#i was worried the first was too dry and astronomical but the second is pretty cumbersome so idk

[tyrannuspitch]

madainn mhath agus latha sona na grèin-stad! (no... latha sona meadhan an t-samhraidh?)

#chan eil pàganach a th'annam i'm just experimenting with grammar #not sure that's right #how do genders of compounds work #and also experimenting with like. making things feel natural #not sure which of those terms sounds better. probably the first tbh #i was worried the first was too dry and astronomical but the second is pretty cumbersome so idk

[mangobilorian]

Milk | (explicit) v

Paring: Din Djarin x Reader

Words: 6609

read chapter four  read on AO3

After you and Crix finish eating, you both go outside, giving Mando the privacy of the house. It seems a little overkill to leave the man an entire house to himself (and the bounty), but he deserves that much at least. And while the Tatooine night isn’t as beautiful as the sunsets, the stars more than make up for it. 

“There, you see that,” you say, pointing towards the right side of the sky. “Somewhere in that constellation is my star, and the system that surrounds it.” 

“Beautiful,” Crix replies. “You know, I never studied astronomy on Alderaan, too happy with history to bother. And we’ve explored most of the galaxy anyway.” 

“I guess. I’m pretty sure we know less than we think we do. The Unknown Regions could be twice or three times the size of the Core and all the Rims combined. Think about it!” Crix laughs and takes a sip of his tea. A sleeping tea, this time, cooled and perfect for an easy rest.

“How many constellations do you know?” You pause, taking the time to mull over the question. When you dreamed about finding your brother, you studied the stars. You plotted different routes he could take, the planets he could reach given the fuel capacity of his ship, which ones he’d avoid or welcome. Charts of the skies were imprinted on the back of your eyelids, day and night. 

It also helped, that your time doing finances for your parents gave you constant practice with math. While you weren’t the next big physicist, you knew enough to plot coordinates. And make finance sheets compatible with different holo programs. 

Somehow, in all that studying, you enjoyed learning about the stars. Not enough to make a career out of it (and what a useless career that would be), but it’s a fun enough hobby. “I can point out most of the constellations that make up the Known Regions,” you grin. “And if we’re talking Mid Rim in, I could tell you the different constellations in the main languages from their systems.” 

“Oh? You know many languages and are a budding astronomer. I see.” Rolling your eyes, you shuffle a bit. The sand is as irritating as always but- you could get used to it. Probably. “If- you mentioned becoming a pilot and following your brother were your dreams, right?” You nod, looking at Crix. The night is too dark, however, so you only see a shadow. “I could teach you how to fly, if you want. If we can get a ship.” You pause, dumbfounded. 

It’s so easy for Crix to offer you flying lessons when it took Mando so much kriffing effort to even agree.

Crix would be a better teacher. He’s gentle and softhearted. He’ll give you corrections sandwiched between compliments and encouragement. A far cry from Mando’s disastrous lesson. Maker, you can imagine it: you, a few years from now, with fantastic piloting skills honed by an ex-rebel pilot. 

But flying with Crix would mean letting Mando go, and you’re not sure if you want that. In fact, you’re not sure if flying is a thing you want to do for yourself and not for your brother. Your mind hurts at the implication, though, so you steal a sip of Crix’s tea before thinking of your reply. 

You open your mouth to speak, ready to give an answer when- “Or, we can go to Anchorhead, and see if there’s a book about stars. For you to take on your trip with your Mandalorian.” 

Oh. Oh. You release a breath, stomach giddy and confused. Crix knows you better than you know yourself, you realize. Which you shouldn’t be surprised about, honestly. Your brother held your identity so secret that only Crix knew he had family, but that didn’t stop him from telling Crix every embarrassing story from your childhood. 

“I’d like that. Thank you.” You hear Crix chuckle.

“You’re welcome.” The both of you stay quiet for a moment, content to sit next to each other in silence. It’s a stark difference from the thick tension between you and Mando. And there’s always tension whether it be sexual or emotional or- or anything else. “Tell me about your parents,” Crix says softly. “What are they like?” You furrow your brows. You already told him all about them before. 

But this is the first time Crix wanted to know something, the first time he asked an actual question. Taking your silence as rejection, he says, “I’m sorry. You don’t have to-”

“They’re nice. I think, once they get over the fact that you’re a boy, they’ll like you. Of course, they’d learn their firstborn son had lied about his death in a plot to destroy the Empire, but,” you shrug, “they’ll learn to internalize their grief and move on like everyone else.” Crix stays silent, and you worry that maybe what you said isn’t the sort of thing he was looking for.

“My dad… he likes his caf with just a little sugar. No cream. He can’t drink lactose without getting an upset stomach. He loves sour treats, especially the lemon tarts imported from Naboo. His favorite color is orange, and he doesn’t like speaking when he has to. My mom,” you pause, choking back the urge to cry. 

You don’t know why you suddenly want to bawl, but, just as you feel the familiar urge of drowning, Crix places a warm hand on your elbow. You suck back your tears and continue. 

“My mom loves plants and pretty things. It’s why she likes the b-bar girls so much. They’re prettier than me. But she loves me, in her own way. She buys me d-dresses and skirts, but they never fit. She sees everything as a project, a slate for her to fix,” you fiddle your fingers, thinking of all those beautiful clothes the bar girls wear while you get too-big or too-small garments. The colors shine and shimmer on the Twi’leks, Togrutas, Pantorans…. They never glitter on you. 

“She likes lemon tarts too and takes her caf with cream and lots of sugar. If she had the choice, she’d probably travel, looking for the prettiest things in the world and leaving me and dad behind. But she lo-loves us so m-much,” you sob, burying your face in your hands, chest squeezing. It’s been a while since you last cried, much less about your parents; the last time you shed a tear was before Mando… before you and Mando…. 

Life is so different now; you’re so different. You’re no longer a bumbling, naive girl with dreams too big to ever complete. Truly, you’d been a fool to ever think that you’d track your brother’s journey through the galaxy, years after his supposed death. But you found a man who made you feel what love is like (is it love?), and you found the truth about your brother on the first planet you landed on, and somehow, in the past month, you found out how to be just a bit stronger, a bit less rambling and insecure. 

None of that would have happened if Mando never saved you that day when you got in his way, surely endangering himself and his bounty. 

But you can’t deny that, for the first time, you miss your parents. You’ve changed, yes, but- Maker, you miss them so kriffing much. In the holodramas, the young girls that go on adventures have no parents, while you willingly left yours behind. Crix pulls you into a sideways hug, and you lean in. 

“Shhh, it’s ok. Thanks for telling me,” he says, after your tears dry and sobs stop. You realize that you’ve probably been out here for an hour, and Mando is definitely finished with his food and armor cleaning. Voicing your observation, Crix agrees, and you head back, wiping your face one last time.

When you enter the house, you find Mando closer to the door than you thought. Odd, but not unwarranted. Crix breezes to his room, claiming the sleepy tea made him exhausted, and leaves you alone with the bounty hunter.

“Where’s the bounty?” you ask after an uncomfortable silence. Mando points to the corner at the man, gagged, bound, and unconscious. But not tied to anything. “He won’t escape?” Mando shrugs, and his armor gleams from the moonlight. 

“I broke his ankles. He won’t run anytime soon. Once he’s in carbonite, he’s not a problem.” Mando walks over to you, a hulking man of metal, and gently brushes his knuckles against your cheeks. “Does that scare you?” You gulp. 

“No,” you say. Because you’re not. You think. You know how Mando can get, how all bounty hunters act when the prey is caught and the hunt ends. But breaking a man’s ankles seems unnecessarily cruel but- you know Mando would never hurt you.

“No, I’m not,” you smile, leaning into the gloved hand that now cups your cheek. This is what you wanted, right? For him to touch you like he loves you, like he’s a romantic interest in the holodramas, and you’re the main character. So why is your heart pounding with a little dread? 

“Good.” He pulls away from you quickly, and you almost want to bring him back closer but- you’re not foolish enough to think he’d like that. Mando is blunt, quiet, and scary. Independent. He doesn’t need a girl like you, lost and chirping away, tugging at his hand for affection. 

“Okay,” you reply because you don’t know what else to say. With that, you turn to Crix’s bedroom, but stop in your tracks. Would Mando…? 

No, he wouldn’t mind that you and Crix would share a bed, right? Crix had voiced his concern, but Mando had to see you weren’t interested in Crix like that. Besides, the couch is too small for both you and the bounty hunter. And there is no way Crix and Mando would share a bed. The thought almost makes you laugh, but you stop the sound from bubbling past your lips. 

And yet… 

You breeze into Crix’s room, tugging at the spare linens in his closet and stealing the second pillow off his bed. He shoots you a knowing smile, even winking at you which you pointedly ignore. Mando doesn’t say anything when you throw the couch cushions on the floor, doesn’t even move when you settle between the spare blanket, motioning for him to share the pillow.

Later, with Mando’s arm across your waist, armorless except for his helmet, you shut your eyes and try to sleep. You dream of stars and spaceships and siblings. 

*****

Mando had stayed behind with the bounty on the homestead when you and Crix left.   

He had wanted to leave the man’s injuries unattended, but he caved and allowed you to brace his ankle after you pressed a kiss to his helmet. The man cried when you did, almost reaching a hand out to touch you, but Mando stopped him.

“He’s a killer,” he said. You didn’t mention the fact that Mando’s a killer too. That he shot Ras Drun because he didn’t want others to kill him first and- you shove that thought out your traitorous mind. Killing is part of the job; he doesn’t like what he does. Mando is the only justice the galaxy can get, the type of justice that tracks criminals over systems.

When you and Crix reach Anchorhead it’s as dull as before, but the library isn’t. Small, dusty, and on the brink of collapse, the library teems with old books. Tatooine is decades behind on literature, but the stars don’t change much, and Crix secures you a book with paper pages. Paper! An outdated thing, yes, but the book is so beautiful. You thank Crix many times over, and he laughs it off like the good would-have-been brother-in-law he is. 

The book, titled The Scholar’s Guide to the Galaxy’s Stars and Systems, Edition Twelve, sits on the bottom of your bag. Crix pushes the bag, filled with tea and milk and bantha jerky, at you, making you promise to come back. 

You leave that night since Mando prefers travelling when the oppressive heat doesn’t cook him in his armor. He returns the speeder bike in Mos Eisley and drags the bounty through the sand, braced ankles and all. It’s a blessing that the man doesn’t wake up; you can’t comprehend the pain he’s going through, killer or not. It serves as another reminder that, much like Tatooine, the real galaxy is full of pain and suffering, more than the small glimpses you had back home.

The trip back to the Crest is silent, Mando not speaking even when you arrive at the ship, opting to open the hatch and climb right in without sparing you a word. 

You place the bag on the floor gently, mindful of the inner contents, and crouch down. The milk will go sour soon, so you should probably drink it now. Before you can continue contemplating what time to drink your blue milk, you hear the tell-tale signs of the carbonite sealing around the bounty. 

As the hiss dies down, you look towards Mando on the other end of the ship, then at the bounty’s face, mouth wide open in a silent scream. You wonder if the braces you gave him would be enough to help him heal while he spends time in his frozen prison. 

Sighing, you reach back into the bag to pull your book out when Mando suddenly towers over you. A bit spooked, you scoot back. 

He looks so large standing there, a mountain of metal. You know the corded muscles that sculpt his body; you know that if you reach out to the tiny spot below his ear, and give him a little kiss, he’d treat you with a groan. But it’s been so long since you two had any real time together (not counting last night because you both were tired), despite it being three or so days since you landed on Tatooine. Your face heats up at the memory. 

You expect him to reach out to you, to speak and say what’s on his mind. Instead, Mando pushes past you and heads up the ladder. It stings like rejection, but you push the feeling down. You have no right to feel that way. 

After a minute or so, the ship rumbles, and you feel the Crest rise into the air. You should’ve gone up with him, so you can help plot the coordinates on his next bounty or something. You want to be more useful, less like a burden. 

With another sigh (geez, when did you get so gloomy?), you trudge up the ladder and into the cockpit. Mando sits in the main chair, broad and unwavering as always. For a moment, your throat goes dry, and you wonder what to say. Thankfully, he beats you to it.

“We’re going to Cato Neimoidia,” he says, not bothering to face you as he speaks. 

You calculate the distance on your fingers, almost surprised at how quick the journey would be. You’ve never ventured that far into the galaxy before, much less to a Neimoidian purse world. “That’ll be, what, five and a half days of travel?” Mando wheels his chair around. 

“Yes,” he says, curtly. Oh. Well all right. You fiddle your fingers a bit, unsure on how to proceed. It’s always been slightly awkward around Mando, but you got used to it. Now? Now, there’s something different, an underlying tension you’re not quite sure you like. 

Suddenly, you’re reminded of the last time you were in the cockpit, horny and frustrated. Back then, you still had faraway dreams of tracing your brother’s path. But when you finally got the answers you ached to have… that means it’s all going to end, right? You should’ve stayed with Crix when he gave you the chance. Because as much as you want to stay with Mando, maybe he doesn’t want you to. But he did offer to continue your piloting lessons, and he never explicitly said he’d kick you out. 

“W-would you like some milk?” you ask after a long, long time of standing. “We should finish it before it spoils. Crix said-”

“I know what he said.” Mando turns around, and that’s as big of a dismissal as you’re going to get. It stings, just a little, to be pushed aside so easily but- what can you expect? He doesn’t owe you anything even if you wish he had a little more tact. 

So you hurry downstairs to your bag and split the glass of milk between two packed cups. You leave yours downstairs, a snack for when you read your new book, and take Mando’s up the ladder, careful not to spill. 

When you re-enter the cockpit, Mando has his head in his hands. “Are you all right?” He flinches at your voice, not bothering to acknowledge your presence. You set the cup down on a flat surface, making sure it won’t spill on the controls you only just managed to remember. Looking at them now, you can barely tell which meter is the gauge for the hyperspace fuel and which one is for the oxygen levels in the ship.  

“Yes,” Mando replies, and you realize you had forgotten what you even asked. Without a thank you, he picks the cup up, and you take your cue to leave him his privacy. When you descend the ladder, you fight the urge to throw your forehead against the wall and scream.

Why is he being so kriffing cold? Why? Things were good before Tatooine. Great, in fact. Those three days were both nerve-wracking and exhilarating. And the cantina? Stars, you almost gave him a handjob in public! So you don’t understand why Mando is being so- so stiff. 

Part of you thinks you should’ve known this might happen, that your days of happiness and bliss wouldn’t last. He’s a bounty hunter, not a prince. Bounty hunters don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves; that’s a business infraction. But another part says that he might’ve changed. Might’ve actually wanted to be nice, and that, beneath all that metal, he’s still a man. A man with toned muscles and a stiff co-

Okay. You should probably stop there. You’re mad at him, right? 

Shit. You don’t know what to do if you’re mad at him or if he’s mad at you. You wish Crix were here; he’d give you great advice.

And suddenly you have a bright thought, a glaring epiphany. Crix. You remember how quick Mando was when he slammed Crix into the wall and threatened him. You thought he got over the initial animosity since he allowed you to stay on Crix’s homestead while he did his job. Maybe Mando stayed territorial, possessive. But while your growing arousal surges at that thought, another part of you shivers. 

Yes, you like the feeling of him dominating you in bed. But dominating your affections? Your emotions? Who you could care for or be around? That doesn’t sit right with you at all. Especially since he has the gall to be jealous over your long-dead brother’s fiance. 

With a sudden spike of anger, you take a sip of your milk for some much-needed energy and climb the ladder once more. 

Before Mando can even turn in his seat, fully helmeted with an untouched cup of milk on the console, you wheel his chair around yourself. 

“Why are you like this?” you say, not really sure what you mean, but you know you have to get this off your chest. 

“What?” 

“This,” you wave your hands in his general direction. “Cold and mean. We were fine before- before Tatooine, and we come back, and you’re all grumpy. You don’t say anything on the ride here. You don’t say thanks when I give you milk. And you don’t even know what you’re doing wrong! I just don’t get it, and you don’t have any right to-”

Mando cuts you off by grabbing your wrists and pulling you in until you’re sprawled over his lap. “What-”

“Can you please shut up?”

“No,” you glare, your reflection distorted on his helmet. You try to wiggle away, but his grip is too tight.

“Listen to me. Can you- stop moving. I get it. You want to go back to that shit planet and be with your new boyfriend. But you said you wanted to learn to fly, and that little rebel farmer doesn’t even have a ship.” 

You freeze, unable to process what he said. But when you do, you become infuriated.

“Boyfriend?! What boyfriend? Last time I checked, Mandalorian, you’re the closest person to fit the bill! Did you really think Crix and I are- are dating? You and I slept on the floor last night! Together. I know you have a bucket on your head every day, but are you actually that dense?” You don’t know where the sudden venom in your voice comes from, but it’s there, glaring and loud and stinging.

