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general-du-vallon · 1 year

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Well. Musketeers for sure gets my odder fics. Someone aaaaaaages ago suggested Porthos adopts a kid, and I did a half arsed job of it, and now I have done a second bad job at it hahaha. I love Simone though and Porthos. Here you go, it's great!

WARNING: cold, hunger

It got pretty cold in winter time, that’s true of most places and like most places the cold was fine as long as you had money. Fur-lined clothing, extra layers, boots! Boots were great for cold. Fuel, endless fuel for hot fires, heating the houses top to bottom (bottom to top really, seeing as heat rises). Food, too; being well-fed was important in cold weather, good food, hot food. Cold was free, heat was expensive (until summer rolled around when somehow, that cold which cost nothing was suddenly a commodity). Winter in Paris was a mixed bag, you didn’t have to be horrendously rich to be warm, but you fell somehow easily into poverty if you weren’t careful, and there the cold waited, crouched, cracking frosty fingers against the glass, ready for you. Cold hid in corners with beggars and chased anyone marked ‘criminal’, snapping at their heels for the moment they stopped running and their sweat turned to cold damp, wet creeping into clothing, freezing through to bone. Cold dragged at the heels of children walking to their jobs, if not carefully shrugged off they might be sluggish, lose their work.

Some had no work. The poorest slunk down into the cold, the familiar embrace almost a comfort, inching into the lee of buildings, walls, under houses, through any unlatched door that might go unchecked for an hour or two. Simone had passed even this stage, sitting out on a step looking up at the frozen stars stretched achingly across the crackling sky. Paris was inhospitable, dirty, and smelt worse than the thickest stenching manure. The cold wasn’t the only thing at large in the city, either. Paris didn’t rest its head and take to its dreaming, when night fell, not in these parts. Men and women, clawing their way out of varying degrees of frozen cold, drank and sang and reeled past, blurring and sliding. Soldiers, guards, Queen’s Musketeers, policed the streets in their warm cloaks and boots, according to their whim, depending on their mood, how cold their shift had been. Violence stirred.

Paris lay around her like a great carcass, sprawled, feast and famine, decay and new life, and bones.

“You hungry?”

Simone didn’t know much anymore, numb with cold and half dead, but she knew this much; yes, yes she was hungry, as ravenous as Paris. She took what she was given, and took more from his pockets and bag, and took the cloak he offered and the gloves he didn’t, scarf tucked under the cloak, hidden. As he left her, he whistled a jaunty song, turning at the end of her ally.

“Paris is beautiful at night, but just you wait until I show you what them stars look like out there were there’s no lights.”

Simone followed him, unnoticed, a mere shadow among shadows, and found his back door. It was always good to know where the kinder lords lived, to know where you wouldn’t be beaten for taking scraps. He had stables, horses, hands who lived above in the hayloft and boys who slept with the animals but no one sleeping behind, out in the cold but warmth just the other side, close enough to touch, seeping through the woods.

“Morning’s here, little bundle of bones. If you give me back me gloves, you can have breakfast. And better gloves.”

Simone ran, before his hands could close around her arm and his big voice could call her thief she ran. His voice chased her, calling her to come back any time, and a polite request, again, for his gloves returned next time she was passing.

They had come to Paris for hope and life but Paris had eaten them, swallowed them up.

She went back. Found him, after midnight, sitting out there singing. He gave her food again, swapped her gloves for a pair that fitted, tossed her a pair of stockings and boots. She wanted to ask why, but he wasn’t watching her, he was writing. She gathered up her bounty and left. Paris wasn’t so cold with boots.

Next time, he wasn’t there. He was gone.

