally a PA was inserted through Luke’s piss slot and for fun, he added 7 large barbells down the shaft which was now measuring a good 14 inches long. Ken knew he’d have to be the first to taste Luke’s enhanced cock. As he worked away the various drugs did their bit making him bigger and fatter, never to be the athlete anymore. He was now addicted to the pipe tobacco and had lost all memory of his former self.

When Ken had decided the the kid looked just right he decided to test-drive him by tasting that huge cock. Now Luke was one of them. As he got up Luke had no real recollection of his former self just that he was a horny pipe bear that needed to find some other studs into the pipe smoke.

“Oh my god!” Exclaimed Bart the bartender as Ken brought Luke back into ‘the Den’. “That can’t be the same kid can it Ken? Is that Luke?” “Sure is. Bart meet Lucas.” Ken replied having decided this guy was too mature looking to be a Luke. Bart couldn’t get over the changes. Luke or Lucas looked closer to fifty years old. He wore close fitting leather chaps which exposed his huge cock and low hanging balls. The glint of metal was even more pronounced against the stylised red beard. And where had the kids hair gone? The now smooth scalp shone brightly under the lights of the bar. Now the biggest change change to Luke’s appearance was his body; he was huge, his smooth belly hanging over the chaps.

Bart wasn’t the only one to notice the new bear as the now crowded bar had gone silent when Lucas entered puffing away on his oversized pipe. “Ken! Your a magician.” Bart grinned as he licked his lips, “quite an improvement. You should start up a ‘bear transformation’ business.” “Maybe I will, it would certainly be good for business but first things first, we have to work on ensuring Lucas disappearance making sure he isn’t missed.” Then after a pause he added,“Let’s have a beer first Bart! A regular one of course. I really don’t need to put on any more weight and I don’t think our latest customer does either.” Bart laughed as he went to get some bottled beer. “Looks like you have a real knack for bear makeovers and along with my special brew we are a team to see hat it happens.” “Yeah! But we have to tread carefully. We don’t want to draw any. Unwanted eyes to what we have here.” Ken added as he ran a hand over Lucas balding head.

Bart reflected on what his partner just said before adding, “You secret is safe with me.” Ken laughed as he took his own pipe and lit it relishing in the thought of what incredible transformations were ahead for ‘the Bears Den.’

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suddeninklings · 5 years

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Summary. Louis Bloom needed a change. Alone in a new city, he is ready to make his mark as he had in Los Angeles. Sadie Sims is alone, too. But she knows San Francisco in ways he doesn’t.

Introduction

Chapter One.

“This is great stuff, Bloom.” Robert said. “Really, great stuff.”

The segment producer, a balding man with thick frame glasses, watched the unedited rushes with wide, hungry eyes. Louis smiled, light from the screen reflecting coolly on his teeth. He had gotten lucky last night. The story, about a woman arrested for attempting to kill her husband and collect on the insurance, was straight out of a movie. Hell, he’d seen several of them. He knew it would appeal to Robert Dean in particular. It didn’t take long for Louis to find everything he needed on the man. He was divorced, lived across the bay, had to take the BART in every morning. His ex-wife had remarried very soon after their separation was finalized. It wasn’t hard to draw the proper conclusions.

“I told you, Robert,” He said, clapping the man on his shoulder. “I can deliver the best footage out there, twice as fast and at ten times the quality.”

Robert only nodded, his eyes never straying from the screen. He fished a pocket square from his jacket to wipe at his brow.

“So, are we in business?” Louis primed, tempted to lean in further.

“Yes, yes, we are.” Robert said. He faced Louis, offering his hand which Louis took in a firm handshake, something that had been apart of all his business classes. Shake hard. Keep eye contact. Never stray.

“Great,” Louis said, prying his hand lose to wipe the man’s sweat from his skin. “That’s great, Robert, just great.”

“You’ll need to see Georgia, in accounting.” Robert said, his excitement palpable. “I’ll show you the way.”

___

$500 was a good start. Pennies compared to what he had been making. But Robert Dean was no Nina. Negotiating with him would be an easier endeavor. A little less of a thrill perhaps, but there were others he could indulge in. Later. For now, Louis had work to do. This was perhaps the more precarious time. He had Robert Dean and the channel 4 news team in his hands, but now he would need to pocket them. They wanted him, yes. Now he had to ensure they would need him. Rely on him. Only then would he feel safe enough to call San Francisco home. Perhaps then, he could look into hiring some help. Putting down roots.

He spent the day logging his find and researching. The story played on both the morning and evening news. The footage also hitting a few local blogging sites. Although he far fewer miles to cover, it seemed that the people here were more invested in the goings on of their beloved city. Whether that was a blessing or a curse, Louis hadn’t quite decided. It wasn’t until the sun had long set that he decided to venture out again. He was still taking things slow, driving from place to place. Inspecting areas and trying to make sense of the many streets, the difficult ones, the limited ones. It was frustrating. To go from knowing the roads of Los Angeles as intimately as his knew the growing lines on his face, to feeling completely lost. As if he were a ship captain, navigating an unfamiliar sea. He wanted to bypass this part somehow. Relying on GPS was necessary at times, but he felt better knowing he didn’t need it. Until that time would come, he was at a disadvantage.

A strange clatter and whispered curse caught his attention. He looked up from his screen, blinking so that his eyes could adjust to the darkness around him. He was walking north on Polk, having had to park four blocks away from the convenience store in order to retrieve a new battery. Parking, that was one of his newer problems. Such a compact city with many, many coveted spots were in conflict with one another. He was passing by an alley, when the sound caught his attention.

The alley was deep and lightless. The amber glow from the adjacent streetlight only stretched about four feet in. He could see a door, guarded on both sides by vertical metal fencing. Above it, stretching the safe guarded height from six feet to twelve was a more climbable chain link. Which seemed to be what the slight, shadowy stranger was aiming for.

He recognized her. The waitress from Whitney’s. Amused, he stepped quietly forward, leaning his shoulder against the wall and watched. She looked different, removed now as she was from the uniform and oppressive glare of aging fluorescents. Her brassy hair was free of any ties, only just falling to meet her shoulders. It was cropped and choppy, messier now that it was when she was working. She wore slim black pants and dark brown boots that laced half way up to her knees. Instead of the larger, jean jacket she wore a dark green racer that better fit to her form. A small, sling backpack hung over her shoulder. She was petite, he guessed she stood at 5’3”. And though she was giving it a lauded effort, there was no way she would be able to reach the chain link on her own.

“Need a lift?” Louis called, after letting her go about it for a minute longer.

“Oh,” Sadie started, shoes scraping against the ground as she pivoted, her back hitting the fencing. “Shit, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis said, pushing off from the wall. “That was not my intention.”

Sadie’s hands went to the strap that wrapped up her left shoulder, winding down across her chest and to her back. She eyed him carefully, her suspicion and unease reading clearly even in the muted light.

Louis only smiled and traipsed up the fence line, maintaining a comfortable distance between them. He shifted, splaying his weight evenly onto his feet and wound his fingers together, palms up.

“You’re serious?” Sadie asked, still wary.

Louis just shrugged. “Why not?”

Sadie bit down on her lower lip, considering her options. Louis just waited patiently. Knowing she had none. After a moment, she swallowed and stepped forward.

“Use my shoulder,” Louis directed, almost gently. “Steady, steady.”

She seemed hesitant to make any unnecessary contact. Her hand hovered an inch from his shoulder as he suggested, but she lifted her right foot up into his hands.

“In 3...2...1…,” With a grunt he hoisted her up. She managed to grip the chain link and made easy work of the remaining climb. With a grace that insinuated experience in such practices, she dropped down onto the other side, dust and debris flying into the air around her feet.

“Thanks.” She said, leaning over to knock it away.

“You live here or something?” He asked. He knew she didn’t. This wasn’t a residential area. But he was curious. To see how she would respond.

“Oh,” She said, straightening again. Waves of hair had fallen around her face, shielding one of her eyes. She looked up at him, but it was hard to see his face with the light situated behind him. She grabbed at two of the metal rungs, leaning forward and focusing her gaze on her hands.

“No...I…”

She was looking for a lie, that was easy enough to see. He wondered which one she would choose, when she surprised him by seemingly telling the truth.

“There’s this statue...in the main courtyard.” She said, “I want to get a picture of it.”

“A picture?”

“MmHmm.” She said, she pulled one hand from the fence, reaching behind her and pulling something from her bag. It was a camera. Nicer than he imagined she could afford. “But they don’t let you in at night, there’s a guard at the front.”

She rambled on. Louis lifted his hand to grip the same rung she held, but several feet higher. There was little space between them now. Only an inch or so, but she seemed emboldened by the fence. Even though he could still reach his hand through and grab her if he wanted to. If he wanted to. His shadow swelled over her, his own silhouette morphed in by the angle of the light, leaving half of her face in the dark. The shadows of the bars were present too, creeping up her face, reminiscent of a jail cell. As if she were trapped. Her right eye still caught the light, it seemed to brighten as she spoke about the shot she was aiming for.

“Do I...do know you?” She said suddenly, calling his attention back.

He locked eyes with her. She swallowed hard, but didn’t look away this time.

“You’re Sadie.” He said simply. As if he didn’t need even a second to recall it. He gestured to his waist, to the place where she normally pinned her name tag. Any alarm she felt seemed to fade away.

“That’s right,” She said, her shoulders relaxing. “You come to Whitney’s on Tuesdays - Thursdays.”

Louis’ eyes narrowed. He had only been coming to the diner for two weeks and already she had identified his schedule?

“So all this for a statue?” He said, stalling as he tried to pinpoint why her observation bothered him. “Why not come around during the day?”

“No,” Sadie said, shaking her head, her fingers winding through the strap on the camera. “It wouldn’t be the same. And I doubt they’d let me in then…”

She could feel his eyes on her, even when she looked away. His gaze felt hot, probing. She didn’t like it. His hand, still wrapped around the pole, slid downwards. Closer to hers. Whether he was aware of it or not, she wasn’t sure.

“I guess it doesn’t sound that great,” She muttered, her voice growing fainter with each word. “No matter how I try to spin it.”

Just go away. She thought, as if she could will him to do so.

“Well, good luck.” He said, brightly.

She looked up but he was already gone from sight.

“...thanks?” She said, to no one in particular.

The next night, Louis headed to the cafe. He arrived at five past 10pm. Whitney’s would be closed in an hour’s time. It was busier than usual, but it was likely normal for a Friday night. There was one booth left and Louis slid into it, preferring his own space to what was left at the counter. To his good fortune, Sadie approached his table.

“Hello,” She said. Her tone was polite, but he could sense the same wariness from the night before.