You try to squirm away, too angry to deal with the blank, metal facade in front of you, but Mando pulls you tighter to his chest. “You seemed so happy with him, and told him about your parents that I thought-”

Wait. 

What? 

What do your parents have to do with anything unless- he heard you, didn’t he? Heard you cry and sob about missing them. And somehow, your words made him believe that you and Crix…  

“You thought what?” you say, softer, forcing the bite out your voice.“He asked about my parents, Mando. So I told him. Just because he’s a guy I’m friends with doesn’t mean I’m attracted to him.”  

“Oh.” He sounds so… sad yet still gruff. Resigned. It almost breaks your heart, and for a moment you let yourself wonder about his personal life, about his parents. He’s never mentioned them, and you highly doubt he’d start talking now, but-

“You can always ask,” you say, and Mando brushes a finger against your cheek. “But next time, please don’t jump to conclusions. For both our sakes.”

“Hmm.”

You take a moment to linger in the aftermath of your miscommunication and- Maker, you feel so proud of yourself. For being able to handle the situation without any lasting consequences, for not fumbling over your words despite feeling overwhelmed. You might be a little high on adrenaline (his accusation almost gave you a heart attack), and you really, really want to laugh, or cry or sleep but- you hold it in. 

It’s ridiculous to think of Crix as anything other than a brother. But given that Mando is a touch-starved, emotionally stunted bounty hunter who can’t even show his face or divulge his name, he didn’t understand how simple your relationship with Crix is. How can anyone reach the conclusion that you and Crix are an item when you gave up an actual bed to sleep on the hard floor with Mando?

“Are you angry with me?” he asks after a long while. You shake your head immediately. No, you’re not angry. Or even scared. Because, while Mando breaks his bounty’s ankles or shoots them point blank, he’s still vulnerable enough to ask if you're angry with him. To grow soft at the mention of parents.  

You move to get up, but two gloved hands on your hips stop you. What-

Something hard and stiff presses against your inner thigh, and you fight the urge to squeal. Only now, far departed from that dirty cantina, do you remember the familiar feeling of want nestled in your stomach. You forgot how much you craved more of Mando’s body until his actual boner juts into your thigh, a reminder of what exactly will come next. 

And while some part of you wants to be petty and leave him hanging for being a jerk who talks first before thinking, you also desperately want him to take you right there in the cockpit. Or rather, you just want to be in his arms forever. 

“Fuck,” Mando grunts when you adjust yourself in his lap. “Eager, aren’t you?” 

“You’re one to talk,” you breathe out, hands already reaching between your bodies to where his cock tents, stiff and proud. You debate taking off his thigh armor but decide against it even though you really want to feel his muscular thigh. 

Bringing one hand to your mouth, Mando lets you take his glove off with his teeth, and you take a moment to appreciate his darkened skin, calloused and large. Together, you and Mando pull his pants down just enough for his cock to slip out and- Maker, it’s so much better seeing him in the light like this. The veins, slight curve, the leaking-

With a jolt, you realize that this is the first time you’ve ever seen any inch of unprotected skin (aside from his wrist). Maybe it’s a step in the right direction, an achievement to show that he’s willing to reveal parts of himself. 

You spit into your hand, much like the way you first touched him so long ago, and reach for him. You give him firm, slow strokes, and Mando rewards you with a groan. There’ll be no kissing this time, you mourn sadly, but he might give you access to his neck. The thought makes you giddy. 

With a little maneuvering, you manage to tug enough of Mando’s clothes down and reveal his equally tanned skin underneath. He lets you, surprisingly, but jolts when you first press your lips on the dip above his collarbone. His cock even twitches in your hand. 

Mando gets tired eventually, though, and he wrenches your own pants to your knees. You stand up for a moment, basking in his attention, and undress the whole way, throwing the pants on the floor, soon followed by your shirt and undergarments.

Kriff, you feel all the blood in your body burning, aching for more Mando, for more of him, helmeted or not. He eases a finger into you, and you gasp, body opening up again after a few days of celibacy. He presses the pad of his finger right into the ridged, highly sensitive part of you, and you drool against his neck.  

“F-fuck, Mando, right-” 

You climax not soon after, two of Mando’s fingers curved upwards into you while one thumb rests above your clit. When Mando slides between your folds and begins thrusting, it’s like the past few days never happened, and you’re right back normal. A simple girl with dreams of following her brother through space. A girl with a useless, hopeless crush on a masked bounty hunter. 

It takes you begging for his helmet to come off to make Mando twist you around so your back presses against his chest. The position is new and exhilarating, and it sends shivers of excitement up your spine. 

Mando touches you, all of you, and as his mouth sucks wet hickeys on your throat, he thrusts up into you. There’s no measured pace, no cadence with his motions. It’s pure, wild fucking and- there’s something like desperation there. 

With him squeezing a nipple in one hand and covering your eyes with the other, it’s up to you to rub your clit, chasing down a second high as your head lolls back to rest on his shoulder, chest heaving from Mando’s rough thrusts.

Moments later, bright white flashes behind your eyelids, you’re entire head going fuzzy and airy and wired and- fuck, you go limp in Mando’s arms. With a drawn-out groan, he finishes inside you, a trickle of his release gliding down your aching thighs.

When you think it’s time to go, Mando keeps you there, and you feel him soften, sometimes twitching. It’s… new but not unwanted. In fact, the whole experience has been something novel, a new achievement indeed. He presses a gentle kiss to your ear, and you swoon, happy to pretend for a little longer.

Promising to keep your eyes closed, you allow yourself to be picked up and off his lap as Mando grabs his helmet from the floor, groaning at the sudden emptiness. And, when your eyes begin to droop and you don’t need to force them closed, you let him tuck you into a co-pilot chair, his cape draped over you like a blanket.

*****

Din doesn’t remember why he first asked you to join him on Tatooine. All Din knows is that he didn’t want to leave you behind on the Crest, all sad and lonely, especially not after he fucked you for three days straight. 

And it’s not like you ask to come to missions, only prompting questions about the next destination, so Tatooine would be a change of pace. 

You were mildly interested in Nevarro, but while he’d left you behind on the Crest before, he didn’t dare bring you there. If Paz catches wind of you— weak and starry-eyed—the whole Covert would wonder why Din would choose someone so soft. But Din doesn’t want you to make more younglings for the Covert; boiling down your purpose to a breeder seems so… demeaning. No, he doesn’t really know why he wants you next to him. Something about you makes him… start questioning things. 

So he takes you to Mos Eisley, buys you a drink as if he were just another man, and watches as you almost gag at the taste. It stings a bit, but what did he expect? Din Djarin is not the definition of a “good date” and never has been. 

And then he has to control himself when your pretty little hand cups him through his pants with the promise of more. Fuck, the dirtiest words escape your mouth. You surprise him, but he should’ve known that you’re a little vixen under all your awkward fumbling. Or rather, you grew more confident to show that side of yourself after a month under Din’s rough tutelage. After all, you’re very different from the stuttering girl who spilled details on one elusive Devaronian bounty. 

Everything in the cantina goes well, the buildup of something dirty and satisfying just barely out of reach. Then you go and meet that odd, grimy, ex-rebel, and Din has to watch you smile at his stories and stay at his farm. 

He thinks of you during the entire hunt despite the rational part of his head telling him to stop. You are… well, Din doesn’t know what you are. What your relationship is. Are you his girlfriend? Would that make him a boyfriend? Din doesn’t know how to be a boyfriend. The word itself seems a little… immature. Young. Juvenile. And Din is too old to be using those words. 

He’s only ever had lovers, most of them seedy, and no one near serious. But you- you sleep in his bed, allow him to ravage your inexperienced body, and clean up the ship. You want to learn to fly, want to trace your brother’s footsteps, want to seem like an older woman rather than the small girl you are. 

He wants to be at the farm with you, have you on a real bed regardless if there’s company (but he really does not want to share) but- there’s a bounty to catch. And if Din takes out his personal frustrations on the boy, he’ll never tell. Thankfully, the kid’s already weak ankles break easily. Gagged, bound, unconscious. Easy money. 

But when he arrives to see you and Crix watching the kriffing sunset together, he feels an ugly coil settle in his stomach. 

And fuck, Crix gives you everything you want. He knew your brother. He was a pilot who could teach you better than Din can. And Crix makes you smile and laugh and talk about the personal details of your life that you never divulged to Din. Even worse, Crix is still young, younger than Din. And you’re fresh and green, barely into adulthood and- and Din used you. 

He knows you were willing, but he still thinks himself a little monstrous for taking advantage of you. Cabin fever, his shebs. All his talk of taking it slow led to three days of sex, three days of leaving you in the dark about everything in his life while he takes and takes and takes from your innocent body. 

Din resolves himself to be silent, to not make your departure from Tatooine any harder than it has to be. Half of him thinks you would actually stay with Crix, and he’s happy you don’t. But he hears you talk about your parents, and Din, for an achingly long moment, wonders if you'll ever share that information with him. 

He wonders if his parents would have liked you. And shit- he hasn’t thought about them for years, not after Death Watch showed him the Way, and Din Djarin became Mando. The fact that you- an unassuming, stuttering girl makes him remember, makes him question… he doesn’t know what to think about that. 

His only reprieve is holding you at night on the hard floor of another man’s house where he can’t even take his helmet off to kiss you. You’re as soft as ever and Din… Din feels emotions other than lust when he hugs you close.  

Then he returns to the ship, and Din’s constantly reminded of Crix everywhere. Your little book about the stars— an interest that you never told Din before. The tea sashays you bring: a drink you actually enjoy instead of Din’s atrocious gift at that cantina. Hells, the milk you pour into a cup and give to him. 

And then- then you storm back up, demanding to know why he’s acting cold and blunt, not realizing that he’s building his walls because of you. With his heart caught between his ribs, he only says what he thinks is true. That you and Crix have to be together because there’s no way in all of Corellia’s hells that you like Din as much as he likes you.

Fuck, it feels so good to admit that in his head. He likes curling you into his chest at night, likes draping an arm around your shoulder at seedy cantinas, likes kissing you senseless. Likes teaching you everything whether it be sex or piloting or carbon freezing. 

Before you, he resigned himself to thinking of himself as more metal than man. More Creed than person. He was Mando like all other Mandos, plain and simple. 

With you, he can be Din Djarin. He can approach a past buried under pain and devotion to the Way. 

He wants you to understand, just for a bit, how he’s in pain at the thought of not having you. Because he knows for a fact that if you were to leave… he’d go right back to being Mando the bounty hunter, one of many other bucket heads, follower of a stiff creed from a broken planet.  

So right now, angry and hurting, he pours out his frustrations only for you to respond back with more determination and grit that he’s ever seen. And while the jealous, irrational part of him says Crix made you stronger, he’d be blind to not realize that no man could change you. He has no right to say that he’s the one responsible for your new-found strength.

While Din taught you not to stutter and how to suck cock, you grew up on your own. No longer chasing long dead relatives but now your own desires. Din’s happy you chose him to continue to be in your life, so fucking happy and reassured and safe. 

So he stops you from leaving and shows you just what you do to him. 

He takes you right there in his chair, even taking his helmet off to kiss your neck because he needs you. All of you. When he finishes inside you and keeps himself there, he almost confesses his fucking feelings like the love drunk fool he is. But the words don’t tumble past his lips, not even as a whisper or murmur. 

Din feels how tired you are, though, too tired to head down the ladder yourself. So he dresses you back in your shirt and tucks you into the co-pilot chair, snuggled under his unfastened cape. He watches you sleep, as creepy as that sounds, and sips the milk. It’s an odd taste, and he doesn’t know why you like it so much. 

He doesn’t know a lot about you actually. You said that he only had to ask about your life, and you would answer. But that might mean giving up his own history, and Din’s pretty sure he’s not ready for that anytime soon. 

Din buckles down in the chair, refraining from thinking about the events that happened a few minutes prior. He watches the NavComp chirp the coordinates to Cato Neimoidia and thinks about the next target, a girl slightly younger than you. Wanted because she killed the man who slaughtered her family. If Din had a stronger moral compass, he wouldn’t take the job but- he needs the credits to support you. And the younglings back on Nevarro. 

He only hopes you don’t find out the grisly details of the job and, since Guild members don’t ask questions, he won’t know more than he needs to. Because he doesn’t know what he’d do if you reacted badly to the truth about his next bounty. Doesn’t know what he’d do if you realize he really is a bad man who preys on weak, young girls, whether or not he had to stow them on his ship in the middle of a firefight. 

Sighing, Din spares one last look at you before heading downstairs. He picks up the book Crix bought you, flips through the pages, and settles on your home planet. For the next hour or so until you wake up, Din memorizes every single bit of information about your home world, ingraining then in his head. He wants to say he’s doing it out of curiosity but the growing romantic in him says that he simply wants to impress you. 

So he learns about the local vegetation, biomes, unique animals, big cities. The singular page devoted to the planet is half scientific, half cultural. There’s a big festival coming up, and Din pulls up a galactic standard calendar. If he catches the next bounty within a month, he might be able to bring you back home in time for it. 

He thinks you’d like to be back home, if not for the festival then for your parents. He remembers what you said about them, about the too-big clothes and Naboo lemon tarts. Selfishly, Din wants to celebrate the festival with you, wants to know what it’s like to have fun with someone he likes, wants to see your face light up with surprise and joy because it’s Din, not anyone else, who brings you home. 

And, with a nervous fidget, he imagines what it would be like to meet your parents. What their reactions would be to seeing their precious daughter with a Mando bounty hunter bound by a code that hides his face. They won’t like me, he thinks sourly, but at least you do. Snorting, he realizes this is the first time he’s ever entertained the thought of seeing someone’s parents. How… domestic. 

By the end of his reading, Din feels more confident, more self-assured than he’s been in a long time. He’ll show you how he feels when he’s ready. And he hopes that, when the time comes, you aren’t scared off. 

a/n: sorry this chapter took a week to x-post on tumblr! I’ve been having major computer issues and had to get a new one :(

read chapter six

#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #din djarin #the mandalorian #a way out #din djarin x female reader

[diagnosed-by-doyle]

A Reprimanding

Character: Galileo Galilei (OC), part 4

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1257

~~~~~

That evening, Galileo met Arthur at the pub after finishing repairs on the music box. The astronomer sat himself next to Arthur at the bar and caught the bartender's attention.  “Give me something strong.”

“You really are going to drain my wallet dry, aren’t you?” Arthur placed his gin and tonic back on the bar then turned to his friend. “It’s not like you to start with something heavy.”

“I’m not sober enough to start our little discussion.”

“I dare say someone’s got you bent out of shape! Come on then. Out with it.”

Galileo took a few swallows of the whiskey that the barman put in front of him. The burning sensation it left on his tongue was oh so wonderful. “The only thing I can blame is my mouth.”

~~~~~

“Is it something you said to ____? I’m sure it couldn’t have been that bad.”

He stared at the amber liquid in his glass. “No, not where she’s concerned. I just didn’t want to think about the things that happened back then.”

“I understand now. You do have a habit of saying just what you’re thinking.” Arthur leaned forward and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You’re free. You can come and go as you please, and no one is watching you. The only thing holding you back is this up here.” He tapped on Galileo’s head then sat back in his seat. “Try not listening to that big brain of yours for once. It might give you some peace and quiet.”

“Hmph. You’re one to talk.”

“I never said I was a good example.” The writer smiled. “I might just be the worst.”

“Speaking of bad examples,” Galileo turned in his seat to face Arthur directly.

“Oh, bugger.”

Pleased that Arthur was dreading this, the Italian grinned. “You’ve got some nerve scaring ____ like that. Haven’t I told you to be more respectful to women? They’re not as helpless as you seem to think. Give them some credit.”

“You already figured out why I did it?”

“Of course. I know how you think. If you took the time to speak to her like a normal person, you’d understand. And by that, I mean you’re going to apologize.”

“That’s fair.”

“Arthur, you’re here! And Gian too!” A mutual female acquaintance of the two gentlemen walked toward them from the pub’s entrance. “It’s been a while since you’ve come around, Monsieur.” She trailed her fingertips down Galileo’s arm.

“Good evening, Marie.” The woman’s greeting left a sour taste in his mouth. If it were any other night, he likely would have responded to her in a more welcoming manner. “Unfortunately, I was just about to head out. Hopefully you won’t be too bored without me here to entertain you.”

She pouted her lips. “Really? That’s such a shame. And here I was getting excited.” She latched onto Arthur’s arm. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

The author looked his friend in the eyes. He wasn’t exactly happy with what he saw. The astronomer didn’t seem as alive as he usually did. It was a choice he didn’t have to think about. “As much as I’d love to, darling, I really must make sure he gets home. He’s had a lot to drink.”