The men were rough. Men who barely contained their violence, wouldn’t have felt the cold even if they weren’t swaddled in layer upon layer of red, their bright hard steel chilling but not to them, just to those they dragged off the cold streets and threw into the colder cells, and left there. You couldn’t see the stars from inside a cell, couldn’t run, couldn’t piss except on the floor, couldn’t eat except the rat-bitten bread they threw at you when they remembered, fruit they’d let go rotten, couldn’t sleep unless you were ready to die. The cells were stone, stone held cold like it coveted ice, held you in that same embrace and tried to burn your bones frozen.

“You could, I s’pose. I’ve only got a knife on me. C’mon, test your hypothesis boy. You a coward, boy? Not gonna fight afterall? Hahaha! Pig fucker!”

The guard of the cells that night sometimes mildewed the carrots especially before tossing them down, whether or not they reached the cells he didn’t care. He was tossed down like his carrots, a great giant coming after laughing, plucking him up like he was nothing and slinging him over a shoulder. He opened the cell by jamming a knife into the locks and kicking it, the line of bars and locks shuddering under the heel he drove against the handle with such force the lock shattered.

“Bring that,” he said, looking down at Simone.

She brought the knife and followed him home, whistling between her missing teeth to keep tune with his whistling, his knife tucked into the rope she wore as a belt. They walked through the city like they owned it, Simone thought maybe he did. He stopped to throw the guard under an arch, leaving him on the frozen cobbles like garbage he no longer wanted. It was a long walk, she followed him right up the steps and into the hall before realising it.

“Kitchen’s through here. Water over there.”

He sat and cleaned the knife, he didn’t watch her at all. Her hands got in everywhere, bread and fruit and good vegetables, uncooked pastry ready for tomorrow, burning-hot chestnuts in the banked fire.

“Don’t burn your fingers,” was all he said, pointing her again to the cool water when she burnt her fingers on the chestnuts anyway.

She lay that night under the stars behind his stables, stomach hurting from eating so much, cold soaking from the ground into her thin dress, her skin, her blood, her bones. She wondered who he might be.

“Porthos,” he told her, from the back step, the next morning.

“Did I ask?” she rasped.

“No, which is rude. I want my knife back,” he said.

Simone did not return his knife.

It wasn’t Simone’s fingers in the pocket of the lady but it was Simone the lady saw, because it was Simone who was too frost-bitten and too hungry to duck into the shadows. The fingers of the rich were bony, for all the good food they ate, pinching and sharp and unrelenting. Tossed after the guard from the other week, brittle from cold, rolling unceremoniously into boots. Queen’s Musketeers policed as well as Red Guard. Their sympathetic warm eyes hid behind orders and duty. Simone kicked and bit and ran.

“She’s not here, captain. I’m due back on the front in three days and you want to make our goodbye acrimonious, over some scrap of a thief you thought you’d arrest?”

“Madame is mistress to our cardinal, Porthos. Mazarin demands, and we follow orders.”

“Since when? Go jam a long-sword up your arse, d’Artagnan, it’ll give you a better backbone.”

Kitchens were warm, in winter. Monsieur Porthos mostly lived in his kitchen, so Simone found a corner in there for herself. She learnt, from him, how to tend to the fires, and how to roast chestnuts. She made them for him, and ate most of them herself. He brought her clothes again, and cleaned his knife (his fingers lighter than hers, retrieved when she was looking right at him without her knowing).

“You’ll need to stay here, while I’m gone. Eat, rest, stay clean and tidy, no one’ll look twice. Wouldn’t recognise the difference even between you an’ me, Simone. I haven’t got time to teach you much, but I’ll show you your name, and my name.”

He showed her a few more words, too.

Porthos was gone for a long time. The kitchen was warm, and then they started propping the back door open to keep it temperate, and then it was sweltering. As long as she lived in the kitchen she was expected to keep the fire and help out; the servants taught her how to cook. Now and then a letter would come with her name carefully, clearly written, and inside was the short note, the only thing she could read. She wrote back; his name on the front, hers inside, and the only sentence she could write.