“Hello,” He said, grinning. “I’ll have a coffee and a slice of pie, whatever you have.”

“Sure,” Sadie said, tucking her pen behind her ear, not bothering to write down the simple order. “Anything else?”

It was a perfunctory question, one she was likely required to ask. But that didn’t mean Louis wasn’t going to take her up on it.

“Join me,” He said, amiably. But it wasn’t a question.”

“Um,” Sadie said, looking over her shoulder. “Okay, my break’s in ten.”

“Great” Louis said, before sticking the ear bud back into his ear and looking down to his screen.

She returned with a minute to spare. Setting his mug and plate down at the center of the table. She slid into the booth across from him, holding tightly to a mug of her own. The steam spilling from it had a distinctly floral scent.

“Thank you,” He said, drawing the plate closer to him. “Would you like some?”

Sade just shook her head. She looked down at the mug, clutching it nervously. Louis smiled, his chin dipping down low to the table to catch her eye.

“I’m not going to tell your boss what you were doing last night.” Louis said, “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Sadie exhaled, managing a small small. “Not worried, so much as curious.”

“Curious.” Louis repeated, nodding. “Me too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, why a person, a nice person such as yourself, would go to such lengths. All for a picture.”

“You think I’m nice?” Sadie, asked. She seemed more interested in her reflection in the mug than in his answer.

Stalling. Louis recognized. But why?

“Of course I do.” He said, softly in an attempt to placate her. “You’re all nice here. I expect that’s why you were hired.”

“Oh, well,” Sadie said, rather lamely. “I suppose...that’s nice.”

Louis waited for her to answer his question.

“It’s what I do.” She said, finally. “Or what I want to do, I guess.”

“Take pictures?” Louis asked.

“Photography, yes.” She corrected. “I’d like to do it professionally.”

“Not this job.”

“No, this just pays the bills.” She said, lifting the mug to her lips again before muttering, “Sometimes.”

“It must be hard,” Louis said, leaning in. “This is not an easy city for that type of work.”

“I guess not,” Sadie said, “But I manage fine.”

“Did you grow up here?”

“Me? No.”

Louis frowned. That was not the answer he was looking for.

“But I’ve lived here a long time now. Longer than any other place. Since...um...Six years. Maybe seven. You’re new though, aren’t you?”

The smile returned. Seven. He could work with seven. “I am. Actually, that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Why?...exactly.”

“Well, I was hoping you could help me out. With my job.”

“Your job.” Sadie repeated. “What is your job?”

“News production.” Louis said. “Camera operations and footage acquirement specifically.”

“Oh?”

“But I’m unfamiliar with the city, still.” He continued. “It would be helpful to have...a guide for a night or two.”

“So...you’d pay me?” Sadie asked, her interest peaked.

“$100” Louis said, setting the bait. “It wouldn’t be a permanent situation of course. A couple nights at most. And you seem to know the ins and outs of the city…”

Sadie blushed. “A-alright,” She said, looking from side to side.

“Can I think about it?”

“Well, Sadie.” He said, “I was hoping to have someone tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Sadie said, considering. “Alright. I could do tomorrow.”

“Great,” Louis said, offering his hand to her.

She looked down at it, confused at first. She lifted her hand away from the mug, gently placing it in his. He could still feel the warmth from her tea radiating on her skin.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

___

Thanks for reading! I know it’s a bit of a slow start but I’m feeling out Lou as a character. I hope I’m doing him justice. Things will definitely pick up next time.

#nightcrawler #fanfiction #louis bloom #tnio #jake gyllenhaal #fanfic

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jeanjauthor · 4 years

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This is a sad thing. We all know that lIfe happens. Situations and people and feelings all change. For me personally...I was there before Crossed Genres started.

Since this is somewhat personal, I’ll put the rest behind a cut:

The editors of CG are my friends. We were friends coming out of Harry Potter fanfic fandom. I first met them on the old RestrictedSection.org website forum boards, a Harry Potter Fanfic Archive that had very high standards for submission, and where my first (and both literally & figuratively biggest) fanfic was posted online.

We encouraged each other, we suggested ideas and edits, and I admired them for their sheer skill, both of them, as well as their creativity. While we didn’t live together (Seattle area versus Boston area, over 3,000 miles apart) I considered them my friends, andeven went to visit with them for a week in 2007.

That in itself is a story.

It started with Bart having a three day period where his spouse Kay and their son were going to be out of state visiting relatives. That meant he would have three days of uninterrupted time, which he wanted to fill with writing to keep himself busy. He wanted to push himself, so that meant he wanted to have a word war with someone.

(For those who don’t know, a word war is like NaNoWriMo, except you’re “competing” in a friendly way with someone to see how much you can get written in a specific block of time. Entrants in a word war may tease each other about word count totals, but it’s also done in a very supportive & encourating way. In a way, we want to lose to the other person, even as we want ourselves to win. Best. Kind of War. Ever.)

Anyway, I was at a point in my writing where I was stuck. I needed something to push me through my writer’s block, so I accepted his suggestion of a 3 day word war...and to make ourselves even more motivated, we settled on a bet. If he won, I’d give him an ARC of The Master (Sons of Destiny book 3--at the time of the word war, I was working on books 5 & 6). And if I won, he’d give me a basket of chocolates...

...Except Bart changed the rules, and insisted (with Kay’s encouragement) that if I won, they’d instead buy me a plane ticket across country to Boston to come stay with them for a week. I tried to talk him out of it ($300 plane ticket vs $50 fancy basket of chocolate?? C’mon, here!!), but he was stubborn. So was I.

Either way, the weekend in specific came, and we went to work. By the end of Friday, I beat him by roughly a thousand words, writing around 7k in a single day, with him close on my tail at 6k. Saturday, I beat him by roughly a thousand words, this time putting out about 8k to his 7k. Sunday...I hauled arse and wrote over 10,000 words...and he beat me by over 12,000 words.

The most I have ever written in a single day’s session (that I kept track of) was just over 15,000 words. 6,000 words is in and of itself a huge output for a day’s writing (anything over 1,000 is pretty damn good, imho), so we were both awesome that weekend.

Anyway...we tallied up all our words for all three days on Monday, exchanged numbers, and...I beat him. I beat him by I think 253 words total? I was honestly surprised that after his 12k+ literary ass-hauling that I’d managed to beat him, but there it was. Bart was very disappointed not to win the Advance Review Copy (I was disappointed, too, but I Had A Plan), so he tried to tell me we’d tied.

I shot back “If it was within 100 words, the size of a 100-word-drabble, I’d count that as a tie! You owe me some chocolate, Mister!”

Except he out-stubborned me.

He insisted I come out to Boston to hang with him and his spouse and their kid and their cats...and...well...I finally caved (tbh it didn’t take too long). I bought my own ticket (it ended up just being easier that way, as the airlines were being putzes about having to use passengers’ first names and he didn’t know mine), but they handed me some cash when I got there...and I handed over the ARC of The Master.

Why? Well, it was only 253 or so words of difference...and because the two of them had supported me from well before my editor at Berkley offered me that first invitation to submit, let alone a four book contract after reading The Sword (book 1).

They had supported me back when I was still writing & posting chapters to my first HP fanfic, the same fanfic a certain editor at Berkley (part of The Berkley Group, part of what is now Penguin Random House) found and read and loved, which led her to following my fanfic writing in that ‘ship and, a few years later, offering me a chance to submit an original manuscript to her while I was still in the middle of writing my second-biggest HP fanfic (a reaction to HP book 6).

So I went to Boston. And I I had a wonderful time. I even did a day-trip train ride down to NYC to visit with my editor in person (she’s a wonderful woman). I don’t think I got any chocolate...but I did get even better memories. Sweet memories that are now a little bittersweet, because the two of them were so loving back then...

But times change, people change, circumstances change...and change is not always a wrong thing, even if it might be a sad thing.

Bart and Kay are both my friends, and I will remain friends with each of them even after their separation. They are truly good people, and are being careful not to demand anyone pick sides, and have their son’s best interests at heart. I don’t know what each of them is going to do, post CG, but I wish them the best of luck with great opportunities & lots of inspiration.

Since they are mature and professional, even if undergoing a stressful change in their relationship to each other, they might someday reach a point where, post-separation, they can work with each other again without too much stress and strain. That might mean CG could revive. Or they may agree to let one or the other carry on once that person is in a stable situation, and may take on other co-editors.

Or Crossed Genres may stay retired for good. I’d advise not holding our breaths, but instead breathe calmly and keep on reading, keep on writing, keep on drawing and creating and trying our best to make our world a little bit better.

CG has been an outstanding concept during its eleven-year run. An online magazine, a series of anthologies...and some of the toughest editing standards I’ve ever faced. I’ve had stories that got rejected, and one story that was accepted. (”The Hero Industry” in Subversion: Science Fiction & Fantasy Tales of Challengint The Norm, 2011.) Neither Bart nor Kay cut me any slack simply because we were long-term friends. They didn’t slip me into their anthologies because of that friendship, and I appreciated that.

They wanted me to produce the best I could (competing against other submissions)...and when I did with that one story, they let me know it.

But for now...life happens, and things change. Here’s hoping things change for the better for each of them, even if it’s no longer something that will happen for both of them as a couple.

And while you won’t be able to get more of CG’s anthologies from this point forward, either backlist or future productions...I encourage everyone to look up the authors who did get published. You’ll find some of the best & most creative writers that way, all thanks to Crossed Genres.

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reallyautomaticvoid · 5 years

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Calling It: Good Intentions Chapter 3: There’s Tim!

Characters (in order of appearance in this chapter): Conner Kent, Bart Allen, Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson

Chapter Summary:

Conner and Bart find Tim. Or, rather, Tim finds Conner and Bart.

After checking the dozen safe houses that they knew about plus a couple of old ones that Tim had abandoned (shocking an old lady when they burst in through her front door, though they did get pie…) Conner and Bart are out of ideas.

“I’m telling you,” Conner runs to keep up with Bart, “I don’t think he’ll be there.”

“It’s as good as any to regroup,” Bart counters as he punches in the security code. “Besides, I don’t want to miss Tim’s apartment being this clean. It might not ever happen again.”

Conner snorts because yeah, Bart has a point.

Conner follows Bart into the living room. Conner walks towards the perch’s entrance and stares at it again.

How bad could the security be?

Conner hesitates for half a second before using his X-ray vision to see through the door into the stare case. Or trying to use his X-ray vision.

He couldn’t see anything.

“Shit, Tim lead lined the goddamn door.”

“Because, of course, he did,” Bart snorts, staring at the door, “that’s our paranoid bird.”

“It’s not paranoia if someone is really after you,” a new, weary voice came from right behind them.

Jumping, Conner and Bart before turning to see, “Tim!”