Galileo downed the rest of his drink and stood up. “I’m not drunk, you culo.”

“He seems fine to me,” Marie said as she studied him.

“It takes a bit to get to him, luv. He won’t get two blocks before he’s out cold.”

“Really?” Marie’s eyes widened in surprise.

The Italian clicked his tongue and started toward the door. “Whatever.”

“Ah, I shouldn’t let him get too far.” Arthur tossed a few bills onto the counter then kissed the woman on her cheek. “Next time, yeah?”

He chased after Galileo. Surprisingly, he was waiting for him just outside the door.

“You could have stayed. I’d hate to make you miss your snack.” He pushed himself off the wall and started walking next to Arthur.

“There’s always Rouge at the mansion. Besides, now I don’t have to part ways with my royalties.”

“Ha. So why did you come?”

“It’s just like I said. I can’t let you to wander off, never to be seen again. Think of how daddy dearest would feel! I’m sure he’d weep for days.”

“As if that would actually happen. He’s got you lot to keep him company.” Galileo knew that Arthur was worried about him, but neither man wanted to say it out loud.

“Besides, I know of a sweet skirt at home that would feel positively dreadful if you disappeared.”

Why’d he have to bring her into this? “And I’m sure she’d get over it rather quickly.” The astronomer suddenly stopped in his tracks. “Why are we speaking like I’m actually going somewhere? Is this the type of tale you’re spinning in your head these days?”

“It’d make for a ravishing story! Don’t you think?” In truth, this was Arthur’s way of distracting Galileo from the demons that plagued his mind. It seemed to be working, thankfully.

The two men walked all the way back to the mansion to give the Italian a chance to blow off some steam. They parted ways once they got back, Galileo going upstairs and Arthur going into the kitchen to start his search for ____.

*

“What luck! I guessed right on the first try!” I spun around at the sound of a very memorable British accent. “Hello, dear.”

I was wary and kept my distance. Last time we were in this position, he tried to bite me. “Were you looking for something?”

He stepped closer to me purposefully. “You, actually.”

“Me?” I took a step back.

“Indeed. There’s a couple things I need to discuss with you.” He smiled charmingly at me.

Hearing those words, I dropped my defensive position. “Like what?”

“For starters--” He took a deep breath, preparing himself. “I’d...like to apologize. For frightening you before, I mean.”

I stared at him in disbelief. He seemed so unlike himself in that moment.

“Will you forgive me?”

His apology was so surprising that I’d nearly forgotten that I was supposed to say something! “You seem sincere, so yes. I forgive you.” He let out an audible sigh of relief. “And the second thing?”

“This is something only you can do. I’d like you to spend some time with our darling Gally.”

“Galileo? Why would you want me to do that? He seemed pretty upset earlier.”

“That’s precisely why I want you to do it. It’s very subtle, but he’s soft on you in particular. Why, he's the one who insisted that I apologize to you properly!”

I knew he hadn’t come to apologize on his own. Maybe he would have eventually, but still. “What do you mean he’s soft on me? The way I see it, he treats everyone the same.”

“I’m sure that’s how it seems from the outside, but you’ll figure it out given enough time.” Arthur turned on his heel to leave. “If you’ll excuse me, I got some ideas that earlier I must get written down.” He chuckled to himself as he smiled over his shoulder at me. “It was a lovely chat, ____. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