Cities don’t out run the cold. It came around, as it always did, creeping under doors and through cracks, driving Simone behind the stove to sleep and read the growing pile of notes. She wondered who they were cooking for, if Porthos was not here. This was his house, they were his servants, and he was gone. Simone traced the words of his most recent letter. It was longer, and she didn’t know the words. She wondered what it said.

“Can you show me?” she asked the cook.

The cook, Simone didn’t know his name, looked flabbergasted, and did not teach her to read. Instead he talked and talked about her scaring the living daylights out of him, as he’d thought her mute or stupid. She was neither, but she decided to be both in the face of his bad manners. When the cold started retreating, though, and another letter came, even longer, even smaller words, she asked again and this time he agreed. All through the stifling heat of summer they worked, in any moments that were his own, which were few and far between.

He taught her how to use a knife one way to cut meat, another to cut vegetables, and yet another way that would go right through a man. He showed her on his own stomach the place to find the guts, and how to tug up to guarantee death. He taught her how to read and write ‘eviscerate’.

Autumn came with rain and mud and a thin chill, cold air setting everyone coughing, and Simone could read the first longer letter. Porthos wrote to her about stars, horses, longing for good food, and ended by saying he missed her company. Simone kept the letter in her pocket for a week, while she learnt how to bleed, kill, dismember, and cure a pig. They packed the meat in salt and built an ice-house in the yard. One night Simone crawled in, trying to remember being as cold as the preserved meat. The cook’s boy dragged her out by her ankle and told her if she wanted to die she would not do it on Baron du Vallon’s property.

That explained why they were still working when Porthos wasn’t here; it wasn’t his house, it was this du Vallon’s. She heard more stories of him, and he sounded terrible, larger than life, richer than a god, remorseless. She crept behind the chimney to her bed and took out the longest letter yet, working on reading Porthos’s words to banish this terrifying baron.

That year, the winter lasted too long. Porthos’s letters came with small parcels, sometimes, and sometimes in bundles, and got shorter and shorter, until they were back to variations on words she knew so well. Still the winter came on, storms came up the Sein, ice coated the Parisian streets, rain came down day after day, washing away snow until another freeze came.

Spring didn’t arrive, but Porthos did.

Simone heard him and ran through the house, forgetting the baron who lived somewhere in its depths eating enough for several families, never seen. She ran down the front step and Porthos was waiting there for her, broad and beaming, soaking wet, his armour when he lifted her freezing against her skin.

Porthos took her out of the kitchen and upstairs, into rich, opulent rooms. They were brought hot water and she watched him wash, cleaning away dust and mud and, underneath, blood. She could smell it, like when the pig sat woozy and dying, bleeding for their black puddings. He wasn’t woozy, nor was he dying. He sang as he washed, songs about her, about the stars, about Paris. Once he was clean and dressed, he sent for more water, and dunked her head gently in, washing her hair with firm fingers, warm oils. He dried it and combed it with a wide toothed comb, her curls kinking more tight than his.

“This is my daughter, Simone du Vallon,” he introduced, as they walked about Paris, she holding onto his arms. “Found her in the vegetable patch under the stars, monsieur, like a discarded pumpkin.”

He bought her roast chestnuts on a corner, the seller staying as late as the winter this year, and shelled them for her.

“You can pay the cold to stay away,” she said, hands warm around the hot bag.

“Yeah,” he said.

He, too, knew that cold bit, she could tell. He, too, knew the bitterness of buying their heat, leaving everyone else behind.

“My sister died,” she told him, pointing out the last house they hid under.

The spring came. Simone showed him how well she could shoot, and told him that they showed her how to kill a pig.

“I thought you came here from a farm,” Porthos said, correcting her grip on the small pistol.

“This is bad form.”

“Yes, but you have small hands. Form was written for people with bigger hands.”

“I have forgotten everything before I came here to this house.”

“Remember it whenever you like, even if it’s as bloody as slaughtering pigs.”