It’s something to be said that two of the fastest people in the world couldn’t catch Tim before he collapses onto the couch. Tattered suit pants and collared, long sleeves hung off of Tim’s frame making him like he’d lost ten pounds.

Clammy skin? Check. At least a half a dozen new scratches, some infected, covering his arms and face? Check. Giant fresh gash covering Tim’s forearm? Check.

Conner knows there was more but didn't trust himself to use his x-ray vision. With how shitty Tim looks, literally the last thing Tim needs is for Conner to fuck up and fry him instead of scanning him.

Instead, Conner gently puts his hand on Tim’s forehead.

“You look like shit, Tim,” Conner mildly says. He mouths fever at Bart who nods before running off to get supplies. “You know, when someone is missing their spleen, normal they do little things like gee, I don’t know, eat. Sleep. Take a shower.”

A faint smile twitches on Tim’s face. “I’ll be sure to let Ra’s know that you’re not interested in his vacation package. He was so hoping that you'd be going next.”

“You were with Ra?” Bart reenters the room but freezes at Con’s words.

The exchange a look; both knew the Demon’s Head has an unhealthy interest (obsession) in Tim. Tim’s never been keen on sharing the hows and whys of that interest which pisses Conner off to no end.

“Yup. Not the best vacation I’ve ever been on but still not the worst. That still the time that Bruce tried to make us all go on that family retreat when the Demon tried to leave me in the woods to starve.” Tim’s voice gets higher as he mimics Damian in a dead-on impression. “But Father, why do we even need Drake here. I’m here now; you don’t need a cheap replacement. Grayson, I don’t care if you like him; he’s weak and should be removed. Fuck, that was a long week.”

Conner and Bart exchange an awshiiiiiit look.

They know some of the Batfamily drama.

No, that’s a lie; they knew very, very little about the Batfamily drama. Tim rarely (if ever) talks about the ins and outs of what actually happened once Damian arrived at the Manner. All Conner knows for sure was once Damian moved in, Tim had slowly, but surely started spending more time in San Francisco and less and less time in Gotham.

Fuuuuuuuuck, Tim must really be fuck he’s talking about it so freely.

Bart grabs the thermometer and gives it to Tim.

Tim makes a face.

Bart arches an eyebrow. “It’s your mouth, or I’ll find someplace to put it.”

Tim takes the thermometer, putting it under his tongue. After thirty seconds, it beeps with a temperature of 101°. Bart and Conner exchange a knowing look.

“Oh, don’t look at each other like that,” Tim moans. “I’m fine. I just need a little sleep.”

Conner snorts. “No doubt, but let’s get you something to drink first, okay? When was the last time you ate?”

“Had a salad with Tam,” Tim grunt.

“Salad doesn’t count. When was the last time you had real food?”

“Salad does so count. It had chicken on it and everything.” Tim whines as he rolls over and shoves his face into the back of the couch. “Sleep.”

Conner looks at Bart who mouths fuck.

Little known Titan lore: if Tim Drake whines about wanting to sleep, it means some shit has gone down.

“Man, you really gotta learn how to take care of yourself.”

“I’ll be sure to let Ra’s know you don’t approve of his solitary confinement package.”

Conner files that away for future discussion (which Conner’s sure won’t get him anywhere) before hoisting Tim up bridal style. “Come on, man. Let’s get you some food. Can’t take your antibiotics on an empty stomach.”

Tim hisses. “I hate those things. They always make me nausea.”

Bart shakes his head, muttering, “sure it's not the whole not eating anything for a week things?”

Tim’s head lulls back to glare at Bart. “Nope. Defiantly the antibiotic.”

Conner doesn’t say anything, as he’s too busy trying not to laugh. Or cry. He isn’t sure which.

“Here you go,” Conner deposits Tim at the table where Tim slumps, face first, into the table. “What do you want—uh, what do you have to eat?”

“Coffee.”

Bart snorts. “One, that’s a drink, not a food. Two, you know the rules: no caffeine on an empty stomach.” Bart zips around the kitchen opening cabinets, looking for food. He finally ends at the empty fridge. “Power bars, energy drinks, and coffee? Really Tim? That’s all you have in your kitchen? Even I can’t make something out of that. More importantly, how are you alive if that’s all you eat in Gotham? How have you not had a heart attack?”

Bart’s— the best chef among the Titans—could do wonders in the kitchen. Conner once saw Bart make a mouthwatering casserole out of an orange, licorice, tofu, and a few other ingredients that Conner missed. As Bart put it, “if you had to eat twenty thousand calories a day, you’d get good at cooking too.”

“Coffee,” Tim stubbornly repeats.

Rolling his eyes, Bart says, “I’ll be back,” before zooming out of the room without another word.

Conner goes over to the cabinet that holds some of Tim’s emergency shits hit the fan supplies including bags of saline solution and an IV. Tim eyes Conner as he moves around but doesn’t object when Conner gently put the IV needle into Tim’s arm. Although, Conner isn’t sure that Tim has the energy to object to anything that the Meta might do to him. Conner sits down, watching the IV drip. Tim closes his eyes; head resting on the table.

“You want to talk about it?” Conner murmurs.

“No.” It’s the strongest thing Conner’s heard Tim say since Tim had stumbled back into his apartment, so Conner doesn’t argue.

After about ten minutes, Bart comes charging back in. “You know, fast food places really aren’t that fast. It took them FOREVER to get the food done.”

Conner snorts, “I’m surprised you didn’t go behind the counter and make it yourself.”

Bart tosses Conner a burger before handing Tim some plain toast. “Thought about it. Decided that it would probably just draw too much attention to myself.”

“You guys know I’m off of carbs.” Tim groans.

“Shut up and eat your toast or I’m calling Cassie.”

Tim flinches but starts nibbling at his toast. “I still want some coffee.”

After a long talk with Roy, who didn’t believe that Jason was okay which he was, Jason’s suiting up for the night when he feels his phone vibrate. Fishing it out of his pocket, the new text alert flashes from an unknown number. Jason opens it and read:

Got Tim. Heading back to the Tower.

Jason blinks, a knot that he hadn’t known was in his lower gut loosens, before he fumbles with his phone for a minute, trying to figure out what to write (things ranging from where the hell was he to get his ass to the cave now all floated through his head) before finally settled on:

Is he okay?

Jason had finished zipping up his jacket (contemplating the best way to go and find those ‘heroes’) when his phone went off again.

He says we’re inhuman because we won’t give him coffee. See you around.

Jason punches the front of his locker.

Luckily, it didn’t dent; otherwise, he’d have to deal with disappointed Alfred sighs for the next month. He didn’t like being brushed off especially by a couple of pip-squeaks.

Jason’s Robin Sense went off before he saw anything. “The fuck you want?”

Dick appears right next to him because fuck him Dick had been goddamn Batman.

“What happened to your phone?”

Because shit he’s still clutching his cracked screen phone in his hand.

Jason glares at Dick. “Nothing.”

Dick hums. “Okay. You seemed distracted. Everything okay?”

Jason slams his locker shut. “I’m fine.”

Dick gives Jason a smile that only an older sibling can.

Fucking hell, why is Jason here again?

Alfred’s food.

Right.

Fucking hell, say it already.

“I was just thinkin’ about Babybird.”

That got Dick’s attention.

Jason grins to himself.

“Why were you thinking about him?” Dick nonchalantly asks which he mighta bought if Jason couldn’t see Dick’s back stiffening and his muscles were twitching.

“Just trying to remember the last time I saw ‘em in the cave is all.”

Jason isn’t one for sublet.

It takes for fuck ever for someone (cough, cough, Dick…Bruce) ta realize the fucking point you’re trying to make.

It’s much more satisfying when you could smack someone in the face with their stupidity.

Preferable with a fist.

The Bats, however, like to believe that they were fucking perfect (especially Dick, especially in the brother department). They didn’t take it so well when they get caught being stupid.

Dick, for his part, gives Jason a look like Dick clearly question if Jason’s lost his mind. “What are you talking about, Jay? He was just here last week. He ran a virus sweep on the Batcomputer.”

Jason had to fight the urge to smack Dick.

Repeatedly.

With his fist.

Instead, he cocks an eyebrow at his brother. “That was six months ago.”

The reaction is instant. Dick recoils like Jason had punched him. He stares at Jason for a full minute before slowly shaking his head. Though it looked like there're ‘bout a billion thoughts flashing behind Dick’s eyes.

“What? No, it wasn’t. It was last week,” Dick insists, his voice rising. “Do you honestly think that I haven’t seen my brother in more than six months? I would have noticed not seeing him for that long.”

Jason pauses, giving Dick one of his patented, you’re full of shit but whatever you need to do to let you sleep at night looks before raising his hands.

“Sure, Big Bird. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Opening his locker, Jason looks for his rubber bullets.

Where the fuck are my motherfucking rubber bullets?

Days like today make him reconsider rejoining the Bats. Before all Jay had to do was shoot the asshole and move on.

Now, he has play nice with the Bats.

Some days, Jason wonders if it was worth it.

Then Alfred makes Jason’s favorite dessert, or Bruce would give him one of those goddamn almost smiles (which was like a goddamn hug from the old grump), and Jason found himself coming back home.

Home. Jason mused to himself.

It’s weird after all of these years to have a place that he’d consider a home.

“Jason?” Dick's voice sounds off.

“Yo,” Jason grunts without looking at Dick.

There was a pause.

Dick shifted uncomfortably as Jason finally found his bullets.

Damnit, Damian must have gotten into his locker again and moved shit around just ta fuck with Jason.

Again.

Maybe it was time for Jason to teach Titus how delicious Damian’s slippers were.

“Has he really not—did I miss—er—never mind.”

Jason looks up in time to catch a glimpse of Dick disappearance (showoff) before Jason he could say anything.

The next morning in Red Robin’s room at the Tower, Tim’s fever’s back down to normal. He was still coughing but he fine.

Really, he doesn’t understand why Bart and Conner are hovering. He’s in bed just like they want him to be.

Snug as a goddamn bug.

It’s Hell.

Tim does, however, have a company to run and needs to catch up.

“Don’t you have school,” Tim coughs.

“Flex day,” Conner answers while Bart nods along.

Damn. Tim thinks. “Why don’t you guys go catch a movie or something?”

Conner’s lip twitch and Bart gets a glint in his eye.

Shit.

“A movie does sound like fun.” Bart turns to Conner, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Marathon?”

“Marathon.”

“Good, bad, or terrible movies?”

“Mix, of course.”

“Perfect.”

“Food?”

Bart drums his thumbs Tim’s desk. “Give me half an hour.” And Bart dashes off.

Tim looks up at Con. “Do I get a vote in this?”

“Nope,” Con pop the p.