I stared at the door that Arthur disappeared out of. If me spending time with Galileo would him feel better, then I didn’t have any complaints with it. The only thing I had to decide on now was how I would actually go about spending time with him.

~~~~~

Please let me know if you want to be (un)tagged.

Tags: @lunaavanzado @in-words-of-what-maybe @sadshaxkscoolmom @micah-drew

#ikevamp #ikemen vampire #galileo

[violetsmoak]

No Safety or Surprise [Part I - Excerpt2]

See PREVIOUS for Disclaimer & Notes

Siblings, Terry thinks as he scowls down at the little gremlin on the couch, are highly overrated.

At some point while he was getting ready for school, Matt snuck into his room and stole his comforter. The twip is now wrapped up like a giant burrito, watching television and pretending he doesn’t see Terry’s irritated expression.

“Don’t you have your own?” he grumbles. “You’re going to get your sick germs all over it.”

“You can just wash it later.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I think it’s cute,” Mom interrupts, stopping the fight in its tracks the way she always does. She doesn’t look up from her phone, thumb flying through a text. “And you used to do the same thing, by the way.”

Terry blinks. “I did not.”

“You did. With mine and your father’s bedspread. That, and homemade soup? Always made you feel better when you were sick.”

Which, okay, Terry can sort of remember that.

There was something safe about being wrapped in blankets that smelled like Dad’s aftershave and having Mom spoil him with food made just for him. A pang of sadness hits him, leeching away from his irritation, because Matt was never able to do that. Their parents divorced rather soon after he was born, and Dad wasn’t around Matt much afterward, let alone when he was sick.

Since Warren McGinnis’ death, Terry is the only adult male presence his brother has in his life.

And I’ve done a pretty crap job of that so far.

He’s always so busy, working for Mr. Wayne on and off the books. The criminal element in Gotham makes it practically impossible to maintain connections outside the life.

It’s ironic that Batman is better at being a role-model for Matt than Terry is.

The fight drains out of him, and he gives a put-upon sigh. “Fine. He can have it. But if I get sick, I’m going to hang him over the balcony by his feet." He turns away, but knows Matt is sticking his tongue out at the back of his head; it’s what he’d do at that age. “So, what’s the verdict? Staying? Going?”

Whatever Matt has, their mother seems to be coming down with as well. She’s been debating all morning about whether she intends to go into work or not. Terry’s stuck around, in case she does decide to go and he has to watch Matt; he can livestream his classes, she can’t exactly do the same for her job.

“I don’t know,” Mom says, frowning at the screen. “Jarvis and Riley are out today too it seems.”

Terry whistles; he’s happy he hasn’t caught whatever’s going around. Then again, it’s April, right about the time the temperatures are fluctuating between mild and freeze-your-nuts off. It could still happen.

And won’t that be fun.

Because Batman doesn’t get sick days, and he knows from experience that having a cold while wearing the cowl is probably the most disgusting feeling ever. And that includes wading through sewage and cleaning rotten food out of the refrigerator.

While Mom continues to debate with herself, Terry fires off texts to Dana and Max, asking them to cover anything he misses for the first period, in case he’s late. There’s about ten seconds before he gets a response from Max.

‘No problem. Is it work? Or work?’

Before he can respond, Dana’s text comes in. ‘Everything OK w/ Mr. Wayne?’

And he can’t help a smile at that, because he doesn’t have to make up any kind of lie or excuse, because they both know. He’s still getting used to the fact that Dana knows, and that she understands. And wants to help.

It’s more than he ever thought he’d get when he started this whole thing.

‘Wayne’s OK far as I know,’ Terry texts them both back, mentally crossing his fingers that he isn’t jinxing anything. ‘Mom & Matt not feeling great. Keeping an eye on them a bit.’

‘Aw, poor them. Tell them feel better from me. And don’t worry, got you covered! <3’

There’s a minute or so before Max responds.

‘Oh, that sucks. Bad flu this year, huh? Not feeling great either, but test period 2, so…’

Terry’s eyes widen. ‘Wait. What test?’

‘LOL.’

‘Seriously, what test?!?!’

There’s no answer, and Terry frowns down at his phone, trying to decide if Max is messing with him or not. He’s about to double check with Dana, when his mother speaks.

“I think I will stay home,” she decides, rubbing her cheekbones. “My face hurts. I really hope it’s not another sinus infection. That’s all I need on top of everything.”

“Hey, take it easy,” Terry tells her with a comforting smile. “It’s been a while since you had the day off. Besides, the world’s not gonna shut down because one astronomer doesn’t come into work.”

“You say that now,” Mom says dryly. “If an asteroid is hurtling toward the earth and it’s my job to spot it, you’re going to feel pretty foolish.”

“Nah, never happen.” He grabs his bag and starts for the door, stopping to press a kiss to the top of his mother’s head. “With Superman out there? And the Justice League? Pretty good job security, I’d say.”

“Lame,” Matt grumbles from his blanket cocoon. “Batman can take them all. He probably has a special rocket to shoot stuff down.”

And, okay, maybe Terry might rethink his stance on siblings, because damn if those words don’t make him grin.

Matt notices, and frowns at him. “Why are you smiling at me like a creeper?”

And, there goes that good feeling.

“Trying to decide whether to take a pic and send to your friends and show them how pathetic you are right now. You’re like a human-larva hybrid. It’s gross.”

“Yeah, well—well, you’re adopted!”

That’s his latest insult to everyone when he can’t think of anything else to say.

“Matt!”

“At least I was planned,” Terry retorts.

It takes a moment before the penny drops, and his brother’s overly pale face goes red. “Moooooom!”

“Terry, leave your brother alone, he’s sick,” she sighs, rubbing her eyes.

“What’s his excuse the rest of the time?”

“Go to school, hon.”

Matt smirks at him, and returns his attention to the television, flipping through cartoons. Terry rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything about favoritism, because it always comes back to how he’s an adult now and should know better than to stoop to a ten-year-old’s level.

I can win a fight against the deadliest member of the Society of Assassins, but not this. Go figure.

“Will Mr. Wayne need you today?” Mom asks as he puts on his jacket. He knows she’s wondering if he’ll be able to come home and relieve her from Matt-duty at some point, which he totally understands.

“We’ll see. I’ll probably drive out to check on him tonight, but I think I can get home after school if you need a break.”

“That would be appreciated.”

“Do you want me to bring you guys anything while I’m out—?”

There is a sudden, sharp drop in pitch throughout the entire house. Terry’s ears pop a little, the same way they do whenever Shriek mutes the sound in the surrounding area, but somehow his sense of sound simply becomes sharper.

Before Terry can wonder if it’s a sign the sound-terrorist is back out on the street, the living room is filled with music. A jaunty, haunting carnival tune that instantly has the hair on the back of Terry’s neck raising.

His gaze whips to the television screen, which is flickering between static and a blank screen with the words HA HA HA flashes across it in red.

His mouth goes dry.

TBC

Next

#terry mcginnis #matt mcginnis #mary mcginnis #batman beyond #batman #fanfiction #dc universe #action #adventure #angst #drama #late night introspection #prelude to canon divergence #bat family #this is going to be a long one folks #calm before the storm #violetsmoak

[grovestep]

Pyro [Overwatch - Ashe]

Title: Pyro Rating: T Ao3: Click here, and don’t forget to kudos!  Summary: Ashe finds her true calling in a rush of flames. 

Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe hated a lot of things; like ballroom gowns, business luncheons, and yacht parties. But most of all, she hated Jesse McCree. All of these things had one thing in common: they grated on her nerves and pushed her to the limit. If it weren’t for Bob’s calming presence, she would have jumped overboard by now--literally and figuratively.

When she wasn’t cooped up in the mansion, she was out doing the one thing she did best: wreaking havoc. If there was one thing Ashe loved, it was watching the world burn. She found her true calling when her mother took her shopping. Though she had the money to buy anything she wanted, she felt a thrill when her hands wandered over expensive items and slipped them into her purse when nobody was watching. She felt a rush of adrenaline leaving the store. Ashe would ride that high for days, feeling the best she ever had.

Her penchant for stealing transformed into something more dangerous. As a teenager, she picked up smoking. Her parents didn’t notice, but Bob did. He would brood at her silently as she lit up a cigarette and sat on her windowsill, flicking the ashes down at the expensive topiary. One day, one of those ashes happened to catch on the dry branches underneath the bushes. The sculpted topiary lion went up into beautiful flames. Ashe was in love.

She spent many of her nights setting fire to dumpsters. When she first started, she would flee immediately after starting the blaze. As time went on, she’d stay longer and longer. Ashe would sit and watch the fire burn itself out. She loved the orange light, the warmth, the dancing shadows it cast. She would stay right up until the flashing blue and red lights of the police bounced off the alley walls.

It was in one of these instances that she met Jesse McCree.

In Ashe’s humble opinion, it was one of the best fires she had ever set. Something in the dumpster happened to stoke the flame just right. The blaze roared to life, reaching heights she had never experienced before. For a brief moment, she worried that it might set the building behind it on fire. Then suddenly--

“Hey there, darlin’.”

Ashe felt her soul leave her body.

A young man stepped out from the shadows of the back alley. Ashe had no idea where he had come from or how long he had been there. She looked down at the lighter in her hand, then up at the fire she had so obviously set. Before he could say another word, Ashe took off running.

She had so much as reached the end of the alley when she felt a presence behind her.

A calloused hand gripping her arm.

A strong force pulling her back into the shadows.

“Get your dirty paws off me,” she bit out through clenched teeth, elbowing the man in the stomach. He didn’t flinch. Ashe looked up at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was focused somewhere else, somewhere Ashe couldn’t turn to see because his grip was iron around her arms. “What the hell are you looking at? I said let go of me!”

“Shut up, will ya? Do you wanna get caught?” the man said in a rushed whisper. The sound of voices approaching made Ashe panic. It took all of her willpower not to break free and take off running. Three cops walked right by their hiding place, not bothering to look into the shadows.

“Another one? That’s the fourth time this month,” one of the cops said as he looked at the dumpster fire.

“Looks like we have a serial arsonist,” another said.

“So long as they aren’t burning down houses, right? Call in the fire boys, there’s nothing else to do here.”

As the cops chattered away, the man tugged at Ashe’s arm. He beckoned for her to follow, pressing one finger to his lips. They slipped out of the alleyway through a gap in the fence Ashe had never noticed before. When they were well away from the scene, Ashe let the floodgate of emotions go, and to her surprise, so did the stranger.

“What the hell did you think you were doing back there?” He demanded.

“Me? I should ask you that! Who taught you your manners? Grabbing a lady like that. It’s not proper. Were you raised in a barn?”

The man sneered, “Lady? I don’t see no lady. All I see is some rich chick gettin’ her rocks off on settin’ fires.”

“I’m not just “some rich chick.” My name is Ashe and I do more than set fires,” she said with a scowl.

“Really? Well, Ashe, my name’s McCree. Jesse McCree. I’m sure you’ll find that I do more than rescue damsels in distress like yourself, too.”

Ashe clenched her teeth to keep from saying something nasty. She didn’t care if this “McCree” saved her ass from being put in jail. There was something about him that rubbed her the wrong way. The set of his jaw and the look in his eye made her want to punch him. Before she knew what she was doing, she said, “I can prove it.”

Jesse let out a choked laugh, “Yea, sure you can. An’ pigs can fly.”

The overwhelming urge to prove herself, to show her merit, rose up in her very being. It replaced all feelings of panic, adrenaline, and anger. She looked at Jesse with earnest. He seemed taken aback by the fire that was struck within her. He let out another laugh through his nose, “Alright, you can prove it, but I ain’t savin’ your ass this time,” he said. He looked up at the brightening sky, “But for now, we better part ways. Meet me back here tomorrow night,” he said.

Just like he came into her life, he was gone with the blink of an eye. Ashe was left feeling nauseous at the realization of what she had agreed to do.

—

Ashe leaned against a wall smoking a cigarette. She tried to act casual, but couldn’t help her shaking hands or shifty gaze. A calloused hand grabbed her shoulder and she jumped, dropping her cigarette on the ground. She looked up at Jesse with a gaze that could start fires.

“Try not to look so guilty. I could tell you were up to no good a mile away,” Jesse said, picking up her cigarette and putting it in his mouth. His face twisted in disgust and he threw it over his shoulder, spitting on the ground. “Shoulda known you smoked cloves.”

Ashe smirked, “Well?”

“Well, what? You’re the one that’s supposed to prove yourself. What’re you gonna do? Steal a purse from one of those high-end stores? Bust a window?” Jesse said, then leaned in closer, “Fall in love with a dashing cowboy?”

Ashe pressed her open palm against Jesse’s face and pushed him away. He stumbled backwards, catching his balance last second before falling on his ass. Ashe inclined her chin and looked down at Jesse with a glare he could only describe as pure evil, “Listen here, cowboy. I’m calling the shots. You’re just along for the ride. Watch and learn.”

Ashe turned on her heel and walked away. She smirked when she heard Jesse follow.

Just like a dog on a leash, she thought.

Ashe lead Jesse down the sidewalk. She had thought long and hard about what she was going to do. She didn’t want to get caught, and if she did, she didn’t want the bail to be astronomical. Her parents could barely care about her in the first place, but if she cost them thousands of dollars in bail, well...Ashe reckoned they’d start to care right quick.

They stopped in front of a dilapidated house. Jesse raised an eyebrow at her, but Ashe was too busy digging through her bag to notice. She pulled out a bottle stuffed with a rag and a lighter. Jesse’s lips twitched in an attempt to not burst into laughter.

“Hey darlin’, I thought you said you did more than light fires?” he asked.

Ashe didn’t say a word. Instead, she flicked her lighter to life, touching the flame to the rag. She turned to Jesse and smiled. The fire cast her face in shadow and light, highlighting that maniacal grin and blazing eyes. It sent shivers down Jesse’s spine. She threw the bottle at the dead bushes in front of the house.

Jesse would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little scared and a little turned on. While Ashe didn’t prove she could do other things, he had to admit this was pretty badass. The flames lapped at the old, abandoned house, easily catching on the rotted wood. They stood there together watching the fire rise and engulf whatever it touched.

Jesse reached out to touch Ashe’s arm. She jerked away, taking her eyes off her masterpiece to glare daggers at him. “Don’t get any ideas, cowboy,” she said. Jesse smiled sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders.

Just as they decided to leave, the cops descended on them. This time, they didn’t use their lights. One moment Ashe and Jesse were alone and the next they were surrounded by officers. Jesse looked like a trapped animal, ready to lash out and bite anyone who approached him. Ashe heard him mumble something about “not going back there.”

Ashe was serene. The fire she had set roared behind her as they put her in handcuffs. She closed her eyes and revelled in the heat and the smell of smoke. Once that feeling took hold, it wouldn’t let her go again.

#written for the Rebels at Heart zine #ashe #Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe #ashe overwatch #B.O.B overwatch #Jesse McCree #McCree #mccree overwatch #fanfiction #overwatch fanfiction #Rebels at Heart zine #deadlock gang

[lisa-in-the-sky]

take a good look around you

My gift for @starmaki for the @beefybuckyswap this year! It was a lot of fun to write, sorry it’s late. I got halfway through and realized i had no idea how to write a meet cute. Hopefully you still like it!! :)

There was a dog in the gym. It was sitting near the free-weights, across from the treadmill Steve was jogging on, half-hidden by a bench. It was pretty big, a German Shepherd or something probably, so Steve could see the top half of the service dog vest it was wearing.

That wasn’t a problem, except for the fact that Steve couldn’t pet it. His list of ailments was probably as tall as Steve himself, but pet allergies were, thankfully, not on it. A working dog though. Steve sighed. It’s ears looked so soft.

He couldn’t see the dog’s person, he realized after he’d been staring for a while. He wasn’t worried or anything, because the dog was just sitting there, watching the space in front of it, perfectly behaved. Steve wanted to tell it how good it was.

Still, it was nice to be able to look at it while Steve labored along at his slow, prescribed pace on this treadmill. It wasn’t like he could actually go that much faster, with his back and his asthma and his arrhythmia but still. Slow. Steve was bored.

He watched the dog, even though it wasn’t doing anything, until a few minutes later, a man sat up in front of it. Steve could see the movement of it’s tail where it thumped on the ground when the man reached out. It sniffed his hand once, then licked his palm.

Steve squinted a little, curious about the guy now and wondering vaguely if he’d let Steve pet the dog even though it was working. He glanced down at his time on the treadmill. He still had another twenty minutes, and he shouldn’t cut it short, even for a dog. They’d probably be back, he reasoned.

All thoughts of going and talking to the man at all, ever, ground to a halt when he stood up, leash in one hand. Only hand. His left arm was little more than a stump at the shoulder, covered by the sleeve of his t-shirt, but that wasn’t the problem, at all.

The problem was that the guy across the gym, with his dog and his man-bun and his stubble, was so astronomically hot Steve thought he might have to stop running to calm his heart down.

Once past the missing arm, the guy was huge. Like, built, and solid, not like some guys who had big shoulders and tiny little waists and legs. This guy was all rectangles, broad shoulders and thick waist and strong thighs. He would dwarf Steve in so many ways, and Steve had always claimed he didn’t have a type but wow. His mouth was dry.

While Steve was staring, the guy set the leash on a bench, then leaned down to pick up a sweater and water bottle. He slipped the bottle into a little pouch on the dog’s vest, clearly ready to leave, and started to wrangle the sweater on.

Steve knew he should stop staring but. Jesus.

“Tired already, Rogers?” Sam came over to lean against the arm of Steve’s treadmill. Steve looked at him, then down at the display. He had slowed almost to a walk.

“No! I’m just...no, I’m not tired.” Steve couldn’t resist another glance up to where the beautiful man was zipping his sweater and taking the leash and leading his beautiful dog out.

Sam raised his eyebrows, then turned to look. He smirked. “Ah. That’s Bucky and Terry.”

“Which one is which?” Steve muttered reluctantly, watching them leave.

“Which one were you staring at?” Sam asked. He knew Steve too well.

“Fuck off,” Steve muttered, and then sighed. “The dog first. Then the guy. Because whoa.”

Sam laughed. “Yeah, fair. Terry’s his service dog, great dog. She’s a sweetheart. Bucky got discharged a little over two years ago. He’s been coming here for a few months.”

“You train him?” Steve asked. Sam worked with a lot of non-standard exercise needs, like Steve’s, so it wouldn’t be surprising.

“Nah,” Sam said. “He works with Nat. They knew each other.”

“Oh,” Steve said, feigning disinterest. Sam stared at him with an eyebrow up until Steve finally said, “Fine, asshole, knew each other how?”

Sam grinned. “Don’t know exactly, but I don’t think it was like that. It isn’t anymore if it ever was, though.”

“That’s cool,” Steve said. Sam obviously didn’t believe Steve’s nonchalance and they both knew it, but Steve was going to preserve what little dignity he had, dammit.

Sam finally laughed and rolled his eyes. “Jesus man. You gonna ask to pet his dog or just keep staring like an idiot across the gym?”

“Fuck you,” Steve muttered.

“You know he gets stared at enough,” Sam said, sobering. Steve glanced at him, then down.