Simone showed him the ice house, the last of the meat, and he lay down on his back, she snuck against his side, and they wondered what it used to be like, to be this cold.

#my fic #bbc musketeers #porthos #bbc porthos #general du vallon

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cleverasafoxcndtwiceaspretty · 2 years

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(AIDEN FOX) who looks an awful lot like (VANESSA MORGAN) has just been seen around Port Whitley! Apparently (SHE/THEY) are a (28) year old (DEMIGIRL) born on (JANUARY 12TH) and has been in the city for (6 MONTHS) and is a (MECHANIC). If there is a quote to describe them it would be “I CROSSED ALL THE LINES AND I BROKE ALL THE RULES, BUT BABY, I BROKE THEM ALL FOR YOU” - But we have yet to make up our mind if that is accurate.

Aiden learned how to fix various vehicles and cars during her formative years, mostly under the tutelage of her mother before she took a part-time job at the garage until she graduated high school. Her quick mind with math and science coupled with her family’s influence made her a shoo-in basically at whatever college she picked. With the prestige of their engineering programs, Aiden couldn’t be swayed from Stanford University. She moved the nine hours from Vegas to the bay of Cali and she loved every minute of her classes. Her parents’ stipulation for paying for school was that she continued working in the meantime. She found a job in town working on luxury cars, repairing the damage rich kids inflicted due to ignorance. While she herself was a ‘rich kid’ (undercover, mostly because no one wanted to believe the mechanic with engine grease smudged on her face was the kid of a hotel tycoon), she grew tired of watching gearshifts be stripped on vehicles that should last nearly a decade without a tune-up as well as transmissions and engines being ruined from poor handling. The sight of a Rolls Royce Phantom being dragged into it? Enough was enough, in her opinion. While fixing an issue with the computer on the dash, she was able to disable location and alarm to take the car off the student’s hands in the dead of night. Getting rid of the serial numbers was a snap and a quick paint job later, the car was unrecognizable. Knowing people in the right places truly paid off in the long run, connections she made while working alongside those just trying to survive. When she grew bolder and stole the wrong person’s car, she found herself face to face with a man named Daniel Moses, an alleged leader of a ring specializing in high-profile and luxury vehicles. His deal was simple: he wouldn’t bring harm to her or anyone else she cared about if she came to work for him instead. Any car she boosted went into his pocket and she could lay claim to a cut once her debt was paid off. Her every intention was to pay him back and leave, but every job pulled her in deeper and deeper until she couldn’t see a way out. Once her graduation rolled around, she couldn’t attend graduate school due to being sent across the country to New York City where Daniel’s brother lived. Aiden was in too deep with the ring and she slowly took money out of her trust fund to save it before disappearing from her family’s lives completely. A hotel heiress meant she could be targeted by big players for ransom and it was the one thing she couldn’t do to her family. While her parents would have helped her out of it, this was safer. It meant no one potentially got hurt later on. Aiden heard through the grapevine that her family filed a missing person’s report, but the local police could do nothing apart from dropping by the now-vacant apartment she had rented. She survived on cash from her trust fund, as well as anything she made from her pay from working for Daniel’s brother. No credit cards meant no paper trails. Burner phones meant no trace of cell phone activity. No social media presence meant no way to track her movements or location. She prevented people from taking pictures of her or with her. Her life became consumed by stealing and racing cars, boosting stolen property, and laying low from local PD. After a few years of this, she was approached by someone she’d grown somewhat close to (as close as someone could be in their line of work) by the name of Tessa Wright and was let in on a secret that held the potential to ruin everything. She was undercover with the FBI and there was a raid happening soon. If Aiden wanted to stay out of prison, she needed to run. When the day of the raid came, Aiden did just that. She took the truck she’d bought with cash and drove south. Within a week, she was in Florida and she met up with an old connection for a fake identity. Aiden Michaels became Aiden Fox and she needed to get out of the city before someone recognized her. Money could only get her so far and she drove with no real destination in mind until she spotted the bus to Port Whitley, Connecticut. Having never been there, she sold her truck for cash and bought a ticket for the town. Upon her arrival, she recognized no one, which meant no one recognized her. It was easy to find a decent house and a job at a quiet little garage. For the first time in her entire life, life slowed down and she could breathe. For the first time in her entire life, she knew exactly what she was doing tomorrow: sunrise yoga, work from 9 to 5, come home, take a bath, have a beer, go to sleep, then do it all over again. No one knew Aiden Michaels but people seemed to like Aiden Fox.