“Fantastic. I do have work to get done.”

“You were kidnapped and torched. You can take the day off.”

“Red Robin, maybe, but Tim Wayne? Didn’t you hear? He just got back from a lovely whirlwind vacation.”

Conner rolls his eyes. “Really now? Were there any hot models there?”

“Not a one sadly. There was some lovely time to meditate though.”

“Don’t they call that solitary confinement?”

Tim shrugs, “eh, if life gives you lemons.”

“You say ‘what the hell? I ordered oranges.’” Con smirks.

Tim rolls his eyes. “Well, I did order oranges.” Tim laughs which was a mistake because it set off another round of coughing. Before he could ask, Conner was handing him a glass of water. Tim grimaces. “Coffee would be better.”

“You know the rules: No coffee for twenty-four hours after a fever spike.”

Tim hisses. “It was only 101. That’s barely a fever.”

Conner looks utterly unmoved by this argument.

Bastard.

“Close enough.”

“I’m a mature twenty. I can take care of myself.”

“Uhuh. And what show did you leave as a parting gift to Ra’s?”

“Teletubbies,” Tim grins. Not his new business-friendly smile but a real grin that let the former Robin shin through. “I thought he’d enjoy it. Plus he could use a refresher on how sharing is caring.”

Con laughs at that before sobering. “You know, I was thinking,” Tim internal winces, but keeps his face smooth. He knew this was coming but it did make the experience any more enjoyable, “maybe it’s time you move out of Gotham? You could move to the tower full time or something.”

Tim keeps his expression smooth. “Aren’t you the one who’s always nagging me to get out of the tower?”

Con glowers at him. “To see a movie, take a walk in the park, go on a date. Not to go back to one of the most crime-ridden cities in the world. Hell, in the universe.” Con took a deep calming breath.

Tim thinks about it. He really thinks about it. He considers moving out of Gotham permanently. What would the ramification of leaving the city that's rejected him several times over? And while the idea is tempting, to be free of the Bats (fuck yeah that’s an excellent thought now, isn’t?), of all of the baggage that came with Gotham, but—

“It’s home, Con. I’m—I’m not ready to leave it yet.” Tim’s voice sounds young, even to his ears.

Con sighs. “Yeah, that’s what you always say. Had to ask though. I think you should still move though. Ra’s knowing—” Tim cuts him off with a snort.

“Ra’s make it a point to know what laundry soap I use. Hell, he makes it a point to know what kind of cough drops I take. He’ll know if I move. Might as well stay where I’m at for now.”

The rest of the argument is cut short by Bart reentering the room carrying way, way too much food. Bart then speeds back out of the room only to reappear in a blink of an eye with a rather large stack of movies.

Tim stares at the pile.

No way they’re getting through that stack in one day.

Bloody hell.

Thanks for reading!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18106355/chapters/43592294

#calling it #chapter 3 #fanfiction #conner kent #bart allen #Tim Drake #Jason Todd #dick grayson

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got7-markjinson · 6 years

Text

Be With You - JB

Def. 1/? vol.3 : Song Fic Series

A Song Fic series collaboration with @katdefbeom and @ijustwantacue! Hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Reader X Jaebum Genre: Co-worker!AU, Fluff Word Count: 1.7k+

JB didn’t know when it started. He remembers there was a time when he was just dragging himself to work every day without much motivation except to get a complete paycheck every month. It’s been a year since he got hired as a tech support in this company. Every day’s the usual. Getting a few calls from the senior employees about something acting up from their desktop and would usually be solved by “turning the PC off and on”. His team mates are funny in their own way, but even though he tries not to, sometimes he just feels he’d rather be by himself. Which is probably why apart from company activities, he wouldn’t want to hang out with them.

And then you came and suddenly you became the reason why he wakes up every morning and come here in the workplace. You were a new hire in the admin department. The usual fresh face, a little plain to some but something just draws him into you. Maybe it started when he saw you using a Bart Simpson notebook. Or when your phone suddenly started blasting Ryo Fukui’s jazz music. It was just as if everything about you was just made up of what he likes.

It is one of the usual day at the office, he and a few of his team mates are on a coffee break in the pantry when he saw you sitting on the couch just beside the glass window of the building. You are so engrossed on a book. JB peeked and saw it’s a photography book, an edition he was quite familiar with since he has one of his own. He smiled to himself as he took a sip of his hot coffee.

“I am just so hyped up for tonight”, Jackson giddied.

“Me too! All girls from the admin team are coming, right?”, Bambam confirmed.

Just then, JB couldn’t stop himself and asked. “Admin team?”

“Yeah, bro. They confirmed everyone’s going.”, Bambam answered.

“Yeah, and if it wasn’t for you, our team would’ve been in complete attendance too.”, Jackson teased and tapped JB’s broad shoulder as he and Bambam snickered walking back to their desks.

Earlier that same day, somebody just started asking for a drink out after work. It is Friday night and it is the last day of work before everyone will get time of for the holidays. Naturally, the invite just spread around like wildfire. Some might see it as a celebration for the whole work that was done this year. Some might see it as just a farewell party until they see each other again next year.

You however weren’t really given a chance to say no for this event when your boss confirmed that everyone from your team will be coming. You confided to one of your team mates that you’re not really ‘dressed’ for the night out, what with you wearing your running shoes on. She let you borrow a dress she has kept from her lockers and a pair of high heel shoes, just like she’s always prepared for this kind of emergency. Now, you don’t have any reason not to go.

You put on the outfit and entered the bar awkwardly, getting uncomfortable with high heels on, you sat on one of the empty seat.

Looking around for something to busy yourself with, you were surprised by Jackson yelling, “Is it the end of the world???”, and everyone’s attention turned to him.

He walked towards JB, who just entered the bar. “Guys! JB came! Let’s all cheer!”

JB was too embarrassed at his co-worker/friend’s ruckus that he just laughed as everyone cheers. His time in the spotlight was brief however, and as everyone went about their usual thing, his eyes started to get busy scanning the faces to look for you.

He walked about, going further into the bar until finally he found you. You walked out of the restroom and he noticed something awkward with the way you walk. Scanning further down your legs to your toes, he finally figured it out. The heels broke on one side of your shoe.

You wouldn’t want to make it too obvious, so you decided to just stand in the corner leaning to the wall while bobbing your head, acting like you enjoy the blasting music and silently cursing yourself for leaving your running shoes in your office locker.

“Y/N, hi.” You turned to see JB approaching you.

Yes, the cute IT guy from work. You remind yourself and tried your best to calm down.

“Hi.” You say.

“Are you alright?”, he asked.

You blinked in surprise. Does it look like you’re not? You panicked, “Yeah, I... I’m fine.”, you nodded.

Just then, he grabbed your hand and dragged you towards him, “Come with me.”, he leads you out of the bar and you’re now walking on the paved street outside. His hand still held tightly to yours, and you can’t help but lean to his side to balance your walk wearing un-even shoes.

“Where are we going?”, you asked.

He doesn’t answer and instead stopped and entered a shoe store. He leads you to an empty couch and sat you down. He turned his focus on the display of lady slippers and picked a silver one with a shorter heel.

“I think you’ll look better with this on.”, he says bending one of his knee in front of you, and your face flushed in response to his action.

He tried to reach for your feet to take off the shoe you were wearing but you pulled it away.

“What’s wrong?”, he asked, looking up to your face.

You don’t even know what’s going on right now and struggled to say something, “Uhm… I left my purse at the bar.”

He chuckled at this, “It’s okay. Let’s just say it’s a gift from me. Okay?”, he asked and waited for you to respond.

Still confused by what’s happening, you nodded and took the shoe from him to try it on.

“Just as I pictured, it really does suit you.” he says and gives you that smile that makes his eyes disappear.

Walking out of the store, you muttered a quick, “Thank you” to JB and he was all grin walking beside you. And he knows it’s not necessary anymore and he prays you don’t notice it, but he’s still holding your hand. He’s also secretly praying the time stops at this moment while he’s still with you or that the bar was still further down the road, but he must let you go now as you both went back to the party.

Going back to your place with your team mates, acting like everything’s normal, you sat down. They didn’t even notice you were gone. You tried to mingle with everyone and not to read more into what just happened, but your mind was still in the cloud over the fact that JB just held your hand and walked with you and bought you shoes. You kept asking yourself why. You were never really close. You see him at the office but aside from the usual nod that acknowledges each other’s presence, there really wasn’t much interaction between you two. Maybe you were just overthinking it, maybe he’s just that nice. And that he’ll do it for anyone on the same situation.

You were glancing his direction all night thinking about it that you lost track of how many shots you already did. All you remember was that your vision got cloudy and your head felt like it was in the clouds. And then everything went dark.

You woke up in an unfamiliar room, covered in unfamiliar blanket over an unfamiliar bed. You looked around. The room was painted gray, and the window is covered in dark blue curtains. You saw a few lights streaking out from the corners that made you realized it’s already morning.

On the other side of the wall, you saw pictures lined up on display. They were beautifully taken sceneries just like the ones you always like to see from the photography books you collect.

As you are busy admiring each piece of prints, you heard the bedroom door opened and you quickly turned to see JB.

Seeing your surprised face, “Are you already awake?” he asked.

“Yeah… I’m sorry. Uhm… where am I?”

“Oh, ugh, this is my house.”, he walked closer “You got drunk last night, and nobody seems to know where you live, so I took you here. “, he paused and panicked,” Don’t worry! Nothing happened. I didn’t do anything. I promise!”

You giggled at his panicked expression but quickly cleared your throat to compose yourself. “Uhm…”, you pointed to the pictures hoping to change the conversation and also satisfy your curiosity, “Are these taken by you?”

“Yup!”, he answered proudly looking over the pictures as well. “I love taking sceneries like this.”

How can you be so perfect? was the words you thought of in your head and instead the words that you said was, “You’re very talented.”

“...They’re beautiful.”, you added.

“And so are you.” he answered, and you turned to his direction finding him looking deep in your eyes. So deep that it made you held your breath.

Looking closer at you, he can’t deny his feelings anymore. And the way you look this morning doesn’t help at all. Your hair that was always cleanly tied up away from your face was now flowing messily down the sides of your cheeks and chin, framing your features perfectly. Your eyes that were always behind glasses are now open. And it was beautiful and clear, clear enough that he sees his reflection through it. It was just too beautiful that JB couldn’t stop himself from reaching his hand and hug you.

Having you enclosed in his arms he whispered, “Please be with me.” He pulled away and went back to looking at you. You were speechless.

“I know you don’t know much about me, but I wanted you to know that I have always wanted to be with you. I’ve been feeling this way for so long. All I know is I love you. And I can show it to you and prove it to you every day. Will you stay with me?”