“Yeah, because he’s sex on legs,” he said finally. Sam chuckled.

“You’re alright, Steve, you know that?”

“Oh, you’re so kind,” Steve said.

Sam patted him on the back. “Pick up the pace buddy, you’re not working those lungs enough.”

Steve stuck his tongue out at Sam’s back and didn’t think about Bucky or his dog for the rest of his workout.

***

Avoidance as a tactic could only work so long, which in this case meant until the next time Steve saw them at the gym. Obviously. Which - well. It was fine, really, except the next time Steve caught sight of Terry and Bucky, Bucky was sitting at the leg press machine and Steve had the perfect angle to watch his thighs flex as he pushed up, watch them shake a little as he slowly lowered the weights back down. It was torture.

This led Steve to briefly consider changing his own gym schedule, before deciding that the teasing he would get from Sam and Nat would not be worth it. He pushed himself a little harder on the treadmill as a distraction.

A few weeks passed like this. Steve jogged on his treadmill for 45 minutes and stared at the vet and his dog across the gym and internally whined about how beautiful they were. And so - soft. It seemed weird, maybe, to think a war vet who was missing an arm and could leg press two Steves was soft, but he was so sweet with Terry, and so quiet. And Natasha liked him, which was definitely a point in his favor since Natasha’s general thoughts on men were that they were unnecessary. So, he was soft, and he was beautiful, and Steve really wanted to pet him and his dog. He ran harder.

It was fine. And Steve definitely wasn’t taking as much flack from Sam as he would have if he’d switched days at the gym. Even when he spent a solid twenty minutes watching Bucky do one armed pushups and almost fell off his treadmill. Sam laughed himself silly, and Steve flushed and sped up to compensate, stuffing his earbuds in and ignoring Sam.

This probably would have gone on forever, because no way in hell was Steve ever going to work up the nerve to actually talk to Bucky. But then Bucky changed things up, and after stretching for several minutes while Steve pretended not to stare, Bucky straightened up, picked up Terry’s leash, and headed towards the bank of treadmills Steve was running at.

No, Steve thought desperately. No, please, do not let that man and his dog get too close to me, I will die. Please.

The universe didn’t listen. Bucky chose the treadmill one away from Steve’s, which meant there was now only a measly six feet separating Steve from the man of his dreams. Terry laid down next to Bucky’s treadmill, and that was almost as bad. Her brindle coat was glossy and she stared at Bucky while he started to run, perfectly attentive.

Steve, on the other hand, could not stare like that, not if he didn’t want to look like a creep or an asshole. He bit his lip, forcing himself to keep his eyes ahead, and picked up the pace on his own treadmill. He wasn’t going anywhere, sure, but Steve could still damn well try to outrun his problems. No one could stop him. He would just - just run until he collapsed on the treadmill, that would make him forget all about Bucky and Terry.

Sam would strangle Steve himself if he caught him going like this on the treadmill. He had told Steve that they would speed him up as he showed improvement, but it was alright to try to push himself - a little. He had glared at Steve when he said it, because he knew exactly how liable Steve was to push himself beyond his own limits.

You’re not invincible, Steve, Sam told him all too often. You’re human just like the rest of us.

Sam was right, of course. He was right a lot. Steve wasn’t particularly smart with his own body, and he pushed himself a lot harder than he should but...well, today he just really needed the distraction. It was that or just slide straight off the end of the treadmill while he stared at Bucky’s perfect jawline. No thanks. He’d rather focus on his breathing.

Which he wasn’t even doing well now, he realized, feeling a familiar burn in his throat and chest with every breath. He reached for his water bottle and took a small drink, and almost choked. Nope, shit, wrong idea. Steve fumbled for his inhaler, sitting in the little cubby on the treadmill, and...dropped it.

“Fuck,” he coughed, slapping a hand at the console. His chest was starting to hurt, his throat burning, tightening around nothing.

Steve finally managed to turn off the treadmill and stumble off the end, plopping down on the one next to his when he scooped up his inhaler. He wiped the mouth-piece hastily before pushing it into his mouth and squeezed to release the little puff of steroids. He held his breath, counted to ten slowly, then breathed out. His throat stopped burning and feeling so tight, but his lungs still ached. Steve took another puff and dropped his head between his knees with a sigh.

“Hey,” a soft, gruff voice said. “Are...you okay?”

No, Steve thought bleakly, already knowing it was Bucky crouching next to him. If my own air passages don’t kill me, hopefully I can sink into the ground in three seconds instead.

It didn’t happen, but before Steve could look up, a dog head slid into his view, and then her wet nose was snuffling up Steve’s leg to lick his face. Steve sat back, shocked, and laughed.

“Terry!” Bucky said, sounding scandalized. “Terry, off. Sit.”

Terry backed up a few steps and sat, staring at Steve with a big doggy grin. Steve smiled at her.

“It’s okay,” he said, heart rate already slowing. “I like dogs. Can I pet her?”

“She’d love it,” Bucky said. Steve reached out to scratch Terry’s ears - just as soft as they looked - and her tail thumped. Bucky shifted from his crouch to sit on the treadmill across from Steve, and Steve finally forced himself to look up.

Bucky was just as beautiful up close as Steve had thought, so he didn’t feel completely unprepared for clear grey eyes and perfect cheekbones and stubble. A few hairs were escaping his little man-bun, framing his face.

He was soft, though, just as Steve had thought. Muscular and broad, sure, but there was a softness to his eyes and his full lips that made him strangely pretty for someone so masculine. Steve almost sighed. What an asshole.

“I’m okay,” he said finally. “Thanks.”

Bucky nodded. “My little sister has sports asthma,” he said. His voice was rough but just as soft as he looked. “She plays softball, annoys the hell out of her. Think she’s growing out of it, though.”

Steve sighed. It didn’t hurt too much to inhale. “That was what I always hoped, but I grew out of my weak immune system instead, I guess.” He shrugged. “Rather have asthma than pneumonia.”

Bucky’s smile made his eyes crinkle up at the corners and it was really - it was nice. Steve thought about taking another hit from his inhaler.

“That’s fair,” Bucky said. He looked like he was going to continue when Sam appeared at the end of the treadmills.

“Steve? You okay?”

Steve sighed and held up his inhaler. “I’m fine,” he said, before Sam could start to worry. “Just - pushed myself too hard.”

Sam stared at him, completely unimpressed. Steve readied himself for the lecture, one hand still buried in Terry’s fur.

And then Sam said, “There are easier ways to get a guy’s attention, Steve.” He smirked, gave Bucky a meaningful glance, and walked away.

Steve stared after him, mouth open in shock, and then he started to feel his face get hot. That was - Sam was - Steve groaned.

“Oh my god,” he said, leaning forward and burying his face in Terry’s neck. She licked his ear. “Jesus, I - I’m sorry.” Now would definitely be a good time to melt into the ground.

And Bucky just...laughed. It started off as a quiet snort, and then slowly became a full sound, bright and happy but not the least bit cruel.

“He’s right though,” Bucky said after a moment. He scratched Terry’s ear, letting his hand linger near Steve’s. “You could definitely have asked to pet the dog a lot sooner.”

Steve looked up to find Bucky blushing too, eyes fixed on Terry’s ears.

“Would maybe have saved you weeks of staring,” Bucky added, and Steve groaned again.

“This is the worst day of my life,” he said, and Bucky laughed again. “You knew?”

“Why else do you think I came over here to run?” Bucky finally looked at him, and his tentative smile reflected Steve’s nerves. “And...I may have had some encouragement.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Sam and Natasha should learn to mind their own business.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. But I got to talk to you.”

Steve blushed, ducking his head to press his face into Terry’s neck again. She didn’t seem at all bothered, even with all the embarrassment going around, which probably meant that Steve and Bucky were going to be just fine. Steve smiled into her fur and sat back.

“Do you want to go get lunch?” He asked. “I don’t feel like running anymore.”

“Me neither,” Bucky said. “Lunch would be great.”

#stucky #steve/bucky #fanfic #beefybuckyexchange17 #captain america #my writing

[it-refused]

Working Title: Forward, Back (2/?)

Summary:  Knowing what’s going to happen doesn’t mean Sans can stop it.  Maybe he could’ve put it off forever.  Sans decides to go.

Rating: T

Part Summary: Papyrus can tell when something is up.  They’re both still goofballs.

>>First Part<<

C/N: Mental Illness 

Sleeping during the day wasn't an issue, but night was starting to be a big problem. Sans had a lot of memories in the back of his skull that had taken this chance to start shouting and waving, trying to get his attention.  He quieted 'em down with a 2 AM bowl of dry cereal and a marathon of the worst comedies of the last few years.  

Grillby asked him if he felt like talking about it, after a couple days, and Sans told him to ask again in a month.  He needed to quit putting it off, but he needed his head in order first.  

Papyrus still thought sleep was a wasteful hobby for adults, and a boring necessity for the kids, so after some fussing around he would sit down with Sans and complain about whatever he had put on the TV.  

He must have talked about what happened with Grillby.

"SANS, ARE YOU EVEN WATCHING THIS?  GIVE ME THE REMOTE IF YOU AREN'T PAYING ATTENTION!"  

"ok," Sans said.  He didn't move.

Papyrus tried to grab it from him with the legendary dexterity, speed, and arm length of someone as obviously great as him, but Sans had set it just out of reach.  Papyrus had to get up and walk around the couch to get it.

"oh, you want this?  sorry, zoned out."  Sans set the remote where Papyrus had been sitting.

"I REFUSE TO RUN AROUND THE COUCH FOR YOU, AGAIN!"  Papyrus marched back over and Sans moved the remote to the other side.  

"wait, you wanted it over here?"  

Papyrus stood directly in front of Sans.  

"hey."

"IF YOU ARE 'zoned out' AND NOT WATCHING TELEVISION, YOU SHOULD WATCH SOMETHING MORE IMPORTANT!  LIKE ME!"  

"that makes sense," Sans said.  

"AND LISTEN.  I HAVE SOMETHING I NEED TO ASK YOU."  His expression changed. Sans wished he had just given Papyrus the remote, because whatever it was his brother wanted to talk about, it wasn't a joke.

"yeah?  hey, first i got a question for you."

"FINE.  GET IT OVER WITH."  

"are you the dog star, bro?"

"I AM A STAR," Papyrus said.  

"thought so. 'cuz you're looking pretty sirius right now."  

"SANS!  I DO EXPECT YOU TO TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY!"

"got it. sorry."  Sans sighed.

"I KNOW YOU REQUIRE YOUR SPACE.  BUT, BROTHER, WE ARE VERY CONCERNED.  

"heh heh."

"THAT IS AN EXAMPLE OF THE CONVERSATIONAL DEPTHS I AM WILLING TO FALL TO! BECAUSE I CARE ABOUT MY BROTHER!  YOU COULD SAY THE AMOUNT OF CONCERN I AM TRYING TO EXPRESS IS--ASTRONOMICAL!  NYEH HEH HEH!"

"i appreciate that."

"AS YOU SHOULD."  Papyrus sat down.  The remote had moved itself back to his seat, and he accidentally changed the channel and muted the television without noticing.  "SANS."  He turned towards him, changing the channel again. 

"yeah."  

"YOU HAVE NOT BEEN AT YOUR BEST, LATELY."  

There was no way around it, really.  "sure, but it's working itself out."  

"GRILLBY MENTIONED THAT YOU HAD A BAD DREAM ABOUT OUR FATHER."  

Sans let himself be talked into describing the "dream" a little more than he had for Grillby.  It was a good enough explanation for why he was going through a bad patch, and might keep Papyrus from pushing the issue.

Papyrus shifted while he listened, changing the channels a few more times.  "HMM. THAT REMINDS ME OF A SIMILAR...DREAM I HAVE HAD.  EXCEPT I WAS AWAKE AT THE TIME?  I WONDER IF THERE IS A WORD FOR THOSE."

"when'd you have that?"  

"A FEW TIMES A YEAR FOR MANY YEARS," Papyrus said.  "MINE DO NOT FRIGHTEN ME SO MUCH!  PROBABLY BECAUSE I AM SO BRAVE."

Sans nodded.  

"I WONDER IF HE IS TRYING TO CONTACT US AND LET US KNOW HE IS STILL WATCHING."  

"if he's listening in, it'd be rude to talk about him."  

"PERHAPS." Papyrus was focusing on a spot over Sans' shoulder.  "BUT I STILL WANT TO SAY THAT IF IT IS HIM, THEN THAT MEANS YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BE FRIGHTENED!  YOU TOLD ME HE DID NOT ALWAYS COMMUNICATE WELL, SO HE IS JUST TRYING TO TELL US HE IS FINE BUT FORGETS HOW TO MAKE HIMSELF NOT LOOK ALARMING.  IT IS A COMMON PROBLEM!"  

"right.  so, uh, you're saying best case scenario here is that he's actually creeping around and i didn't just eat too much too late."  Sans thought a bad dream would be the better option, out of the two, but what did he know?  None of this made any difference.  He knew what was going on, and he was never going to tell Papyrus.  He didn't like that Papyrus was seeing their dad around, but he couldn't change that, either.  

"IF YOU THINK IT WAS YOUR POOR EATING HABITS AT FAULT, THERE IS A WAY TO CORRECT THAT."

"eh.  rather be haunted."  

"SANS!"  

"all the ghosts i've met are pretty ok."  

"OF COURSE THEY ARE ALL PERFECTLY NICE.  UNDYNE'S OLD NEIGHBOR WROTE ME A  MOTIVATING SONG LAST WEEK FOR WHEN I AM EXERCISING.  BUT THAT IS BESIDE THE POINT.  DO YOU REALLY BELIEVE IT WAS A DREAM?"    Papyrus looked lost, for a second.  Sans realized that he had been hoping he wasn't the only one seeing Dad around.  

"eh, who knows. let's not push at it.  coulda been him, or some, uh...piece of him."

"DO YOU THINK HE IS TRYING TO TELL US SOMETHING IMPORTANT?"

"maybe he's just checking up on us."  

"THAT WOULD BE A VERY FATHERLY THING TO DO," Papyrus said, nodding.  

"sure." Sans rubbed his head.  This conversation wasn't helping his mood, much.  He kept seeing Dad's face, that last time before he fell.  

Papyrus shifted a little closer, his tailbone changing the channel to a commercial for mysterious human hygiene products.  Papyrus didn't notice anything that was happening on the television.  He put his bony arm around Sans' shoulders.  "WELL.  I AM SURE HE WOULD NOT WANT TO SCARE YOU.  MAYBE IT WAS JUST A DREAM."  

"yeah."  

Papyrus never knew when to give up.  That was what was so great about him.  The only kind of giving up he believed in was giving up on giving up.  If there was a problem, there had to be a fix for it.  

Sans had told his brother a lot of things he never intended to, and Papyrus had been hurt but adjusted to whatever bad news Sans had for him.  He was a lot stronger than Sans had thought.  Or maybe he'd known Papyrus was that strong, but he just hadn't been strong enough himself to see him hurting.  Either way, same result.  

Maybe it wasn't that Papyrus couldn't adjust.  Maybe it was still that same weakness on Sans' part.  He couldn't watch his brother struggle with the same thing he had.  There was no good way for it to resolve itself, when there was no real fix.  Either Papyrus gave up on something, or he hurt himself irreparably trying to put something back together that was broken forever.  You could tape a piece of paper back together, but you couldn't tape together the ashes if you burned it.  Sans didn't want to watch Papyrus try to tape this particular piece of paper back together.

"what're we watching, anyway?" Sans asked.  

Papyrus glanced at the television.  "HOW WOULD I KNOW?"  

"butt you've got the clicker," Sans said.  

He patted at the couch next to himself, looking for it.  "NO, I DO NOT.  DID YOU LOSE IT?"  His eye sockets narrowed.  "OR IS THIS SOME FOOLISH JAPERY MEANT TO DISTRACT ME?"  

"both?  heh." Sans asked.  "look, i don't have it."  He held up his hands.  

"I GUESS YOU WILL JUST HAVE TO LISTEN TO WHAT I AM SAYING TO YOU INSTEAD OF IGNORING ME AND WATCHING TELEVISION TO AVOID YOUR PROBLEMS."

"nah."  He shrugged.  "it's just the same thing as it always is, bro. it'll work itself out in a couple days. sorry if you thought i was going to get over it sometime.  maybe i could, but getting over something sounds like effort, and i'm pretty lazy."

"SANS.  YOU SAID YOU WERE GOING TO TRY NOT TO LIE TO ME ANYMORE."  

"uh, i'm not." He was leaving stuff out, but Papyrus knew he still did that.  "ok, i know where the remote is, butt it's funnier if i don't tell you right away."  

"YOU--" Papyrus looked like he was going to have an aneurism right then and there.  He took a deep breath.  Sans thought he was probably counting to negative sixteen, to calm himself down.  "SANS, IF IT ALWAYS COMES BACK, HOW CAN I BELIEVE YOU WHEN YOU SAY IT WILL WORK ITSELF OUT IN A COUPLE DAYS?"

"right.  good point."

"I DON'T WANT TO BE RIGHT!  I WANT YOU TO TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY, AND TELL ME WHAT I CAN DO TO HELP YOU!"  

"you can calm down and watch tv with me," Sans said.  

"THAT IS JUST AVOIDING THE ISSUE."  

"yup."  

"AND THERE IS SOMETHING YOU ARE STILL NOT TELLING ME.  ABOUT THIS 'DREAM.'"  

"...yeah. sorry."  

Papyrus stood up with such force the television un-muted.  He didn't notice.  "I AM MAKING US TEA!  DO YOU WANT CHAMOMILE OR PEPPERMINT!?"  

"mint, sure, thanks."  Papyrus always steeped the tea too long, until taking a sip of it was like getting punched in the mouth.  Sans decided he'd rather his face got mauled by peppermint that night.  

Papyrus glanced down before he marched off, noticing the remote control right under where he was sitting.  "SANS!  WHY CAN'T YOU TAKE ANYTHING SERIOUSLY?" He started walking away before he was done yelling.  He threw his hands into the air in frustration, and then went into the kitchen. Sans could hear the tea kettle getting banged around.  

Sans shrugged and picked up the remote.  He flipped through the channels.

He heard a door open, quiet, but didn't react to the noise.  If Papyrus had left the TV muted, he knew he would have heard a slight sloshing noise as the older kid slid over to the couch.  

"hey, kiddo," Sans said, not looking away from the screen.  

She made a little bubbly noise of surprise.  

"sorry 'bout the bone-rattling noise out here on a school night."  

Soozen shook her head and climbed up on the couch next to him.  "Why's he mad?"

"no worries. bro's just gotta be everyone's mom, sometimes.  clean your room, eat better, stop putting mustard in my boots--he just wants to be helpful.  makes him happy."

"Mustard?" She giggled.  

"just as a random example, outta nowhere."  He switched to a station showing old cartoons.  "hey, do me a favor.  stick around until bro gets back here and let him put you back to sleep.  he'll feel better."  

She nodded.  "I had a bad dream, too," she said.  

"yeah?"  He'd wonder who told her about his dream, except Papyrus had kind of been talking his regular volume about it.  She was getting kind of sneaky about listening in on conversations, lately.  He'd been a little bit like that as a kid.  

"Yeah.  My teacher was there, but he had all these teeth and his eyes were glowy like..."  

"like, uh..." Sans pointed to his face.

"Like headlights!  He gave me all this homework."  

"that's the worst.  hey, look, razor teeth are no big deal for you.  sure, they look cool, but that's melee damage, right?"

She brightened.  "I'm resistant to that!"

"so next bad dream, you don't have to take anything from him.  no homework.  just tell him to get a life, ok."

"Right!  I'll put mustard in his shoes!"

"hey.  stealing jokes isn't cool."

"You said it was just an example, though."  

"shoot.  you got me, kid.  why're you so afraid of homework, when you're so smart?"

"Because I hate it!"  

"BUT IT IS VERY IMPORTANT.  HOMEWORK IS JUST AN ENRICHING PUZZLE FOR YOUR MIND, TO HONE IT TO ITS UTMOST SHARPNESS."  Papyrus came over and set two mugs of tea on the table.  

"plus it's lots of fun.  like doing the crossword, right, bro?"  

"NO.  IF IT IS LIKE THAT, THEN I NEED TO SPEAK WITH YOUR TEACHER!"  

Papyrus took Soozen back to her bedroom.  Sans tried a little of the tea.  It made his eye sockets water, but he couldn't say it wasn't good for taking his mind off of things.  He moved both the mugs back into the kitchen, wrote the letter "T" on two napkins, and put them on the table where the mugs had been.  He was staring blankly at the television by the time Papyrus returned.

>>Next Part<<

#sansby #my fic #fanfic #fb fic

[slyther-bird]

1-92 😘😘

Child pls… I’m gonna put these under a cut because holy shit that’s a lot of questions and I’m not flooding anyone’s dashes (forgive any typos pls. It’s late for me)

1. Would you have sex with the last person you text messaged?

That would be you, so nah bro

2. You talked to an ex today, correct?

Fuck no

3. Have you taken someone’s virginity?

I think so? I was told yes but I don’t know if that was true or not

4. Is trust a big issue for you?

Sometimes, but it depends on the situation

5. Did you hang out with the person you like recently?

Nope

6. What are you excited for?

Right now probably my next skating day

7. What happened tonight?

I shut myself in my room and watched vine compilations while fighting with a drawing and then decided I deserved alcohol and snuck into the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine. And got harassed by my cat because she’s ridiculous