Headcanons:

Her family still posts about her on social media every year, begging for her safe return

She has a motorcycle she rides more often than not, along with a truck.

Demigirl, responds to either she or they pronouns

Bisexual

Connections:

Friends/neighbors

People she knew from her former life that are willing to let her be safe

The girl she left her entire life for

It would be EXTREMELY interesting if someone brought a member of her family

#pw.intro

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rhetoricandlogic · 11 days

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Stronger By K.J. Parker

Issue #340, Thirteenth Anniversary Double-Issue, October 7, 2021

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth—Matthew 5:5

“How much to write a letter?” I asked him.

He gave me a business smile. “That depends,” he said.

“On what?”

“On whether it’s a fairly ordinary, straightforward sort of thing, where I can use one of my standard precedents, or if I’ve got to make it all up out of my head. If all I’ve got to do is copy it out and fill in the blanks, four obols. If I’ve got to be creative, six to nine.”

“Right,” I said. “Well, it’s a letter to the parents of the girl I love with all my heart and soul, telling them how I’ve just watched their daughter being dragged away screaming by soldiers and loaded on a ship to be taken as a sacrifice to the Black Island and eaten by a monster.”

He looked at me. “That’ll be one drachma.”

Every morning, ever since I was a small kid, I wake up, turn my head just a little, and look out through the window. I see the light blue sky and the dark blue sea and the promontory, with the temple a blaze of white, and the white gold of the sand, and the red and white sails of ships. I see warmth and beauty and the joy of life. And then I remember and think, Oh.

You can’t see the Black Island from Castletown because the promontory is in the way, but it’s easily the most visible thing in the city. You can see it everywhere, in everything; in the frayed hems of worn-out clothes and the split seams of boots, in the bald heads and hunger rashes and sunken eyes of starving children, in the bull’s head insignia of the guards on every street corner. Lately I see it all the time, in my mirror.

He owns a mirror, you’re saying to yourself; a rich bastard. Well, quite. One death and I’d be the richest bastard in Castletown. But that death would be my father, so I’m in no hurry. And yes, my father is a rich man. He owns a ship, two fishing smacks, seven farms, six orchards, two vineyards, a lime kiln, a copper mine, a foundry, a wheelwright’s shop, an olive press, half a ton of bronze ingots, and the only mountain on the island, which just happens to be covered in valuable timber. So yes, I have a mirror while there are people out there who don’t have enough to eat. But the mirror belonged to my mother, so it’s not going anywhere. One of my earliest memories was watching her holding it while she combed her hair. So I keep the stupid mirror, because I look at the back of it and I see her. Then I turn it round and see myself, and in my eyes a reflection of the Black Island.

My father and I don’t work all those ships, farms, orchards, workshops and forests on our own. We employ about a hundred men and women and we pay good wages. I have nothing to feel guilty about.

The last thing she said to me was: I won’t have to go, will I? Promise me.

“I promise,” I said. “It’s all fine. We’ve fixed the lottery.”

She breathed out, as though she’d been holding her breath for ever. “How?” she asked. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

We were sitting under the crooked fig tree, looking out over the bay as the fishing boats came back in. “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s all arranged. Lexias is this year’s lottery commissioner. He works for us at the mill, and he’s got a family, and debts. He guarantees he can fix it.”

She smiled. All her life, she’d been terrified that one day it would be her turn. “You have no idea,” she said, “how good that feels.”