You grinned, and instead of answering right away, you leaned your face close to his and gave him eskimo kisses in between smiles.

“It’s the same for me. I’ve wanted you for a while now. And my answer is yes, I’ll stay beside you forever. Yes, I’ll be with you.”, you replied back and this time he pressed his lips against yours, sealing your vow to each other.

** A/N: Yes, I also think they are both weird people.

#got7 #got7 writing #got7 fanfic #got7 jb #got7 jaebum #im jaebum #be with you #be with you fanfic

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apieters · 3 years

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The clash of steel rang on the streets of the Magic Kingdom as a furious duel erupted in New Orleans Square. In the midst of a band of soldiers all the way from Agrabah, lead by Captain Razoul, two swordsman stood their ground, slashing and thrusting back-to-back against superior odds—in other words, it was a fairly average Friday afternoon for Christopher “Chris” Carnovo and André Caron, the Swashbucklers of the Magic Kingdom.

A stranger duo couldn’t be found from the Frozen lands of Arendelle to the Primeval World. Chris was a young, greyish-blue tyrannosaur, dressed in a blue pirate’s coat belted with a white sash, wielding a rapier with lightning-fast thrusts. André was a young man with shaggy brown hair and a black padded jacket, slashing violently at his foes with a sabre. The soldiers of Agrabah pressed hard on every side, but the odd pair had two things in their favor—they were both masters in the art of swordsmanship, and they had been fighting together since childhood.

Chris and André had a long and colorful career—starting as privateers in their youth, the two had almost single-handedly cleared the seas of pirates such as the notorious Captains Nathaniel Flint, Henry Morgan and “Black Bart” Roberts, before taking up service as fight choreographers in their young adult years. The two friends had choreographed almost every fight scene in almost every movie made in the Magic Kingdom, a land of princes and princesses, wizards and witches, pirates and knights, talking animals and other motley characters. Under the leadership of Mickey Mouse, the protégé of the late Good King Walt, the Magic Kingdom was a land of art, culture, and storytelling, producing some of the finest movies in the world. But while some made their names on the silver screen as actors or served the Kingdom as statesmen and captains of industry (often all three), others made their names behind the scenes. Chris and André belonged to the latter category, but their work had made them many friends all over the Magic Kingdom—friends that sometimes had need of their special set of skills.

“Just once, I’d like to be called in for a favor that doesn’t involve the risk of getting stabbed!” André Caron snapped at the tyrannosaur as he slashed up, knocking a sword out of a soldier’s hand.

“We’re professional swordsmen, André,” Chris shot back as he spiraled his rapier, sending another scimitar flying out of a soldier’s grip. “What kinds of favors do you expect people need from us?” He lunged to the side just as a soldier was trying to flank his friend, arresting the attack. The two shifted positions effortlessly, their efforts coordinated like a dance. “Besides,” he smirked, parrying a wild cut from another soldier, “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I left it at home with the good book I was reading!” André shouted. A soldier rushed him and he grabbed the soldier’s wrist, wrenching his arm back before kicking him into his comrades.

“So, you don’t think we should be out here rescuing our friend?” Chris asked, spiraling his blade to intercept a cut and slashing at a second swordsman before thrusting over his shoulder at the first.

“I never said we shouldn’t be here,” André said, smashing his guard into a soldier’s forehead before parrying another incoming strike. “Just don’t expect me to be happy about it!” He swiped wide, left and right, whirling his sword in a dangerous dance of steel. He plowed through the soldiers, knocking them this way and that, clearing a way for the tyrannosaur. “Alright, Chris, I’m holding off as many as I can. Find Razoul and work your magic.”

This is the opening scene of a Disney fan-fiction story I’m rewriting. I started writing it for a couple reasons:

1) Chris needed a home. I’ve been drawing this swashbuckling tyrannosaur and his human companion (yes, André is named after me—there aren’t enough characters with my name, and that needs to be fixed) for just about 20 years now, and figured he needed a proper story. But what kind? Well, as I looked back, I realized that he was always sort of inserting himself into whatever I was interested in or reading at the time—piracy, Disney movies, books, etc. He was always a fan-fic character. So he needed to be in a fanfiction story. And as I tend to prefer a Disney-esque/traditional Western cartoon style, I decided he needed to be a Disney character—just one who works off-screen.

2) I really want to write original stories. I have at least 3 or 4 solid concepts, but when I decided in college that I wanted to write, I figured out I SUCKED at dialogue. And pretty much everything else. I had some raw talent, but of course that’s never enough—and being a perfectionist, I wasn’t going to waste an original story as my first attempt at learning the craft of writing. So I started exploring blogs about writing fantasy and credible, published authors all said the same thing: they started by writing fan-fiction. The reason they gave was that it was motivating because you already love the characters, and the world building and character creation is done for you (you can learn those skills later), leaving you free to focus on more fundamental aspects of writing craft—things like dialogue, pacing, plotting, planning, description, active vs. passive voice, all that jazz. So I decided to follow their advice.

I said earlier I was rewriting it—well, I got a little more than halfway through and the story just ran out of gas. The characters, I realized, would never and could never do the things necessary to advance the plot without breaking character, getting themselves killed, or using a dues ex machina. There were too many dangling plot threads, too many unnecessary characters, and after five years of intermittent drafting (I was in college, then I’ve had a day job or been job hunting ever since—I’m busy) I had gotten to know my characters (or my interpretations of several preexisting Disney characters) well enough that I could see major inconsistencies across the 200+ pages I had written. So I decided to go back to the beginning and rework the plot, making it a lot more consistent and focusing on a tighter core of characters. This scene was not in the original draft, and I think it establishes my characters far better than what I’d written before (which was essentially an info-dump of exposition—classic mistake).

Artist Behind the Scenes

Illustrating the picture presented several difficulties—one, I absolutely loathe myself for constantly choosing ground like grass or—in this case—cobblestones, which require a lot of repetitive, regular shapes. But that’s what the picture required, so I decided to make the cobblestones a little scribbled and blurry, and made the background lines thicker and fuzzier too. The biggest challenge was drawing multiple opponents—each guardsman is a unique person and requires individual attention to meet my minimum visual quality standards, and I can’t get away with vaguely soldier-looking blobs (as I’ve done in other pictures) since they are an integral part of the action that is the main focus of the piece.

The solution was to remember the adage, “the essence of the picture is the frame.” By positioning Chris and André just right in the frame and filling up as much space as I could using them, I could get away with only drawing parts of most of the guardsmen to give the effect of an outnumbered, chaotic street duel. I ended up framing the two characters with a ring of enemies, with Razoul appearing in the back to round out the impression of being surrounded on all sides.

The scimitar sabres (“scimitar” is a European butchering of the Persian shamshir) were a compromise between the way the Agrabah guards’ weapons appear in the movie Aladdin (where they are comically short and fat and have a clipped point) and real weapons. No actual Middle Eastern sword, to my knowledge, ever had a clipped point, which was actually a common feature of European single-edged swords like falchions and messers (which probably were the real inspiration behind Western artwork’s depictions of Eastern sabres); few sabres were ever as fat as the cartoons make them out to be; and most Middle Eastern sabres have straight, not recurved quillons. Most real sabres were relatively narrow, light swords meant for slashing/draw-cutting from horseback, not percussive chopping, and instead of a clipped point Turkish sabres often had a flared, double-edged tip called a yelman. I was thus faced with an artistic dilemma: integrity to reality or integrity to the source I was emulating. These are supposed to be the same guards as appeared in the “One Jump Ahead of the Breadline” musical number in Aladdin, armed with the same weapons; yet the action is taking place in “real life,” off-camera. I ultimately decided on a compromise: the scimitars would retain the same shape and features as in the movie, but I edited the dimensions to look a little more like real swords instead of meat cleavers.

(Disclaimer: Chris and André belong to me—everything else belongs to Disney).

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angel-gidget · 7 years

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Fire At My Feet Again (Tim/Cassie, post-Red Robin)

Title: Fire at my Feet Again Fandom: DCU, Teen Titans, Red Robin (preboot) Rating: PG-13 | Words: 4.6K | a03 link Summary: Tim and Cassie have been assigned to mentor the upcoming new version of Young Justice. Cassie isn’t drunk enough yet to process this turn of events properly. But if she has her say, with Tim’s help, she soon will be.

Set a handful of years after Red Robin. Contains miscellaneous comic references including 90’s YJ. Yet also borrows an element or two from the Young Justice cartoon. Bc I do what I want. Also unbeta’d. Bc impatience.

Note: Also using this fic to fulfill prompts/days 1-3 of Tim Drake Week (First & Lasts, Childhood & Adulthood, Dreams & Reality) bc this sucker took me long enough that I say it counts and I’d like to catch up.

The déjà vu was murder. Cassie wanted to scream at the Justice League that they had the wrong girl, she wasn't a MENTOR, if anything, she was still a MENTEE, but Tim was standing right next to her, giving his Serious Business head-nod, and Cassie realized that if she did, in fact, start screaming at the JLA, she wouldn't be screaming at strangers.

Because screaming at Aquaman and Superman and Batman was one thing, but the NEW Batman was once Nightwing and she didn't really like the idea of screaming at him. She would also be screaming at Vic, who was her friend. And--sweet Hera--she had FRIENDS in the JLA. You're a grown-up now, Cassie. You're a MENTOR now, Cassie. So is Tim, for that matter. Hell. She didn’t want to admit out loud how familiar it was. How, in the last days before she gave up the Titans, she’d had trouble remembering the names of multiple team members; they had come and gone so quickly. So playing chaperone to a bunch of kids she didn’t know was actually way more familiar of a feeling than it ought to have been. But they weren’t asking her and Tim to be team leaders. They were asking her and Tim to play Red Tornado to their new batch of kids. Not to lead. Just to make sure they didn’t break anything. To help them with reporters. To save their asses if things got out of hand. To be around if they wanted advice. "You start on Monday." Vick told them. "We start on Monday." Cassie repeated in a daze. When the rest had left, and it was only her and Tim, the feeling that it was real began to press on her lungs. "We start on MONDAY. Oh God." "Cassie? Are you o--Um. I can do it. You don't have to help. I--" "Do you remember what we were like?! You'll need my help. WE may need help. What if they have their own Kon? What if they have their own BART?" "Or Slo-bo." "Oh God." "It'll be okay. They're just as likely to have their own Secret, somebody they'll band around to protect. Or their own Anita, who can radiate reason. Or their own YOU, somebody smart who can represent the team and keep them in line. Ultimately, they'll be themselves and we can just give them the benefit of the doubt. It'll be okay." Maybe it was the truth of his words, or the blatant compliment, but Cassie did feel herself begin to calm down. This wasn’t history repeating itself. It was just a few parallels here and there. And the history wasn't all that bad anyway. When did she get so good at only remembering the rough parts? "I'm good. I swear I am, but I think I need a drink." Tim's smile was weird. Like he was about to be nostalgic, but it was 50/50 whether it was going to be a good idea or not. "I know just the place." She half-expected him to take her to the same zany hole-in-the-wall they went to for his 21st birthday years back, but he surprised her with a Gotham spot she had never seen before. It was kind of on the (conventional) sporty side, and kind of posh. Not really the sort of place she had expect him to go. "This was my dad's favorite place." Cassie shook her head to clear it. She could count on her hand the number of times Tim has talked about his dad with her, and four times out of five, he had been in tears while doing it. "Do you remember Klarion?" Tim asked. "Bum, bum, bum… The witch boy." She wanted to slap herself for completing the obnoxious little tune on autopilot, but decided not to be too hard on herself. It WAS catchy. "Well, when he had us stuck in adult bodies, I got the bright idea that I should go check on my dad in his natural environment." "There is no way that went well." Tim nodded, "He said I reminded him a bit of his son, and he invited me to sit down and have a beer with him." Cassie felt a smirk coming on. "And you had never had a beer in your life." "Correct. I spit it up all over him. And he never learned that the weird guy who chilled with him and wrecked his night was me.”