8. Do you think it’s disgusting when girls get really wasted?

I guess it depends on what happens when they get really wasted? I’m usually the one drunk and don’t remember a lot so I couldn’t say

9. Is confidence cute?

In the right situation yea, but not if the person is being cocky and rude

10. What is the last beverage you had?

I’m switching between a white wine and water because the wine isn’t cold and keeps drying out my mouth

11. How many people of the opposite sex do you fully trust?

Maybe 3 max?

12. Do you own a pair of skinny jeans?

Yup

13. What are you gonna do Saturday night?

If I can’t make it to skating probably just watch YouTube and draw

14. What are you going to spend money on next?

It honestly depends when I end up getting a job, but I do need more wood panels for mosaics so probably those

15. Are you going out with the last person you kissed?

Nope

16. Do you think you’ll change in the next 3 months?

I fucking hope so

17. Who do you feel most comfortable talking to about anything?

You tbh

18. The last time you felt broken?

Probably within the last week? It was recent and it’s been a shitty week so

19. Have you had sex today?

Nah mate

20. Are you starting to realize anything?

Not really? I’ve been trying to keep busy with things so I can’t think of anything

21. Are you in a good mood?

I’d say a decent one

22. Would you ever want to swim with sharks?

If it was totally safe and controlled then yea sure

23. Are your eyes the same colour as your dad’s?

No, mine are a really dark brown and his are hazel

24. What do you want right this second?

Probably some motivation tbh. Or a pita

25. What would you say if the person you love/like kissed another girl/boy?

I’m not interested in/looking for anyone right now so it wouldn’t matter?

26. Is your current hair colour your natural hair colour?

Partially. I still haven’t cut off the bleached bits yet. I really should

27. Would you be able to date someone who doesn’t make you laugh?

Depends on their other qualities. I’m not totally in touch with emotions so something could make me laugh one day and not the next

28. What was the last thing that made you laugh?

My cat shoving her paw under my door because she heard me quietly singing

29. Do you really, truly miss someone right now?

Not really? Like I miss you but I usually do so?

30. Does everyone deserve a second chance?

It depends on what they did/want a second chance about

31. Honestly, do you hate the last boy you were talking to?

It was my brother so no not really

32. Does the person you have feelings for right now, know you do?

I don’t have feelings for anyone right now, I’m trying to figure myself out before I worry about that

33. Are you one of those people who never drinks soda?

I haven’t been drinking it a lot because I’m actually kind of taking care of myself and paying attention to a diet lately

34. Listening to?

Waltz Op. 64 No. 2- Chopin (because it’s in the ost playlist for a fanfic I like)

35. Do you ever write in pencil anymore?

I do in sketchbooks or randomly on my walls if I don’t have paper or my phone

36. Do you know where the last person you kissed is?

I don’t know who the last person I kissed is so no?

37. Do you believe in love at first sight?

Not really. It seems like it’s more based on appearance than anything

38. Who did you last call?

I think you?

39. Who was the last person you danced with?

Definitely you, we were dancing in the car a bit ago

40. Why did you kiss the last person you kissed?

I’m not sure since I don’t know who it was

41. When was the last time you ate a cupcake?

Oh god probably some time last fall?

42. Did you hug/kiss one of your parents today?

Yup

43. Ever embarrass yourself in front of a crush?

I’ve embarrassed myself in front of a crush more times than I haven’t

44. Do you tan in the nude?

I don’t tan at all if I can help it

45. If you could, would you take back your last kiss?

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

46. Did you talk to someone until you fell asleep last night?

I don’t think so, I think I was done bitching about sai a couple hours before I actually fell asleep

47. Who was the last person to call you?

I think my mum… She decided she needed to call me instead of texting me and scared me because my ringer was on

48. Do you sing in the shower?

Really quietly because there’s always someone here but yea. It’s honestly more of a performance tbh

49. Do you dance in the car?

Not wildly, but it depends on the song

50. Ever used a bow and arrow?

Yup. You need to remind me to let you try mine btw

51. Last time you got a portrait taken by a photographer?

At last year’s Lions convention I think

52. Do you think musicals are cheesy?

Sometimes, but they’re nice

53. Is Christmas stressful?

Hell yea it is. I have more than one house to get ready for Christmas

54. Ever eat a pierogi?

I literally had those for supper tonight… One of my favourite things tbh

55. Favourite type of fruit pie?

I don’t like fruit pie all that much but I don’t dislike apple pie as much. As long as it’s drowning in caramel and warm

56. Occupations you wanted to be when you were a kid?

The only ones I definitely remember are figure skater, astronaut, astronomer, and palaeontologist

57. Do you believe in ghosts?

Oh yea

58. Ever have a Deja-vu feeling?

Literally more often than not I do

59. Take a vitamin daily?

No but I should be

60. Wear slippers?

Usually only if I’m sick

61. Wear a bath robe?

Not often tbh

62. What do you wear to bed?

Sometimes the clothes from that day, but usually boxers and a shirt or nothing, depends how much I can get off

63. First concert?

I’ve never been to one oops

64. Wal-Mart, Target, or Kmart?

Target was always the best when I was in the states for competitions but I haven’t been in ages so Wal-Mart I guess?

65. Nike or Adidas?

Nike because I like the name more. I don’t even really know what these brands make

66. Cheetos or Fritos?

Cheetossss. That’s how I corral my little cousins

67. Peanuts or sunflower seeds?

Sunflower seeds if they’re not too much work

68. Favourite Taylor Swift song?

Bad Blood or Shake it Off

69. Ever take dance lessons?

I took ballet and tap when I was younger. I was kind of thinking about starting ballet again because I like it and it’ll help with skating

70. Is there a profession you picture your future spouse doing?

Nope, I don’t even entirely know what I’ll be doing

71. Can you curl your tongue?

I can now. I couldn’t until I was like, 13 for some reason

72. Ever won a spelling bee?

Never been in one

73. Have you ever cried because you were so happy?

My cat touched my nose with her paw and closed her eyes and purred the other day so yea

74. What is your favourite book?

I guess Dragon Rider by Cornelia Funke because I always go back to it and it doesn’t get boring to me. I feel so bad because my favourites are definitely Harry Potter or Artemis Fowl but not a specific one, just the entire series really

75. Do you study better with or without music?

I never studied at all because that was always a guarantee that I’d screw up the test/exam

76. Regularly burn incense?

I wish, but my mum gets huge headaches from smells

77. Ever been in love?

More than I’d like to admit or think about tbh

78. Who would you like to see in concert?

Maybe Panic! at the Disco, but I’ve heard that the tour Adam Lambert has been doing with Queen is good too. And it’s Adam

79. What was the last concert you saw?

I’ve never been to one

80. Hot tea or cold tea?

Hot tea

81. Tea or coffee?

Usually I’d prefer tea but sometimes I need the higher boost from coffee

82. Favourite type of cookie?

I really like these double chocolate ones my grandma makes. They’re so bad for you but they taste really nice and they’re super soft and gooey

83. Can you swim well?

I think pretty decently, but it’s not impressive or anything. I don’t like being in the water anyway

84.Can you hold your breath without holding your nose?

Yup. But I have to hold my nose if I’m diving into water because of my piercing

85. Are you patient?

It depends what I’m supposed to be patient about but usually I am

86. DJ or band at a wedding?

DJ, they usually have a nicer music selection

87. Ever won a contest?

Competition yes, but I’m not sure about a contest

88. Ever have plastic surgery?

Nope

89. Which are better, black or green olives?

I just got back onto olives and I only had green ones so I’ll say those

90. Opinions on sex before marriage?

It’s fine as long as you’re careful. I’d be such a hypocrite if I said something against it omg

91. Best room for a fireplace?

Family/living room. Or a study

92. Do you want to get married?

It’s not off the table, but I’m not overly concerned about it at this point

I hope you appreciate that this took me 2 hours man I’m dying

#shush michelle

[instantdeerlover]

The 15 Best Restaurants In The City added to Google Docs

The 15 Best Restaurants In The City

Clichés about the City usually go one of two ways. On one side you’ve got the belief it’s a capitalist cesspit that’s inhabited with identical human shells. Then on the other side you’ve got the belief that it’s the ‘Square Mile’ cog that makes London tick. Neither side, really, considers the City as a dining destination. Eating here is seen as function, not fun. We get that. The restaurant scene used to be a bit barren - in quality and atmosphere - unless you enjoy eating in a board meeting of course. These days it’s a bit different. There’s a load of restaurants that range in terms of casual and classy, accessible and astronomical, and if you stick to the best of them, the City can be a good place to eat.

Sorry—looks like you screwed up that email address

INFATUATION NEWSLETTER Get our newest guides & reviews first,

plus more restaurant intel you won't find anywhere else. ATL ATX BOS CHI LDN LA MIA NYC PHL SF SEA DC Subscribe Smart move. Excellent information will arrive in your inbox soon. Do you have friends and family who also eat food? Enter their emails below and we’ll make sure they’re eating well. (Don’t worry, we won’t subscribe them to our newsletter - they can do that themselves.) Help Your Friends No Thanks Well done. You’re a good person. All good. We still like you. Want to quickly find restaurants on the go? Download The Infatuation app.   The Spots  Brigadiers £ £ £ £ Indian  in  City ££££ 1-5 Bloomberg Arcade

Statistics show that the people who work in the Square Mile produce more stress driven sweat than there’s rainfall in the Amazon on any given day. Okay, we just made that up. But, either way, Brigadiers is the stress free playground where City folk can let their hair down and have some serious fun. And no, we’re not talking flamingo shaped stirrers in your watered down martini, we’re talking a big fat glossy pool table, leather booths that you’ll flatly refuse to leave, a drinks list that you could practically read for fun, and wise monkey lamps that you half-expect to be oracles that whisper, ‘forget the capital assets friend, eat some bone marrow biryani’. This huge Indian barbecue spot has several rooms that you can flit between, from masala chicken skins and nitro espresso martinis at their entirely glorious bar, to a full-blown feast of BBQ butter chicken wings and tandoori surf ‘n’ turf in one their many private dining rooms. Whichever room you land in, be sure to get the lamb chops, they’re the best in London.

 Bob Bob Cité £ £ £ £ French  in  City ££££ Leadenhall Building

The first thing you should know about Bob Bob Cité is that it’s expensive. The second thing you should know, is that it’s entirely worth it. This flashy, over-the-top restaurant inside the Leadenhall Building has blue leather booths, a huge shiny dining room, ‘presse pour champagne’ buttons on every table, and a menu packed full of things like caviar covered steak tartare, oysters, and lobster. Thanks to the slick service, big wine vault, table-side USB ports, and excellent, rich French food, it’s perfect for impressive business meals, but it’ll also work for pretty much any other special occasion you throw at it.

 Koya Bar City £ £ £ £ Japanese  in  City ££££ 10-12 Bloomberg Arcade

Lunchtime in the City can be dangerous. You have to dodge those flying arms whilst very important business people hail cabs, side-stepping the aggressive walk of The Angriest Human Who Ever Lived, and the emotional toil of witnessing a complete breakdown as someone simultaneously realises their sandwich is crappy and that they’re part of a Ponzi scheme. Take cover in Koya Bar. This Japanese spot in the Bloomberg Building specialises in noodles, and most of their 31 hot udon dishes come in around the £11 mark. If you’re not one for udon, they also do sticky donburi, and small plates like crispy fried prawn heads. Grab a seat at the bar solo, or bring a pal and split the kakuni (braised pork belly with cider), and whatever you do, finish up with one of their many sakes, you know, for your safety.

 City Social £ £ £ £ Modern European  in  City ££££ Tower 42, 25 Old Broad St

City Social is where Patrick Bateman would go if he came to London on holiday. This flash art deco style restaurant is on the 24th floor of Tower 42 in the middle of the City. It’s all black and booth-y, with gold detail and very impressive views. The bar has a reasonably priced and reasonably tasty three course, £28, set lunch menu. Or, if you’re really looking to make someone believe this is Dorsia, go a la carte.

 Mac And Wild £ £ £ £ British  in  City ££££ 9A Devonshire Square

It is physically impossible to say the words, “Can we get the haggis pops from the wee plates section?” without cracking a smile. Seriously, try it. It’s basically a Robert Burns poem for hungry people that also happen to have a real penchant for whisky. This Highlands-inspired restaurant is not only a guaranteed good time due to all of the antlers and Scottish comedy sets blaring from the speaker as you enter, but the food is also top-notch. The go-to here is their venison-and-beef double-patty burger with a side of truffled mushroom mac and cheese, but you should know that their steaks are excellent too.

 14 Hills £ £ £ £ Modern European  in  City ££££ 120 Fenchurch St

Some people consider the City to be a serious place. Probably because most millennials know that they’d go a bit Tyler Durden if they had to try and understand stock exchange rates. But, when you need somewhere in the area that’s undeniably feelgood, and arguably a little bit silly, there’s 14 Hills. This sky garden situation at the top of 120 Fenchurch Street looks like The Jungle Book got a makeover by the producers of Made In Chelsea, and although prices can be hefty, they have great desserts, affordable set menu options, and some seriously great views across London. Whether you’re hosting a G&T-fuelled birthday in one of their huge circular booths or simply swinging by for a post-work drink at the 360º bar, be sure to get involved in the long list of cocktails. They’re excellent.

 Kym’s £ £ £ £ Chinese  in  City ££££ 19-21 Bloomberg Arcade

Sometimes restaurants are a bit like your ex, or your favourite aunt. No, not that they make you cry on your birthday, but in that they’re charmers. Kym’s is very good looking Chinese restaurant on Bloomberg Arcade where the crispy duck comes with a paintbrush for the plum sauce, and a giant fake cherry tree ‘grows’ through the big sweeping staircase. See, charming. This place is perfect for a sophisticated birthday, or a sexy date night involving some of the best sweet and sour ribs in London.

 Temper City £ £ £ £ Fusion ,  BBQ  in  City ££££ Angel Court

Temper City might sounds like an anonymous tell-all by a young, hyped up stockbroker embroiled in a financial scandal, but it’s actually a suave, loud and proud restaurant serving wildly inventive curried dishes. Sure, the sound of Korean haggis (a spicy tartare you spoon on to lettuce leaves and eat ssam-style) might not sound tempting, but the first thing you need to do at Temper is leave your presumptions at the door. Yes, that weird and wacky haggis is actually delicious, and so is the green curry fish and the lamb skewers, and the dry goat plate and the squid and samphire pakora. Basically, bring several people so you can get that fork acquainted with as many of their flavour mash-ups as possible, whilst eyeing up the open kitchen with a glass in hand. This spot is perfect for a slightly raucous office birthday celebration, or a Friday night boozy meal with those colleagues that you actually like.

Goodman Steak House Restaurant £ £ £ £ Steaks  in  City ££££ 11 Old Jewry

Nothing says “I think I’ve got massive kahunas” more than a slap up steak meal. Charred? Of course I want that hunk of meat charred. Side sauce? Extra testosterone please. This may be what most of us think about a steak dinner in the City, but Goodmans is actually just a good all-round restaurant. As long as you like beef of course. The steaks are lovely, hefty (and pricey). The service super swift and explanatory, and the room old-style New York-y. Head to Goodmans if you’re looking to be particularly carnivorous.

 Ekte Nordic Kitchen £ £ £ £ Scandinavian  in  City ££££ Bloomberg Arcade

Ekte Nordic Kitchen is also in Bloomberg Arcade, but unless you get your kicks from smorrebrod and lingonberries, you might find it lacks some of the excitement of Brigadiers or Koya. That’s no reason not to come here though. This all-day restaurant is perfect for when you’re looking for a quiet spot to catch up with a friend over something kind of healthy, or when you’re not trying to prove your alpha-dog credentials by consuming your own weight in red meat. But, with tasty and well-priced mains like the deep fried plaice fillet, there’s no need to leave hungry either.

 The Three Cranes £ £ £ £ French  in  City ££££ 28 Garlick Hill

Sometimes, just sometimes, you want to go to a pub that treats you like the grown-up you’re trying so hard to pretend to be. The Three Cranes is that pub. They don’t blast out music, or try to tempt you with flashing lights, crisps, scratchings, nuts, or the school dinner classics that make up most pub menus. This place serves proper French bistro food done right. The pub itself is fairly small, but the upstairs grill room is where you want to eat. It’s quiet, it’s comfortable, and pork rillettes and a pair of lamb chops with bone marrow butter are the kind of grown up choices you should be making in your life.

 Duck & Waffle £ £ £ £ Modern European ,  British  in  City ££££ Heron Tower

Imagine a world different to this one, where you can order proper food from restaurants at 5am. Enter, Duck And Waffle. This spot is on the top floor of the Heron Building, has exceptional views of the City, and serves really good food all day and all night. 24/7. And yes, that includes Sundays. Their menu is posh British with a twist. Think Aberdeen Angus beef tartare, and it’s tasty in pretty much all conceivable situations. In need of early afternoon work drinks and nibbles? Get a round of cocktails, and a few of the pulled goat doughnuts at the bar. Famished from the excitement of spotting two noughties X-Factor contestants on a Thames boat party? Finish the night right, with some BBQ crispy pig ears. The love of your life dumps you over Facebook messenger in the middle of the night? Delete their number, get the duck leg with waffles, and watch the London sunrise from a leather booth. Duck And Waffle has got your back.

 Sweetings £ £ £ £ Seafood ,  British  in  City ££££ 39 Queen Victoria St.

You can’t have a more City-ish meal than at Sweetings. It’s been about for donkey’s, serving all kinds of seafood to the folks who supposedly make things tick. It’s an old restaurant that serves old classics, think fish and chips, prawn cocktail, fish pie, and a warm pudding to to finish it all off. This certainly isn’t the best food in London, but its charm is undeniable. Especially after you’ve got a black velvet - Guinness and champagne - tankard down you.

 Yauatcha £ £ £ £ Chinese ,  Dim Sum  in  City ££££ Broadgate Circle

This Cantonese spot has a terrace overlooking Broadgate Circle with a fully-fledged blossom tree. And that’s just where the pretty starts. Their dim sum is the kind of thing you drool over whilst you secretly scroll through Pinterest in search of a better looking life. Even if you’re the proud owner of a decrepit Nokia 3310 you’ll still attempt to take pictures of their black truffle dumplings. Hell, bring some watercolours along for the jasmine tea steamed ribs and paint a portrait of the flower daisy petit gateau. It’s that pretty. Oh, and the food tastes pretty good too.

The Sichuan £ £ £ £ Chinese  in  City ££££ 14 City Rd

The Sichuan is a big Chinese restaurant on the City Road that’s made for banqueting. This isn’t a let’s-go-and-grab-something-together place for just you and your mate. This is an en-masse kind of restaurant. ‘Wantons and dumplings everyone, yeah? Dan dan noodles? Yeah that mapo tofu looks good. And the Sichuan beef?’. You get the idea. The Sichuan gets pretty busy, day and night, so it’s worth calling ahead.

via The Infatuation Feed https://www.theinfatuation.com/london/guides/where-to-eat-in-the-city Nhà hàng Hương Sen chuyên buffet hải sản cao cấp✅ Tổ chức tiệc cưới✅ Hội nghị, hội thảo✅ Tiệc lưu động✅ Sự kiện mang tầm cỡ quốc gia 52 Phố Miếu Đầm, Mễ Trì, Nam Từ Liêm, Hà Nội http://huongsen.vn/ 0904988999 http://huongsen.vn/to-chuc-tiec-hoi-nghi/ https://trello.com/userhuongsen

Created July 29, 2020 at 11:42PM /huong sen View Google Doc Nhà hàng Hương Sen chuyên buffet hải sản cao cấp✅ Tổ chức tiệc cưới✅ Hội nghị, hội thảo✅ Tiệc lưu động✅ Sự kiện mang tầm cỡ quốc gia 52 Phố Miếu Đầm, Mễ Trì, Nam Từ Liêm, Hà Nội http://huongsen.vn/ 0904988999 http://huongsen.vn/to-chuc-tiec-hoi-nghi/ https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1xa6sRugRZk4MDSyctcqusGYBv1lXYkrF