I hate the fact that I’m stupid. Lexias worked for us, but Philopoemen swooped in and bought up the mortgages on his seven acres of scrub and gravel; Philopoemen has three daughters and two sons. If Philopoemen foreclosed, he could take Lexias’ wife and kids as part payment for the mortgage and sell them to the Sherden, and Lexias would never see them again. I like Philopoemen, he’s a good, kind man with a sense of humour, but when you’re scared out of your head, you do things that normally you wouldn’t countenance. Like extortion, or rigging the lottery, like I’d tried to do.

Afterwards, I went to see Lexias. I happened to have an axe-handle with me. He made no effort to defend himself. I wanted to keep hitting him till there was nothing left I could recognise, but when he just knelt there, not even shielding his head with his arms, I sort of ran out of enthusiasm. He kept saying how sorry he was. If he’d tried to argue the toss, I’d have smashed his head in. As it was, what was I supposed to do, for crying out loud? Philopoemen had done what I’d planned to do, only better. So I gave him three drachmas and came home.

“Could’ve been worse,” my father said. “Could’ve been you.”

That, of course, is what’s wrong with love. My father loves me as much as I loved her, so I couldn’t even put a rope round my neck or open a vein. I shot a hare once, and the arrow passed through its hind quarter and stuck in a tree stump, pinning the hare down until I could get to it and break its neck. Love is the arrow that pins us down so we can’t escape.

Once upon a time we were just us. Our great-great-great-you-name-it grandparents came here, found the island empty, and got stuck in. After a while, they found they could make a living and a little bit over. It’s not a bad place. There’s a river and seventeen wells, so water is rarely a problem. Apart from the mountain, whose slopes are covered in useful trees, the land is good for growing things; barley down on the flat, vines and olives in the hills, provided you don’t mind half-killing yourself piling up rocks to build terraces. Quite good soil in the river valley. The copper mine—call it a mine, it’s a bare patch on the north side of the mountain, like a scab you keep picking at so it never heals. But you can scrabble about for a day and fill six bushel baskets with ore, for which the Sherden will give you six drachmas. My great-grandfather built the lime kiln, and ever since we’ve been able to put a bit of heart back into the land. Most of what we don’t need for ourselves we sell to the Sherden, who rip us off savagely, but my father’s ships make four trips a year to Long Island, where they give us four times what the Sherden pay. Left to ourselves—

But we weren’t.

Once upon a time, they were just them. But monstrous creatures from the north, crook-backed savages who shot from the saddle and ate babies, drove them from their homes until they reached the sea and had nowhere else to go. So they built ships, and eventually after many cruel wanderings they reached the Black Island. It’s a fertile country, they say, deep-soiled, well-watered. Left to themselves they’d have been happy there.

But they didn’t get vacant possession. He was there before them, before everyone, left over from some earlier phase of existence, overlooked when the rest of the world was made safe for mortal men. They say he’s nine feet tall with the body of a man and the head of a bull, unimaginably strong, perpetually hungry. He ate the whole complement and crew of the first of their ships. They shot arrows and threw spears at him, but he barely noticed. Only when he’d quite finished cracking the bones for the marrow did he turn his head and look at the rest of them. The calculating expression on his face they put down to mental arithmetic.

So they made a deal. He would leave them to themselves, provided they fed him.

At first they gave him their own men, women, and children, but that obviously wasn’t sustainable. So they built more ships, sailed out into the open waters of the Friendly Sea, and started taking islands. To begin with they’d appear out of the darkness just before dawn and snatch five or a dozen from the houses nearest the harbour, but that was too uncertain. Why hunt when you can farm? So they made a deal.