Cassie chuckled, “So, do you want a beer?”

“Hell, no. Can’t stand the stuff.” It might have been the funky lighting, but as Tim scratched the back of his head, she could swear he was blushing.

“Me neither. Good thing we’re old enough to admit it. Hey bartender!”

Cassie waved at the old man behind the counter. He seemed to be hard of hearing, as he kept cleaning the other end of the bar. She sighed, “Go over the new roster with me.”

“They haven’t got the official—“

“I know you know the biggest candidates for this thing, and I’d like to have a heads up, please and thanks.”

Tim nodded, as he waved his own hand in the old man’s direction to help her out, “Okay. So Lian has already said yes, and if there is a god, she will hopefully end up being team leader…”

Cassie smiled, “Roy Harper’s kid would be good at it. Though Robin will probably fight her for it…”

“Damian will be there under duress. Dick thinks it will be good for him, but the chances are that if he gets out of line…”

“He absolutely won’t listen to you, so I will have to do it. Uhgh.”

Tim gave her a pained laugh, “Thank you in advance?”

Cassie shrugged. She was already beginning to understand why the League was insisting on both of them. There had been some rosters of the Titans that were like that, some deferring only to Robin and some only to Wonder Girl. But by that time, she and Tim had mastered being in-sync to the point that it was a (mostly) doable nightmare.

“Who’s the heaviest hitter we’ll probably have to clean up after?”

Tim steepled his fingers thoughtfully, “That’s a toss-up between Damian’s friend Colin, who is actually an incredibly nice kid, and Jon Kent: our new Superboy-to-be.”

Cassie frowned, “Wait, I thought… what happened to Christopher?”

“You didn’t…?” Tim’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Um, a lot of things happened to Chris. But when he came home from the phantom zone a few months ago, he… well, it wasn’t like when a Robin gets replaced, but he told me it took a lot of adjusting to the fact that an entire time-line crisis had given him a baby brother that was already twelve years old. Last I’ve heard from him, he’s trying to decide on a new code-name and … well, he’s too old for the team.”

She felt her draw drop. “Chris Kent, who was like barely past my hip last I saw him, is TOO OLD for this team? What the hell?!”

“Cassie, the last time you saw him, I was babysitting him because he was ten. And with the phantom zone, well…”

“Well how old is he n—wait. Don’t answer that. Not until I’ve had whiskey, because this now officially calls for whiskey. BARTENDER. WHISKEY.” The time for being polite and patient had officially passed.

Cassie cradled her head in her hands as she listened to Tim placate the offended bartender, and modify her order. Apparently whiskey wasn’t specific enough. Apparently the brown-eyed little boy she’d last seen wearing little boy shorts and a cartoon character wristwatch was now too freaking old to join Young Justice 2.0.

“So help me, Tim, if you’ve ordered something crazy-expensive, you are buying.”

Tim sighed, and Cassie felt a twinge of guilt. This wasn’t any easier for him. Hell, it might be harder. She knew Damian always made things harder for Tim.

Cassie was both boggled and somewhat grateful that she didn’t have a new Wonder Girl to contend with. Though, now that she thought about it, it did seem almost a shame for one to be missing from the roster… No.

No, she was still too young to be getting mopey over legacies. Not that she hadn’t always dug the idea of an Amazon legacy, but it was supposed to be, like, a general legacy. Not hers. Not yet. And yet…

“I am buying, and you will like it. I promise. It’s only a little expensive, but trust me that you don’t want the default of anything in this place.”

The next thing she knew, she had a strong-smelling double-shot over ice in front of her. It tasted like honey. If honey weren’t made by bees, but instead made by kangaroos kicking her in the face. She decided she liked it.

“Cassie, you’re supposed to sip that.”

She smirked at him, “I’ll sip the next one. Better hope our tab’s on your platinum card.”

He snorted, but didn’t really protest, taking a taste of his own glass.

She observed him.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head as he drank, though not with the speed of someone rushing a shot. It took the shadows off his face for a moment, so she could clearly see the tiredness around his eyes and the faint stubble around his jaw. She faintly recalled that said stubble had come very late in life to him. At the very tail-end of puberty.

She remembered that the first time she had kissed him—mourning Kon’s death in a sea of shattered glass in the Titan’s sublevel—the line from his cheek to his adam’s apple had been completely smooth.

Don’t go there, Cassie.

That was a long time ago, Cassie.

“So… um. So how’s Kon taking the whole codename thing?”

Tim shrugged, blinking his eyes open as he continued to hold the glass near his lips. “You know about as much as I do. He can’t decide what to pick. That is, he agrees that he’s years overdue to shelve “Superboy”, but replacing it is giving him conniptions.” Tim gestured the bartender back to refill her glass.

“That’s about what I know,” Cassie conceded, “But somehow, you always know a little more. So spill.”

As promised, she sipped the next glass. Sipping was like getting kicked by a baby honey-making kangeroo. It was still pretty damn good. She raised her pinky jokingly, which finally got a smile out of Tim that went up to his eyes as he spoke.

“He’s actually been trying to pick Chris’s brain on the matter. While Kon can hardly think of anything, Chris’s knowledge of Kryptonian language and mythology is giving him a ton of ideas and he just can’t choose.”

“Yeah, well. Kon’s gonna have to get used to choosing names in general. And soon.”

Tim’s puzzled expression stopped her cold.

“Oh Hera. He hasn’t told you yet.”

Tim similarly froze, “He… told me there was something he though he’d tell a lot of people in person. Said it wasn’t bad news. But with his new off-world mission, and how, um, busy we both will be… “

Cassie nodded. If Kon wanted to protest, he could blame her.

“M’gann is pregnant.”

It was always fun: managing to surprise Tim with something he’d clearly had absolutely no clue about beforehand. So fun. So rare. He was even choking a bit on his own drink.

“You’re serious. Kon’s going to be… a dad?”

“Totally.”

“Wow. He’s got to be over the moon. Both in a happy and terrified way. I’ll be an honorary uncle. Heh…”

He went serious then, totally quiet. Sometimes Cassie didn’t dig the reminder that she didn’t really have the full specs of the brain of Timothy Drake. But then again, did anyone?

She held back a tiny flinch as Tim set down his drink and put his hand over hers…

“Are you okay?” he practically whispered.

“Yes…?” she mimicked his low voice.

“Because I know you’ve never liked talking about how things ended, but it’s alright to…”

Gears clicked into place.

“Omigod. Tim. I’m fine. Kon and I are both totally over each other. Promise. Seriously, have you been worrying about that for the past five years?”

His face didn’t turn red, but his ears did.

“Hey, you wouldn’t talk about it, okay? And Kon may be my best friend, but… he’s not my only best friend. You and Bart… you can’t think I love you any less. Do you?”

Holy shit. The L-word. From TIM. In a totally platonic sense, of course.

As it should be, Cassie.

She knew Tim had been trained to resist truth serum and torture since his Robin days. Apparently, his own taste in alcohol was considerably more effective if it could get talk of actual feelings out of him.

Focus, Cassie. He asked you a question.

“I know you love me.” She squeaked.

A distinctly fraught look pulled his eyebrows together, and it occurred to Cassie that her assurance didn’t sound very believable.

So she tried again, “I’m serious. I don’t mean that in whatever placating double-meaning Bat-way you guys usually communicate in Gotham. I mean it. I know. You love me. I love you too.”

Those burning ears of his were back, but at least the distressed twist to his forehead had gone away. And that… Cassie knew she’d said enough. Her brain knew, anyway. Her tongue didn’t. “If… if a burning building had you and my mom inside and I only had time to save one, I’d save my mom because she didn’t sign up for the life we did. But I’d be every bit as devastated over losing you as if I had lost her.”

What the hell, Cassie?! Dark escalation much?

She spared a glance at her drink as though it had betrayed her. Was she on glass number two or number three?

Tim just snorted with a smirk, “Me too.”

He took another sip, which seemed to oddly sober his face again, “Though… I’d probably be more devastated if it was you. I… I sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with me considering how fast I recovered from my mom’s death. We weren't close. I… I wanted us to be. So much. But we weren’t.”

Cassie held her breath. She… she had known that Tim’s mom was out of the picture. That when his dad died, that was it. Officially one of Batman’s orphans. But she’d never…

Apparently, it was Tim’s turn to look at his drink as though it were up to shady behavior.

“I’ve never admitted that out loud to anybody. Not in so many words, anyway.”

They both let the silence breathe a moment, before Cassie tentatively let her curiosity get the best of her.

“What was her name? Wanna tell me about her?”

Tim didn’t look her in the eye, preferring to keep his gaze pinpointed on the single oversized ice cube in his glass, but he nodded.

“Her name was Janet. She um…” A tiny strange grin quirked the side of his mouth and he finally looked up at her through messy black bangs, “Remember that time when your mom invited me and Bart to dinner with you, and she complained for half an hour about the ‘jet-set’ archaeologists who have all the money but half-assed dedication to historical findings? Who are all about the fun and polish?”

“Um, yes?” Oh gods. Helena Sandsmark’s fifth favorite rant topic. She had hours of material on the unfairness of wealthy socialites’ interaction with the archaeology scene. Cassie always died of embarrassment anytime someone she knew was exposed to even a fraction of it.

“My mom was one of those.”

Cassie slumped in her chair, beginning to feel her own ears turn red.

“Oh gods, I’m sorry—”

And Tim giggled. Giggled. It was… stupid but nice and he kind of sounded like he hadn’t taken in quite enough oxygen at first to do it properly.