[violetsmoak]

no safety or surprise [1/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18035168/chapters/42616919

( See First Chapter for full Disclaimers & Warnings)

Summary: A haunting broadcast reveals the Joker’s final act and sets off a chain of events that will destroy the world. Terry finds himself collaborating once more with the estranged members of Bruce’s former team. As the end nears, however, he and the other Bats are faced with hard choices about survival—and forgiveness.

Rating: T (may change depending on the amount of graphic/details I decide on)

________________________________________________________________

chapter one: the calm before the storm

Neo-Gotham, Friday, June 13, 2042 9:04 AM

MCGINNIS

Siblings, Terry thinks as he scowls down at the little gremlin on the couch, are highly overrated.

At some point, while he was getting ready for school, Matt snuck into his room and stole his comforter. The twip is now wrapped up like a giant burrito, watching television and pretending he doesn’t see Terry’s irritated expression.

“Don’t you have your own?” he grumbles. “You’re going to get your sick germs all over it.”

“You can just wash it later.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I think it’s cute,” Mom interrupts, stopping the fight in its tracks the way she always does. She doesn’t look up from her phone, thumb flying through a text. “And you used to do the same thing, by the way.”

Terry blinks. “I did not.”

“You did. With mine and your father’s bedspread. That, and homemade soup? Always made you feel better when you were sick.”

Which, okay, Terry can sort of remember that.

There was something safe about being wrapped in blankets that smelled like Dad’s aftershave and having Mom spoil him with food made just for him. A pang of sadness hits him, leeching away from his irritation; Matt was never able to do that. Their parents divorced rather soon after he was born, and Dad wasn’t around Matt much afterward, let alone when he was sick.

Since Warren McGinnis’ death, Terry is the only adult male presence his brother has in his life.

And I’ve done a pretty crap job of that so far.

He’s always so busy, working for Mr. Wayne on and off the books. The criminal element in Gotham makes it practically impossible to maintain connections outside the life.

It’s ironic that Batman is better at being a role-model for Matt than Terry is.

The fight drains out of him, and he gives a put-upon sigh. “Fine. He can have it. But if I get sick, I’m going to hang him over the balcony by his feet." He turns away, but knows Matt is sticking his tongue out at the back of his head; it’s what he’d do at that age. “So, what’s the verdict? Staying? Going?”

Whatever Matt has, their mother seems to be coming down with as well. She’s been debating all morning about whether she intends to go into work or not. Terry’s stuck around, in case she does decide to go, and he has to watch Matt; he can Livestream his classes, she can’t exactly do the same for her job.

“I don’t know,” Mom says, frowning at the screen. “Jarvis and Riley are out today too apparently.”

Terry whistles; he’s happy he hasn’t caught whatever’s going around. It’s still the cold part of June, around the time when the temperatures fluctuate between mild and freeze-your-nuts off. Mom always tells him how when she was a young girl, the weather already started warming up in May, but because of global warming summer doesn’t really arrive until July.

So now, June is the summer flu season.

Point being, I could still catch it. And won’t that be fun.

Because Batman doesn’t get sick days, and Terry knows from experience that having a cold while wearing the cowl is probably the most disgusting feeling ever. And that includes wading through sewage and cleaning rotten food out of the refrigerator.

While Mom continues to debate with herself, he fires off texts to Dana and Max, asking them to cover anything he misses for the first period, in case he’s late. There are about ten seconds before he gets a response from Max.

‘No problem. Is it work? Or work?’

Before he can respond, Dana’s text comes in. ’everything OK w/ mr wayne?’

And he can’t help a smile at that, because he doesn’t have to make up any kind of lie or excuse, because they both know. He’s still getting used to the fact that Dana knows, and that she understands. And wants to help.

It’s more than he ever thought he’d get when he started this whole thing.

‘Wayne OK far as I know,’ Terry texts them both back, mentally crossing his fingers that he isn’t jinxing anything. ‘Mom & Matt not feeling great. Keeping an eye on them a bit.’

‘aw, sux. tell them feel better from me. dnt worry, got u covered! <3’

There’s a minute or so before Max responds.

‘Too bad. Nasty flu this year, huh? Not feeling great either, but test period 2, so…’

Terry’s eyes widen. ‘Wait. What test?’

‘LOL.’

‘Srsly, what test?!?!’

There’s no answer, and Terry frowns down at his phone, trying to decide if Max is messing with him or not. He’s about to double-check with Dana when his mother speaks.

“I think I will stay home,” she decides, rubbing her cheekbones. “My face hurts. I really hope it’s not another sinus infection. That’s all I need on top of everything.”

“Hey, take it easy,” Terry tells her with a comforting smile. “It’s been a while since you had the day off. Besides, the world’s not going to shut down because one astronomer doesn’t come into work.”

“You say that now,” Mom says dryly. “If an asteroid is hurtling toward the earth and it’s my job to spot it, you’re going to feel pretty foolish.”

“Nah, never happen.” He grabs his bag and starts for the door, stopping to press a kiss to the top of his mother’s head. “With Superman out there? And the Justice League? Pretty good job security, I��d say.”

“Lame,” Matt grumbles from his blanket cocoon. “Batman can take them all. He probably has a special rocket to shoot stuff down.”

And, okay, maybe Terry might rethink his stance on siblings, because damn if those words don’t make him grin.

Matt notices and frowns at him. “Why are you smiling at me like a creeper?”

And, there goes that good feeling.

“Trying to decide whether to take a pic and send to your friends and show them how pathetic you are right now. You’re like a human-larva hybrid. It’s gross.”

“Yeah, well—well, you’re adopted!”

That’s his latest insult to everyone when he can’t think of anything else to say.

“Matt!”

“At least I was planned,” Terry retorts.

It takes a moment before the penny drops, and his brother’s overly pale face goes red. “Moooooom!”

“Terry, leave your brother alone, he’s sick,” she sighs, rubbing her eyes.

“What’s his excuse for the rest of the time?”

“Go to school, hon.”

Matt smirks at him, and returns his attention to the television, flipping through cartoons. Terry rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything about favoritism, because it always comes back to how he’s an adult now and should know better than to stoop to the level of a ten-year-old. 

I can win a fight against the deadliest member of the Society of Assassins, but not this. Go figure.

“Will Mr. Wayne need you today?” Mom asks as he puts on his jacket. He knows she’s wondering if he’ll be able to come home and relieve her from Matt-duty at some point, which he totally understands.

“We’ll see. I’ll probably drive out to check on him tonight, but I think I can get home after school if you need a break.”

“That would be appreciated.”

“Do you want me to bring you guys anything while I’m out—?”

There is a sudden, sharp drop in pitch throughout the entire house. Terry’s ears pop a little, the same way they do whenever Shriek mutes the sound in the surrounding area, but somehow his hearing simply becomes sharper now.

Before Terry can wonder if it’s a sign the sound-terrorist is back out on the street, the living room is filled with music. A jaunty, haunting carnival tune that instantly has the hair on the back of Terry’s neck raising.

His gaze whips to the television screen, which is flickering between static and a blank screen with the words HA HA HA flashes across it in red.

His mouth goes dry.

________________________________________________________________  

WAYNE

Bruce is starting to wonder if a Lazarus Pit might not have been a better idea than the liver transplant. Of the methods for artificially prolonging life, at least with the Pit, he would eventually start to feel like he was recovering.

After the madness subsided, at least.

On days like today—when it’s damp and chilly, and there’s nothing going on in Gotham to keep him glued to the computer screen in the Cave—it’s hard to remember the arguments he’s always made against using the restorative powers of a Lazarus Pit. His body protests with every movement as he eases it through several slowed kata variations. Part of his physical therapy, as suggested by his doctors.

Since his procedure, he feels the exhaustion much more keenly. It’s bone-deep fatigue that seeps into every muscle, emphasizing the way his bones creak and grind against each other, cartilage worn away from age and decades of abuse. It’s the way his energy levels drain so much faster now, to the extent that even his usual ability to will himself into action seems to wane every day.

Not that he really had a choice in the matter. He was in end-stage liver failure, and the nearest Pit is in New Cuba. He’d just been lucky that there was a suitable donor in the hospital at the right time.

‘Luck’ is one word for it. ‘Cruel irony’ might be a better phrase.

Douglas Tan is one of the names he’s going to carry on his conscience for the rest of his life; or, at least on his liver.

Terry still makes jokes about Batman having a piece of a Joker inside him, but then Terry tends to use humor to cover up when he’s worried. Dick always did that, too; and Jason.

Bruce scowls, bothered by the direction of his thoughts, as well as the raggedness to his breath. He isn’t even moving very fast, but it’s taking him every bit of strength to keep at it.

Ace is curled up in his usual spot in the cave, watching Bruce with what seems to be narrowed eyes. As if to say, don’t overdo it or I will knock you over.

The dog is smarter than most people.

Ace is one of the reasons the doctors were willing to leave him to pursue recovery on his own and not under some beady-eyed nurse in the hospital. Money isn’t as much an incentive as it once was, with so many legal and health standards in the way; the older he gets, the less likely people are to trust his ability to make decisions, lawyers or not.

He tolerated a private nurse for about a day while having Terry make other arrangements and manufacturing a piece of paper saying Ace was a certified service dog. He’s not, but Bruce has no doubt the dog would activate the medical alert button at the computer if something were to happen. And Terry has an alarm set up, keyed into the surveillance and motion sensors in the Cave. If anything were to happen, he can be here faster than any ambulance.

Old age has fed into long-buried fears, and it gives him an embarrassing sense of relief knowing there’s someone to look in on him. It has always bothered him, being dependent—being weak.

Some days he’s more accepting of it; some days he wishes he had Kryptonian DNA.

Which is usually the point at which he forces himself to occupy his mind with other things because envying Kal-El can only lead down a dark, frustrating path of self-pity. One he’s determinedly avoided ever since meeting the other man.

After another fifteen minutes of forcing himself to think about nothing but the movement of his limbs, Bruce finally finishes his exercises. Sweat coats his back and his muscles ache with the same burn as if he just spent several hours grappling through the Gotham skyline. Even if it took fewer challenging movements to reach this point, that burn is comforting.

Familiar.

And that’s a word that’s been cropping up more in his thoughts lately. History tends to repeat, after all, but it’s still strange to experience. Terry’s been an excellent example of that.

Like Bruce, the McGinnis boy started out with nothing but a suit and an old man’s voice in his ear. Now, he’s got a network. Friends who he trusts and who will keep his secret. A steadily growing list of allies in the field.

The Police Commissioner. The Justice League.

And a Catwoman too, for Christ sakes.

He wonders what Selina would think about that.

Bruce just hopes the kid won’t make his mistakes. Forty years is a long time to rack up regrets.

At least Dick’s back in contact now.

Sort of.

He showed up the second night that Bruce was recovering from his procedure at the hospital; he’d managed to convince Terry to go out on patrol instead of wasting his time watching an old man sleep.

“Batman doesn’t get a day off.”

Bruce had dozed for a bit, but not deeply; it wasn’t difficult to discern that he wasn’t alone. 

One minute the room was empty and in the next, Bruce could feel that familiar presence—the one of a man who had carried the mantles of Robin, Nightwing, and Batman—and somehow lived to tell the tale. Then his estranged son was stepping out of the shadows, glaring down at him, muscles in his jaw working and fists clenching and unclenching.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Bruce had croaked, wishing he had thought to ask for ice chips before the nurse left. “I’m too stubborn to die.”

The silence hanging afterward was filled with everything he couldn’t say yet. For once, Dick didn’t call him on it.

“You’re more stubborn than God,” his boy countered.

(He’ll always be a boy to Bruce, grey hair and eye-patch be damned.)

And yet, Dick sat, arms crossed and spine stiff for the rest of the night. Still angry, but present nonetheless. He stayed until morning rounds without saying anything and then left.

They haven’t seen each other since, but sometimes Bruce can hear feedback on the comms when he’s directing Terry’s patrols. The tinny whisper of signals crossing from the bug he pretends he doesn’t know Dick planted on the underside of his medical ID tag.

It’s not much, but it’s something. The opening of the possibility that at some point, he’ll come around.

Barbara did, after all.

Mostly because of Terry, but afterward Bruce started making the effort. They can have conversations alone now that don’t end with her yelling at him (or punching him, on one or two memorable occasions). Bruce forgot how much he enjoyed her sense of humor and intelligence—how much he enjoyed their friendship—from before they slept together.

(That might be one of his life’s biggest shames. Oh, he has regrets associated with all of the family for one thing or another, but this is the one that still wakes him up at night feeling dirty.)

In a way, it’s easier with Tim, and that’s a bridge Bruce thought had been obliterated long ago.

Granted, he’s leaving Gotham again—the last incident with the Joker army rattled him enough that he put in for a transfer to the Beijing division of Wayne Enterprises—but he stuck around long enough to collaborate with Bruce on a subdermal antitoxin deployment implant against Joker venom.

(None of them want to be caught unawares again.)

It’s in the prototype phase, with only five of the devices in existence; he, Tim and Terry are testing them personally. It’s not exactly something the FDA is going to approve for human testing anytime soon, not with all the new legislation, but with the state of Gotham, it’s unwise to wait on it.

(He sent one to Barbara and one to Dick but doesn’t know if they’ve bothered to activate them. At least they haven’t sent them back.)

If the implant works, Bruce is seriously considering modifying the tech for the Wayne Enterprises medical division. There are a lot of illnesses and viruses out there which require regular dosages of medicine to keep them under control. The difficulty is finding funding and ensuring the board of the directors doesn’t jump on the chance to charge exorbitant amounts of money for the technology. The whole point of the tech is to help anyone who needs it, not just the filthy rich.

Maybe that’s the next project, after CAIN, he muses, grabbing his towel from where he draped it over one of the computer processors.

His global Clean Air Initiative Network is something he’d been working on before stepping back from the company. It was shelved almost immediately by Derek Powers when he took over, but since Bruce has been back, he’s been revisiting a lot of old projects.

Lucius’ boy did most of the technical work on it, and Foxtecha will have joint ownership of the patent when it’s ready for public consumption. Bruce would have asked Tim, but he knows how determined his estranged son is to get out of Gotham. He can read it in the tone of his emails, which have thankfully lost the stilted, formal business tone they’ve had since he returned to the company.

(Bruce mentioned paying a visit in the future, and Tim didn’t say no, so he counts that as a win.)

It’s a little disconcerting how the family is coming together again; disconcerting but welcome.

He’s received a vid call last week from Cassandra expressing concern over his surgery, and then a short, gruff email from Duke all-but ordering him to get better. There’s even a letter from Stephanie—or Eurus, as she goes by these days—smelling of dust and desert sun and incense found only in Nanda Parbat. Her messy, looping scrawl, echoed Dick’s sentiment about Bruce’s stubbornness and alluded to its genetic inheritability.

(That said more than if she had mentioned Damian outright; his youngest son has remained stubbornly silent.)

Bruce lost track of her not long after Damian’s short and brutal stint under the cowl; it had surprised him to find out she ended up in Tibet.

It also relieved him. Because no matter how dark a path his son wandered, at least there would be someone to challenge him. To not obey without question. To give him a link to the life he once had, to being human and alive.

(Bruce very carefully doesn’t think about Jason—doesn’t wonder if things had been different if he wouldn’t have reached out as well. Even after so many years, that wound is still raw.)

The whole thing is a stark difference from the last few times he ended up in the hospital, including when he was dosed on Joker venom several months ago. He didn’t hear anything from them at that point, which makes him think someone really thought he was dying this time and reached out.

Barbara, maybe. Or Dick. However much tension there is between himself and Bruce, he does keep in touch with the others. Hell, it might even have been Terry. The kid doesn’t know the rest of them personally, but he’s gotten adept at navigating the computer in the cave.

And he’s always been curious about his predecessors.

Bruce’s first family.

Or maybe just the first phase of the family.

Bruce shies away from that secret bit of knowledge he has about Terry, and his brother Matt. What he discovered the first time the kid returned to the Cave with bloody gashes that needed stitching up. The files and medical information buried beneath every firewall he could fashion, so the latest Batman can never stumble upon it accidentally.

The most Bruce has allowed himself to acknowledge it is an amendment in his will setting aside trust funds for both boys.

As if triggered by his thoughts, the screen of the Bat-Computer flickers to life. He rolls his shoulders, expecting an alert on some heist or robbery going on in the city; another case to add to the docket for Terry to investigate after school (depending on the severity).

Bruce doesn’t expect the Cave to suddenly fill with a jaunty, haunting carnival tune that makes his entire body seize in recognition. And yet, he already knows what’s coming even before the words HA HA HA coalesce upon the screen. 

“Hell-O World! It’s your favorite rascal…”

________________________________________________________________  

GORDON

There are times when Barbara misses being a vigilante, if only because there was a lot less paperwork involved. Questionable legality aside, there was always a simplicity to the whole endeavor: track down the bad guy, entrap-and-or-beat said bad guy into submission, and then drop them off at the GCPD.

Now that she’s the one behind the desk, though, she has a lot more appreciation for the work her father did. She wonders how he never developed an aneurysm or stress-related heart condition due to the grief Batman (and the rest of them) caused the department.

She has barely sat down in her office, but there’s an influx of emails flooding her inbox. She scans through the first few—requests from someone in IA sniffing around some of her open cases on the barest hint that she’s allowing Batman to help, reminders about upcoming social functions she would rather skip, two officers that have to be brought up on disciplinary charges—and sighs. It’s just the first two dozen.

Today is going to be a triple espresso kind of day, I can tell, she decides, rolling her shoulders and tilting her neck from side to side.

Another message chimes as it comes in.

Crime Alley and Tricorner are requesting more plainclothes officers in the area, ostensibly to deal with an upswing in crime over the past twenty-four hours.

Barbara frowns at this—it must be significant if those particular precincts are reaching out, they usually hate working with Central. Then again, everyone’s been jumpy about security since the Jokerz almost destroyed Gotham.

They’re still finding bodies from that one. She’s got three of her officers’ families grieving without any closure.

Barbara goes back over incident reports from the last few hours, noting a rise in attacks on the homeless, property damage and extreme road-rage (twenty-six separate incidents of that, which is a new daily extreme for her). From the initial investigations into each of the unrelated events—all in different areas of the city—there doesn’t seem to be any motivating factor or link.

What the hell is going on?

A crime spike isn’t ordinary for June; they usually start around now and then play out over the course of weeks.

Not hours. Have any of our usual players been released from custody lately? There’ve been no outbreaks or escapes that I know of.

If there is someone out there stirring things up, she hopes to God it’s just someone like Walter Shrieve. Arrogant and brilliant offenders she can deal with; they’re always so eager to prove themselves the best, and it always leads to their downfall. It’s the criminally insane ones that keep her up for days on end trying to restore some semblance of sanity to a city that’s never going to get any better. Even worse is a combination of the two.

Uneasy, she fires off a message to her counterparts in New York and Toronto, to see if they’re seeing similar phenomena in their jurisdictions. She hopes this is nothing, but she’s getting a hunch. And her hunches never lead her to anything that could be remotely called good.

“Get me Commissioner Sawyer over at MPD,” she tells the computer. She and Maggie go way back, and the other woman doesn’t pull that intercity rivalry crap when it comes to sharing important information.

“Yeah, the dregs are coming out of the woodwork here, too,” Maggie tells her after they exchange the requisite pleasantries. Her voice is carefully measured in a way that tells Barbara she’s not having a good day, either. “We had a damn flash mob that caused an A-trak derailment this morning. I have no idea how there weren’t more casualties, but…”

“Where’s Superman when you need him, right? I’d heard he was back in play.”

According to Bruce and Terry, anyhow.

“If he is, he must be off-world or something, because I doubt he’d be sitting on his ass at a time like this. What about on your end?”

“Well, we’re not exactly beyond the powers of the GCPD right now,” Barbara replies, a little smugly. “No need to take the Bat-signal out of storage.”

Yet, the unwelcome voice in her head echoes.

“Oh-ho, aren’t we getting confident in our old age?” Maggie sneers, but there’s no real malice to it. “For all our sakes, I hope it stays that way. But I’ve got a hunch...”

“Yeah,” Barbara sighs, her stomach dropping. “Me too.”

It’s not a good sign when both she and her opposite number in Metropolis are on the same wavelength.

As Maggie hangs up, three more incident reports pop up on the side of her screen. Skirmishing at Gotham General—that’s all they need now. If things are just warming up, it’s looking like another long day.

Sam’s not going to like it…

Barbara dials in the number herself this time on her personal line. There’s a trill and the viewscreen pops up to show her husband in his office at the DA, scowling down at a tablet. His expression clears when he sees her.

“Didn’t I just see you this morning?” he jokes. “Or were you that keen to see me again?”

“Always,” Barbara tells him, softer than she speaks to anyone else. “But I’m actually calling to apologize. It’s going to be a day, and I don’t know if I’ll get home for supper.”

“It must be bad since you just got there.”

“Things have been hairy all night,” she admits. “I’ve got incident reports multiplying as we speak. You’d think with the bug going around people would be staying home to recuperate, but it looks like they think it’s an excuse to break the law.”

“Well, it’s Gotham. After all this time, it’s not a surprise.”

“It’s really, really not.”

“I know I’d rather be home in bed,” Sam says, and normally a comment like that would have innuendo behind it. This time it’s all too earnest. He rubs his face tiredly. “I think I’m coming down with it too, to be honest.”

“If you give it to me, you’re sleeping on the couch for the next week,” Barbara informs him automatically. “I can’t afford to miss any work for the next…forever.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, hon. The minute they see you blink in this business, you’re dead in the water.” Sam grimaces and rolls his shoulders, and Barbara experiences a tinge of concern because he does look pale.

“Maybe you should go home,” she suggests. “You can work on your cases at home, can’t you?”

“Unfortunately, no. I’m due in court at ten o’clock.”

“If you’re dead from the flu, do you know how many criminals are going to walk free?” she demands, only a little bit joking.

He chuckles. “Come on, Babs, you know no one’s died of the flu in twenty years.”

Barbara has a witty retort on her tongue, but it stalls when Sam’s image freezes in front of her. It seems at first to be a lag, but then the screen morphs from his office to what looks like a brick wall.

She feels an icy cold slice through her, the same one she always gets when anything is associated with him. It’s the echo of a bullet, tearing through her internal organs and spine, and the hair-raising chill.

Barbara doesn’t really read the words, too focused on the high, cold cackle in the that somehow blocks out every other sound. 

________________________________________________________________

DRAKE

For the first time in a long time, Tim is happy.

His house is a gutted mess of boxes and detritus, but unlike in his younger years, it’s not because some supervillain has come crashing in to threaten him. He smiles, a little whimsical, at the date on the holographic calendar, and the word that hovers there: Moving.

In a week, he and Arlene will be in Beijing, and forever free of Gotham City.

They made the decision together in the weeks following the Jokerz attack, after Tim escaped the Cave the last time. He made it clear to Bruce and his new apprentice that it was the last time.

He doesn’t mind continuing to work for Wayne Enterprises—hell, he helped build that company, he takes a certain amount of pride and responsibility for it—but he won’t be doing that from Gotham. There’s too much history here, too much…everything. Apparently living on the outskirts or even in the same state (even on the same continent) isn’t enough for Tim to completely escape the lingering, nightmarish legacy of Batman.

Of Robin.

He wants normal. And after everything he’s been through, he more than deserves it.

“Oh, I’ll be sure to tell your dad, he’ll be happy to hear that,” Arlene says, chatting with their daughter Janet on the vidphone across the kitchen. In the den, the low sounds of the television provide background noise.

“—the level of unrest breaking out in the world’s major cities, has politicians asking, ‘is this another Yellow Vest Movement?’—"

“Honey, Janet says she and Maeve will be coming to help with the move after all.”

“You mean coming to eat pizza and beer,” Tim replies with a smile; they’ve already hired movers.

“Semantics,” he hears his youngest daughter laugh. “Either way we’ll be there.”

“Always happy to see you, kiddo.”

“Now, I’ve got to let you go,” Arlene says. “I have a nine-thirty conference call with Peking U., but I’ll speak to you later on.”

She has a follow-up interview for a position in the Linguistics Department there. It’s a step down from her current professorship at Gotham University, where she was on the tenure track, but when Tim pointed this out, she insisted his mental health was more important than her job prospects.

He tells himself he gave in so easily because after so many years of marriage it’s futile to argue with her. He tries not to acknowledge the total relief that he didn’t have to argue with her about it.

“Yeah, no problem Mom. Talk to you soon.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too!”

The video feed of their daughter winks out.

“Do you need me to get out of your hair?” Tim asks.

“No, I’ll take the call up in the office,” his wife replies and presses a kiss to his temple as she passes. Then she pauses, turns around and grabs the coffee pot to bring with her. “And I’m cutting you off. Any more of this and you’re not sleeping tonight.”

Tim sighs. “It’s like you know me or something.”

“And don’t forget it, mister!”

He listens carefully to the sound of his wife retreating up the stairs and over the landing, and then reaches for the microwave, where he surreptitiously stashed an extra cup earlier that morning.

And swears when he finds it missing; a quick glance to the sink sees it already washed out.

Damn it, she does know me.

But the thought is more fond than irritated.

Arlene is the only sure thing in his life, especially after his trauma. They met through Kate Kane—or rather, because of Kate Kane. The two women attended West Point at the same time, and Arlene acted as a character witness for Kate prior to the dishonorable discharge. Though Arlene graduated from the Academy, she did not spend much time on active duty before she was injured by a roadside bomb and lost her leg. Afterward, while dealing with her own PTSD, she pursued an academic career. She and Kate lost touch, and it wasn’t until the media released news of Kate’s murder that she heard of her again.

Arlene attended the funeral, which is where Tim met her for the first time. Two weeks later, they met in a support group for trauma survivors and started getting coffee together. It took Tim a year to figure out she was flirting with him (which Jason never stopped teasing him about, even when he was on his deathbed). After everything with Stephanie, and then with Jason, Arlene offered a safety none of his other partners ever had.

There’s a high-pitched trill from his cellphone, and he glances down to read the text from Cass.

‘ayt? need yr flight info. to pick u up from airport next wk. :) :) :)’

His sister still prefers to text over talking by phone, even all these years later, which he’s pleased about. So much these days is done with face-to-face screens or even holographic technology; he wasn’t really a people person before, but it’s getting rarer and rarer to have any kind of privacy. Texting—especially across the encrypted server he’s set up—is a relief.

Tim relays the details to her, along with the implied greetings from his wife, and expects that to be it. But then he gets another text.

‘question? 4 work.’

Tim tenses.

Cassandra Cain works as a retired ballerina who opened her own school of dance; it’s highly unlikely the work-related question has anything to do with that. It’s probably for Black Bat.

But he cautiously texts back, ‘As long as it’s just a question.’

He’s had to re-learn to establish boundaries.

‘fair. u worked cybersecurity. ever hear of Morningstar. hacker/agency???’

Tim frowns, thinks back, and shakes his head even though she can’t see it. ‘No. Never dealt with anything like that.’

Ok! 3Q. worth a shot. will c u & arlene on thurs. 520GG!’

‘88MM’

He waits a few minutes, but there are no more messages forthcoming, and then sends out the last message—‘88MM’, before putting his phone away.

Unlike everyone else from his vigilante days, Cass knows how to not push.

And yet…

She rarely asks him about anything that might involve her after-hours work, both out of familial courtesy and because her operation is, at least unofficially, supported by the Chinese government. Legally, there’s not a lot she can involve him in; when she does, it’s only where she has absolutely no other recourse and it involves paperwork and non-disclosure agreements.

Only twice has she asked him something in an off-hand way, which he knew instinctively had to do with Black Bat but pretended not to realise. The last time, his information helped her locate and dismantle a eugenicist breeding program using homeless girls.

Perhaps that’s why he finds himself reaching for his laptop and looking into anything to do with Cass’s mysterious ‘Morningstar’.

The word generates a broad spectrum of results, even when he searches through the Dark Web. Nothing to do with drugs, nothing related to human trafficking or weapons—nothing that wouldn’t immediately stand out to Cass in her own searches. He narrows search parameters, skating through encryptions and IP trails and layers and layers of disturbing data—

Within ten minutes he comes across the exact word in connection with a burgeoning hacktivist group known as DevilNight, but no indications as to what it refers to. It’s odd, considering the group has only existed for a short while and has hardly done anything worthy of attention. It makes no sense that something like this would be on Cass’s radar, especially considering based on his tracking, the group is based in Idaho.

He has just started to peel back the layers of the group’s security when his computer screen freezes. A beat later, words begin to type on his screen, and the blood drains from his cheeks.

H E L L O  J U N I O R

Even as the words register, Tim is already shoving himself backward, away from the screen. His hand slaps against the spot in his neck where Joker’s microchip was implanted—the spot where he injected Bruce’s anti-venom deployment system. It’s a reassurance, a reminder, he will be safe—

Horror suffuses him as another message typed out in front of him:

D O N ’T  B E  A  N A U G H T Y  B O Y

Bile rises in his throat and Tim feels the world spin. Instantly, he is back in that horrible room, hysterical laughter in his ears and a falsely cheerful melody playing in the background.

He has to fight himself back under control, checking his surroundings, going over simple facts about himself in his head—

Not Junior not Junior not Junior—

My name is Timothy Jackson Drake. Drake-Wayne.

He is still that, even if he never uses the name anymore. He never got around to changing it, never had the courage to.

My parents were Jack and Janet Drake. Mom died when I was a boy, Dad remarried. Dana. But they died—

Kidnapped, poisoned, murdered, went insane—

No, he’s getting off track. Facts, he needs facts about himself, to ground him, to remind him of who he is and not what he has lived through.

I work as a communications director and do contract work for Wayne Enterprises. I have two daughters—Kate and Janet. Kate is a veterinarian; Janet is a stockbroker. She married Maeve last year. Kate is pregnant with our first grandchild. Arlene and I go to Florida every winter…

At long last, he gets himself under control again, can separate himself from the specter of Junior.

He expects the laughter and the inner echoes of carnival music to fade away.

Instead, it becomes louder and more distinct.

Tim stares at his screen in horror as the message vanishes, the words replaced with something even more sinister.

HA HA HA.

No.

Not again.

He can’t do this again.

________________________________________________________________  

GRAYSON

Dick only ever feels his age in the mornings.

There’s just something about his body waking up after a long sleep, before his training kicks in to ignore the aches and pains, that can’t fight off the heaviness as fast anymore. Every day it’s more painful putting himself through the usual routine of exercises to keep himself in shape. 

Thankfully, he’s still outwardly put-together enough to hide it.

He smiles ruefully at his reflection in the bathroom mirror—more of a grimace, really—and studies the patchwork of old scars and not-so-old bruises across his chest.

He knows he doesn’t look his age. It’s not even due to cosmetic surgery or organ replacements or even the personal holograph projections that have gotten popular in the last decade. Longevity just happens to run in his family; John Grayson’s father was still pulling triple somersaults at eighty and Mary Lloyd’s grandmother lived to be a hundred and thirteen.

The only thing artificial in his body are metal plates and pins that replaced bones fractured beyond natural healing, and the biotech keeping the bullet in his spine from moving. (And the antitoxin implant Bruce sent him; because no feud is worth getting dosed with Joker venom, whether the bastard is dead or not.)

Not bad for fifty-nine, he decides and heads for the kitchen.

There’s a moan from his bedroom, and he pauses briefly as he passes to consider the woman lying in his bed in nothing but his bedsheets. In her sleep, she curls to one side, causing the sheet to slip a little and reveal bruises in the shape of his fingers across her hip. He can feel the matching set on his own back.

Definitely not bad for fifty-nine.

For a moment he debates the merits of returning to bed and continuing where they left off last night, but that would be against one of the unspoken rules they established when they started sleeping together.

The other is that they don’t use real names.

He doesn’t know or want to know hers—after a lifetime of failed relationships and broken hearts he knows better than to get attached. And though he’s aware she knows his—the world knows his name since that fiasco with the wannabe Hush—she never uses it. If she must, she calls him Wing, and it’s a clear reminder that she has no intention of crossing any boundaries to let things become personal.

He has no problem with that; he calls her Black.

He’ll never call her Cat because that’s what Bruce called Selina Kyle. Associating this Catwoman with the original just feels a little too oedipal to Dick.

(Selina never really gave off motherly vibes, but she was the most constant presence of all Bruce’s paramours, so she sort of ended up in that role by association).

The original Catwoman was the only one Bruce could never completely push away—though that might say more about Selina’s stubbornness than the old man trying to keep hold of the people in his life. She decided when they were in a relationship, or out of one, whatever Bruce wanted.

In the end, even that wasn’t enough though. Her heart was never as strong after the incident with the real Hush.

Dick remembers attending the funeral. Bruce didn’t show up at the service or the burial. It was a few years into his self-imposed exile, right after Damian’s departure, and soon after Steph and Cass. He obviously hadn’t wanted to face any of them (maybe couldn’t face them).

But there was a crack in the headstone the next time Dick brought flowers (an imprint of a fist he would know anywhere) and he knows Bruce blamed himself for that too.

Dick heads to the kitchen, grabbing a coffee for himself. He debates for a moment, leaving one out for Black, but if the usual pattern holds, she’ll be jumping out his bedroom window soon without even coming into the kitchen. She’s not exactly one for goodbyes. Instead, he leans on the counter and pulls out his mobile, scrolling through the day's news stories.

Call him old fashioned, but he prefers to read the news than watch the featureless blue talking heads on the television. He spends about a minute skimming a beat piece on the successful launch of Wayne Enterprises' latest environmental initiative. Tim was telling him something about that the other day; it was the most animated and relaxed Dick had seen him since that night with the Jokerz.

“It’s basically like a planetary rebreather,” his estranged brother enthused. “You know how trees take in carbon dioxide and release oxygen? It’s sort of like that, but on a larger scale. Once it's all set up, any toxins pumped into the atmosphere will get filtered out and converted to oxygen.”

Tim had then gone on a lengthy explanation about the technical details that Dick had no chance of following, but given how enthused he’d seemed, it hadn’t mattered.

He’s going to miss him, now that he’s headed off to Beijing, but Cass is ecstatic. As far as Dick knows, they haven’t seen each other in ten years. It almost makes him want to head over and join the reunion.

Except that would be counterproductive to his current plans.

Dick is in Gotham on the pretense of opening a second athletics course, but really, it’s to keep an eye on things.

He doesn’t trust Bruce not to screw up whatever he’s doing with this new kid, and the boy’s too green to notice the signs of losing himself to Bruce’s mission. When the old man cuts him off—and it’s when, not if, because Bruce will inevitably screw this up—the McGinnis kid is going to need someone to keep his head above water.

Dick’s only been around him a handful of times, but there’s a cockiness and attitude there that reminds him of Jason. That’s concerning enough on its own, but what really makes the hair on the back of Dick’s neck stand up is the sense he has of this kid’s potential to do damage. He’s seen that, before, too, along with the results.

Christ, the kid even looks like Damian. If I didn’t know Bruce so well, I’d think…

He shakes off the thought because it’s too disturbing to contemplate.

The point is, Terry McGinnis needs someone looking out for him, even if he doesn’t realize it. Bruce isn’t going to do it and Barbara has clearly forgotten a hell of a lot of history since she’s allowing the boy to fly around her city risking his life.

So it’s up to Dick.

Again.

I’m way too old to be getting another brother, he thinks darkly, in what once might have been genuine humor but now feels just exhausting. Especially considering his track record with the others.

He doesn’t even know where Duke ended up.

Something flickers on the edge of his eyesight, and he turns to look out the window of his apartment. Across the street, the giant vid-screen advertising the latest energy drink blinks and goes briefly blank. Along with every other screen as far as the eye can see.

Dick narrows his eyes, taking a step forward to study the phenomena, and then freezes as his quiet apartment is invaded by obscenely cheerful music and a laugh he wishes he could forget.

Every screen for miles spells it out, and he knows immediately that things are about to get worse.

________________________________________________________________

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