“Don’t be, Cass. Your mom didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. I wasn’t mad. It was… nice remembering her. She was spoiled, but in a classy kind of way. At least, that’s what my dad would say about it. But he might have been biased. Considering.”

“Considering.” Cassie let a relieved giggle of her own slip.

The silence that followed wasn’t a bad one. She eventually realized that Tim was faintly tapping on the edge of the bar to the tune of the music softly playing over he speakers, though she didn’t recognize the song.

At some point in their conversation, he had let go of her hand, and she tried not to overthink her awareness of that. She also tried not to overthink the fact that she was mentally listing the different ways she might get him to put it back.

She was startled from carefully not contemplating these things when his finger tips continued tapping, but this time against her own fingers lingering on the bar. She saw an expectant expression on his face, and it took her a moment to realize that the music had changed.

Cassie’s eyes widened. Was that.. Mmmm Bop? It was. The one hit from that stupid band that every member of Young Justice has solemnly sworn to hate into eternity was dancing over the speakers.

Some members, however, had been lying through their teeth when taking said oath.

Cassie had been one of them. Apparently, so had Tim.

Their moment of mutually tapping to forbidden tunes was interrupted as the old bar keep slammed a giant pink drink in front of Cassie’s nose.

“From th’ gentleman.” The man muttered, tottering away.

Cassie frowned. Tim seemed to be on the case, however, as he made a subtle pointing down the bar. She looked over her shoulder and saw the guy. He was tall and broad, with a lear and patch of scruff on his chin that reminded Cassie of Tim’s old Mr. Sarcastic disguise. Just… without the sarcasm. His target of choice hadn’t accepted the drink yet, and he was already elbowing his buddies and preparing to stand.

“He looks like the pushy type to me,” Cassie muttered, “Mr. Detective?”

Tim gave a small sigh, “I’m inclined to agree. How do you want to play this?”

There were a lot of correct choices. Not the least of which was taking the drink and pretending it meant nothing. Making eye contact and firmly pushing the drink away was a fair call too. If Mr. Pushy pushed, well… It would hardly be any skin off her back to return the favor. But a hero was always supposed to avoid escalating the situation or provoking it. Such was the correct choice.

You’re going to be a mentor, Cassie.

Meaning—she replied to the voice in her head— that if she was going to do something wild and on the side of crazy, it had to be tonight. So, she grabbed Tim’s hand and whispered in his ear.

“Pretend to be my boyfriend.”

His eyes went comically wide for a fraction of a second, but the next instant, he was giving her a succinct nod of the head.

She felt his fingertips slide up to her jaw, pinpricks of cold from the condensation of his drink. She barely registered the procession from one moment to the next as his lips were suddenly touching hers.

Barely touching. Very lightly.

But staying. Not a peck.

Rather, a quick brush followed by a very slow second brush.

Her eyes slipped closed, acknowledging that the feeling was nice, if unexpected.

She held still everywhere save her mouth, mimicking his movement until she could breathe in the honey-tang from his breath instead of her own.

She then set her icy fingernails against his cheek, as was only fair.

He gave a quick inhale that let her know she had startled him back.

“Two for flinching.” She chuckled against his mouth.

In an instant, she wanted desperately to see his expression, but he ducked his head to whisper in her ear again.

“Why go back to competing when we’ve gotten so good at teaming up?”

Tim thought he was so clever sometimes. She wanted to agree and roll her eyes at the same time. She was about to reply when something in the shift of his shoulders told her they had trouble.

“What is it?”

“Pushy Type has strolled out with his friends, but they went around the alley area of the building without grabbing a ride and none of them had car keys.”

Cassie hissed, “They wanna jump us? Are you serious? This neighborhood sucks.”

Tim pulled back far enough that could see his face. There was some uncertainty there that he was doing his utmost to hide, but Cassie was too familiar with it to be fooled by it anymore.

Goddess. He liked it. He liked it as much as I did.

And now he’s wondering if he messed up.

“Tim—“

“I know the corner they’ve picked. No cameras, no witnesses. They’d be… very surprised to not have the advantage. We could change into uniform in the restrooms and sneak out the back of the kitchen. It’ll be fun.”

And… he was off. He even left the barstool he’d been sitting on spinning.

Fine.

Stupid bat-birds and their emotional issues.

She’d let him get away with it for now.

——

Two hours later, they stumbled into Tim’s apartment dripping wet, with an unanticipated number of cuts and bruises.

“Fun, you said. We intimidate them and they’ll re-think their life-choices, you said.” Cassie scoffed.

Tim clutched his bruised rib, “I didn’t know C-listers were developing their own knock-off venom pills these days. It’s a recent development.”

His other arm was over her shoulder, keeping weight off his bruised ankle. If knock-off venom could punch her right into him, she didn’t want to think about what the original Bane could probably do.

But it probably didn’t help that they were both a little tipsy. While Tim might not have guessed that Mr. Pushy—who had wanted to be called The Dejector, of all things, yeesh—would be carrying supervillain steroids, they both would have resolved the fight a lot faster if they had both been sober and had their minds off… well.. The Thing they were avoiding talking about.

After they had the perps bagged and tied for the Gotham PD, Tim had decided to play it safe and not drive his motorcycle back. Cassie had similarly decided against flying.

So they had walked.

And then it rained.

Because Gotham.

Cassie carefully set Tim down on his couch. She then followed his directions to find the first aid kit as he began to check himself for damage.

“Just so we’re clear: I’m not actually mad, Tim. Just grumpy. I had plans for tonight. They didn’t involve this many scrapes.”

“I… Oh.” He froze, “I didn’t know I was keeping you. Sorry.”

“You’re not,” Cassie corrected, setting the kit down by his foot and she cinched up the leg of his jeans. (The nice thing about his crazy expensive wardrobe: there was some extra stretch to the denim.) “You were at the center of the plans.”

“Oh.” He tensed again, and Cassie worried for a moment that she had hurt him just by applying ice. But as she looked up, she realized his ears were red again.

Okay, Wonder Girl. Time to be brave.

“Confession time. So… you already know I love you. We got that out of the way. The big secret is that I also might… kinda like you on top of that.”

Tim snorted, but it was with a tiny hopeful smile on his face that quickly smoothed itself out to boarder-line sly.

“Oh really?”

If he was gonna be that way about it, there was no need to be delicate with the application of the ice. He flinched for real.

“Yeah,” Cassie muttered, meeting his eye, “Funny how that works.”

“Funny how it’s mutual.” He panted.

Cassie blinked. “Does this mean we…?”

“If you want.” Tim whispered.

She kissed him.

Sweat, rainwater, scrapes and all. She had wrapped her arms around his neck, and even when she bumped his foot and his leg tensed, he still clutched back.

It was hard to tell who’s idea it was to lean back into the couch. Definitely her idea to start lifting his shirt off. His hair was just long enough that damp tendrils lingered where his neck met his shoulders and she didn’t resist the temptation to run her hands through it. He rolled into the movement like a cat with his eyes closed, and something like déjà vu struck her for the second time that day.

For all that Tim’s everyday body language exuded a polite distance, actually touching him was so very different. Kind of like a sunflower desperate for a hint of light. As if no one had held him for years. Maybe no one had.

Rain still clung to her own hair as well, water droplets shaking loose from assorted strands of her blond hair. They splashed onto Tim’s chest, making him shiver.

She knew he could resist the cold, if he wanted. He could use a simple stretch of his own self control to curb his reactions, but he chose not to. Chose to let her see it, and the thought lit something warm in her chest.

She leaned in close again, feeling her own shirt slide up, enjoying the contrast of warmth where their stomaches touched and cold where their hair got in the way. Tim was the one doing the kissing then, returning to that slow brush he seemed to have perfected, only against her neck instead of her lips. His arms held tight, tighter. And she gladly returned the favor until—

“OUCH!”

His whole body tensed, but Cassie knew it was the foot.

The Achilles Heel, as mom would say.

“Guess it would be more fun to save the rest for when we’re both in one piece, huh?”

Tim sighed, “‘Rest’ implies a finite amount. Was going more for an indefinite sort of plan.”

Cassie grinned.

“I’ll remember that. Now where are your towels, Young Man Wonder?”

He scowled at her, but he gave up the location of the towels. And the location of his popcorn machine. And blankets. And spare pyjamas. And dvd collection.

I could get very used to this.

She was cuddled in his arms on the couch again, but this time calm and dry with antibiotics gently applied to her minor scratches.

“It’s different this time, you know. I can feel it.” She whispered.

Tim stirred beneath her, though he took a moment to speak.

“You mean… us?”

She nodded against his chest, “Us. The vibe of it. The… the kissing. It’s different. We’re different.”

She didn’t have the energy to lift her head, but she felt him nod all the same.

“Last time, we were in a bad place. Now we’re in a good one.”

She smiled against him and trusted that he could feel it, “Even if you have to face down the Damian squad on Monday?”

“It won’t be Damian’s squad. Not immediately, anyway. But yes. Even then. We can do this. Together.”

Cassie threaded her fingers through Tim’s as her eyes fluttered shut for the night.

She believed him.

F.I.N.

#timdrakeweek #wonderbird #tim x cassie #tim drake #cassie sandsmark #fanfic #gidgeblog #it's midnight thirty and I'm exhausted and idk what to tag anymore #yeesh

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exquisitelyeco · 7 years

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Bartemaus No 2!

You might have read my post a little while ago called ‘Bartemaus’ If you haven’t, you might want to before you read this. It will make more sense. In that post I talked about how Bartemaus did not care he had BEEN blind, he only cared he could now see. He left the past where it belonged, behind him. And after meeting Jesus, he never had anymore questions of ‘why’ he had been born blind. He did not care. All he cared about was that Jesus had SEEN him, and given him his sight. So what else is there to learn about Bart? A lot! He did a few things hardly any of those Jesus healed did. 1. He said Thankyou. 2. He believed Jesus was the son of God. 3. He worshipped Him. 4. He did not care what other people thought. So many of the people Jesus healed never thanked Him. Isn’t that like our society today? How many of us take without giving? Take without thanking? Take without THINKING. Believing that it is our right to HAVE. We live in a culture that has so much. We take most of it for granted. Good food, warm homes, nice clothes. Good education, yes I know you can argue the point on that one….. But we have. And it has not made us happier. We have so many devices, iPads, iPhones, headphones, Xbox, smart TV, SO many ways of communicating. And yet we are alone. Five people in a house, sitting together. All on their phones. Engaged elsewhere. We miss the present because we are scrolling down our phone. We don’t notice the sunsets. The birds crying in the air, the poppies red against the green meadows, we SEE nothing else but our own personal little device. And if we don’t have it? CALAMITY! No phone? No computer? Ahhhhh! And we get angry and frustrated. We don’t stop fuming until it’s fixed. But more than than that, we have a hissy fit UNTIL it’s fixed. ‘I can’t do without it!’ ‘How am I going to sort that out NOW?”For GODs sake!!!’ ‘That’s ALL I need!’ And we act like three year olds. Not grateful to HAVE a phone, but angry that for a few days we haven’t! In some ways, although we have all this technology, we are still as we were in the days of Bartemaus. Most of us get what we want, and without a backward glance go off. We don’t care about the person who fixed it. A quick ‘thanks,’ pennies on the counter and off. Do we even remember what the person looked like, if they were to cross our path, months later? The one who mended our device, just in case your wondering…….if you weren’t, well done…… In fact it’s worse. If the person sorting out our device is late, or it takes more time, we get angry and impatient. ‘I’m busy! I need it NOW!’ ‘What do you expect me to do, without my phone?!’ ‘That’s NOT good enough! You SAID Friday! It’s now Monday!’ And on we go. Moaning. Ranting. Complaining. And if it goes like that, the only Thankyou the person is lightly to get is a withering look and a VERY sarcastic Thankyou! Which actually can be interpreted as ‘NO Thankyou, you useless swine. I NEEDED my phone you look TOO long, and if I could I’d kick your arse to Glasgow!’ Unless you lived in a Glasgow. In which case it would be somewhere else….. So we might remember that person a tad longer…..just because they had pissed us off. But we most certainly would NOT be thankful. Neither would we go back! So we still think somebody else should get us out of our shit asap. And they don’t need thanking! What do they think we pay them FOR? Most of the people Jesus healed were like that. They didn’t care that the shops had shut, that Jesus hadn’t eaten, or that He was tired or busy. They hunted Him down and took what He offered. That is, they took the parts they wanted. Which were what they thought were the BEST, indeed only, ones. Things THEY wanted. Healing. Being made PHYSICALLY better. And that’s where it stopped, Thankyou very much….except they didn’t say that…..they just walked off.

At one point Jesus healed ten, TEN, lepers in one go. How many came back? How many said Thankyou? One. I mean come on. You’ve just been covered in a skin disease, where you had absolutely NO contact with anybody else AT ALL. You had to shout ‘UNCLEAN’ when ever anybody came anywhere near you! Your nose would drop off. Your fingers and toes. You’d smell of decay. A Job? Well, Teresa May could probably make you find one……no food, unless you begged. People might throw the odd copper at your head, cos they would never, ever come near you. You were outcast. Totally. No church going. No family near. No nothing. So you’d think that if you’d been healed of that, you’d at least say Thankyou. Nope. Just one. That’s one of the reasons Jesus said about people not understanding His miracles. Yes, He wanted people well. But He wanted more. He wanted them to SEE Him, for who He was! Master Healer. Son of God. But most were not interested. They just wanted black label day thanks. 24 hour flash sale! Jesus did His miracles, not just to make people well physically, but to make them well SPIRITUALLY. If they wanted it. But most didn’t. They did not see as far as their own nose…..if they still had one……if not then their ears…..don’t even go there……I KNOW what you were thinking…..what if they had no ears….. Jesus does not force Himself on us. He didn’t then and He doesn’t now. Even in Eden, God never forced the issue. Of course, He knew where Adam was hiding! But He wants us to want Him! And all most of us want is the ‘Wham bam, Thankyou ma’am.’ And we are off…. We don’t want to see the miracle MAKER, only have the miracle. Only a very few wanted more. Only a few wanted the MAN behind the miracles. And those who did, KNEW, He was not just a man. God wants us to find Him. How would we feel, or do we feel, when we want to spend time with our child and they keep putting us off, so they can do their Xbox. For days on end. We might get a mumbled thanks for dinner, which is eaten so quickly it’s worrying….. but that’s it. And that is what most of us do to God. To busy. ‘Talk to the hand’…….’Maybe next week, I’m busy today’…..’Got stuff to do’…..’Talk later’……and we get angry if we feel forced to spend anytime with God, unless WE WANT too.

We only want God when WE want Him. For what He can DO for us, not for WHO He is. And most of the time we forget to say Thankyou. In fact, we think it’s our right to have it our way. I do. I want God to do what I want. But spend time with Him? You are KIDDING! I tell no lie, I clock watch. I tell Him Ill give Him 15 minutes, and I begrudge Him even those. I get bored. Close my eyes, try to be holy. Think I’ve taken all the time up, open them and it’s only been two minutes…..and I don’t WANT to spend time with the miracle Maker. I only want His miracles. How rude. What if God got pissed off? What if Jesus had? But we do! God help the person who does not say Thankyou to us! If you are anything like me, you SEETHING tell them ‘You could say THANKYOU!!!’ Bartemaus was thankful. And He wanted MORE. Not just content with seeing physically, he wanted to see spiritually. WHO was behind this miracle, that had opened his eyes? Who had thought him important enough to help. And not passed by. How many, many people over the years had passed Barty by? In a hurry, banged into him, blamed him for getting in the way, rolled their eyes when he asked for coins? Worse! Looked down on him and blamed him for his being blind? Teresa….how ’bout you love? Sounding abit similar int’ it?😂 Yet Jesus did none of those things. He FOUND him. He healed Him. And to Bart that was EVERYTHING. He wanted more! Who was this man? He was hungry! He was not afraid of the order of the day. He knew Jesus has healed him. He didn’t yet know he was the son of God, outwardly, but in his heart, he knew full well. What did he say to the Pharisees? ‘I don’t know if he is a sinner, but I do know that God listens to those who respect Him!’ He KNEW God had heard the man Jesus, when He asked Him to heal His eyes. So when Jesus came and found him and said ‘Do you know who the son of man is?’ He said ‘Tell me, Lord, that I may believe in Him.’ And Jesus said, ‘It is I, who am talking with you now.’ Bartemaus fell on his knees and said ‘I believe Lord.’ He had found the miracle MAKER. And that was what he wanted. To show gratitude for the man who had healed him. To fall at His feet in worship and thankfulness.

I can imagine for the rest of his life Bartemaus followed Jesus. And was forever grateful. Because thankfulness is an attitude of the heart. It’s a way of living. Our culture does not teach it. It teaches us to take. Not to take TIME to find the person and say Thankyou. I have a hard heart. I can forget to say Thankyou. Even worse, I get angry if I think God doesn’t help quick enough….and if I think He is going to say no…..😡😡😡😡😡He really gets it. Tempers, stamping, cursing, the works. But I also know the importance of being thankful. Being thankful is different, VERY different from a quick, ‘thanks’ It’s when we stop. Stop. And take the TIME to say Thankyou, we feel a quietness in ourselves. Our spirit feels different. Mine does. It stops. No hurry. No rush. And as I say it, carefully, I see more and more things to say Thankyou for. When we really connect with a Thankyou to God, we find what Bartemaus did. He BELIEVED. He worshipped. Saying and BEING Thankyou brings us BEYOND what we have just had, and takes us to the Person God is. We draw close to Him. We want HIM, not for what He has given, but for WHO He is. It quiets our soul. And it helps us see who really IS our saviour, healer and redeemer. Who truly is the lover of our soul. Saying Thankyou is not a one off event. It’s a lifetime event. A way of living. Sorry, digression, actually, it’s NOT! Haha! I love it when a plan comes together….who said that?…The A team, wasn’t, it?….sorry, that bit WAS a digression…..I love Scrooge, have multiple different versions. The one that came to my mind just now was The Muppets Christmas Carol. When Michael Caine, who plays Scrooge, had seen the spirits of Christmas and learned to LIVE a Thankyou for what he SEES he has. He sings,

‘With a thankful heart, and with endless joy, with a growing family, every girl and boy, will be nephew and niece to me, bringing love joy and peace to me, and Everyday will start, with a grateful prayer and a thankful heart’ (Thankyou Muppets Christmas Carol, for your words here!) Do you SEE that? It’s FANTASTIC! Being thankful had allowed Scrooge to SEE that being thankful gave him FAMILY! That being grateful made life BIGGER. And He understood that being thankful is the KEY to living! That a thankful heart is an alive, pulsating, vibrating one! That Thankyou brings MORE. For him more than he ever dreamed. A relationship with his nephew, a new partner, another family, Bob Cratchets, and EVERYONE he spoke to saw the change in him! He grew BIGGER. He stopped being, small minded, greedy and petty, and started LIVING! When we live a life of Thankyou, EVERYTHING changes! It does not mean we become millionaires. It means we stop living negatively. We stop looking inward and down ward, and start looking UP ward. And by looking UP we see the source of the miracles! We SEE the Miracle Maker! Do you know, I think heaven stops when we praise God in thankfulness. I can imagine lights pulsating around the throne of God, the Glory of His Being, radiant. Being lit up by our thankfulness. Scrooge and Bartemaus saw how precious life was because they had learnt to be thankful. To be grateful. To know there was more than a one off thing. To realise it was an everyday, lifetime event. Every single day….As the song continues….’Stop and look around you, the glory that you see, is born each day, don’t let it slip away, how precious life can be……'(‘gain, Thankyou Muppets! Great words, great words!) we are BLIND to life, because we don’t open our eyes! We take it for granted, but don’t even notice it!

Scrooge had been WOKEN UP! His heart was now wide awake! He could see life each day because he now had a THANKFUL heart! He was now ACTIVELY LOOKING FOR and LIVING a Thankyou! How many of us are asleep? Lost in the troubles of the world. Not praising God? Forgetting too, too tired? Unhappy and disconnected? We need to feed our spirit everyday. And we do this by having a thankful heart. We live a LIFE of thanks! It a habit we must practise. King David, when troubles hit, he took time out and he ‘strengthened himself in the Lord (See book of Samuel or Kings in the bible) he KNEW the VITALNESS yup, new word…..Good ain’t it?, of thanks! It is VITAL to our life, especially in these times! The more thankful you are the more you SEE! The more you bring Glory to God. Because the more you see, the more you want to say Thankyou! Life is so precious, so fragile. We hold it with such contempt. But it is SO PRECIOUS. Every tiny thing. A blade of grass. Have you looked at one lately? A ladybird? It’s beautiful! And the more we LIVE Thankyou, the more we draw people to us. They hunger for what we have! A thankful spirit is an illuminated spirit! It is SO attractive! That is why God is SO irresistible! We realise we are family, and not just family, HIS family! and it MATTERS. In fact, that’s ALL that matters. Because when you have the MAKER you have EVERYTHING! And everything you need has to come from that place. A thankful heart. That is when we start truly living. So I want to learn from Barty. I want to learn to say Thankyou. And to live it.

#god funny #God #Bartemaus #god personal life personal

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