First, because from now on they’d be too busy patrolling and guarding and keeping law and order to do their own farming, they took a sixth of every kind of produce. They didn’t just grab a percentage out of the air, they sat down and figured it out, with the aid of surveys, statistics, demographic theory, and differential calculus—oh, they’re a very advanced people, as they keep on reminding us; they were calculating the recurrence of comets and predicting eclipses when we were still chipping axes out of flint. They used this superior knowledge to work out exactly what we needed to keep ourselves fed and tolerably healthy, and they took the rest. Their revenue collection directorate has a motto: the good shepherd shears his sheep, he doesn’t skin them.

The other form of revenue was also calculated to a nicety, based on birth rates, infant mortality levels, labour requirements, the average useful working life of the average useful worker. They settled on twelve young men and twelve young women, once a year; the surplus. Remove the surplus, they told us, and you get stability. Stability brings security, security brings content. Do as you’re told and pay your taxes and leave everything else to us, and you’ll be happy as fleas on a dog.

Not an idle promise. The good shepherd doesn’t just shear. He clips feet, dags the caked shit off tails, wards off predators, and rotates grazing, because they are the sheep of his pasture; his to shear, his to kill and eat. So they gave us laws, which somehow we’d never needed before, and institutions, mostly to do with gathering census information and quantifying produce levels. They taught us how to improve crop yields and breed better strains of livestock, how to stop so many of our children dying in infancy, how to dam streams and dig irrigation channels. They stopped us killing each other in pointless ancestral feuds, because it was such a shocking waste. They even taught a handful of us to read, write, compile records, and conduct an entirely fair, democratic, and incorruptible lottery. We owe them so much.

Some of us did deals with them and were granted licenses and limited authority over our neighbours. My great-grandfather was one of them, which is why our family is so rich. We say that we look out for our own, do our best to soften the wolf’s bite; that you can’t fight them, but you can work with them to make everybody’s lives just that tiny bit less shitty. We say that, and people believe us. Just because everybody believes something, it doesn’t always follow that it’s true.

A whole drachma for one lousy letter. Just because it’s us, people think they can rob us blind.

He wrote it out on a nice square slab of clay, four inches by two, using a reed cut into a chisel point. Then it went in the kiln along with the rest of the day’s correspondence—tax returns, a couple of probate inventories, the garrison commander’s weekly report, three bills of sale and a charterparty. A day to bake, a day to cool off, and there it was. He read it back to me. A bit impersonal, I thought, but I don’t suppose I could’ve done any better myself. Then I gave it to one of the farm boys to deliver. I paid him two obols. I’m generous, sprinkling silver like rain wherever I go.

You sent them a letter, my father didn’t say because I didn’t tell him, how much did that cost? Followed by: a drachma two, for crying out loud, do you think we’re made of money? Couldn’t you just have walked over there and told them yourself?

No, I couldn’t. One drachma, two obols well spent.

So I went to see Anaxandron at the foundry. He was in a mood because he was short-handed, having just sent his son to the Black Island. I offered to work the bellows for him but he just looked at me.

“I need something made,” I said.

“What?”

“A sword.”

He rolled his eyes. “You know better than that.”

“I won’t tell the bulls if you don’t.”

“What do you want it for?”

“Trimming my fingernails, what do you think?”

He’d never made a sword before, understandably enough, but if you can make a sickle or a billhook, you can make a sword; the principle’s the same. I stood over him while he whittled the pattern. No, I kept saying, that’s a tad too long, and I want more of a curve there. What the hell do you know about swords, he asked. Nothing, I said, truthfully.

I watched him press the pattern into the two halves of the sandbox and left him cutting runners and ingates. Burn the pattern when you’re done, I told him, I won’t be wanting another one.

The bulls aren’t too bad, or so they tell you. They’re just people doing a job, like you and me.

I knew one of them to talk to. He was round at our place one time getting my father’s sealprint on a warrant (my father’s a civilian magistrate) and he stopped for a drink, then dinner. I was polite and friendly to him, because it costs nothing and doesn’t leave a visible mark. So when I called round at the station house, he gave me a big friendly grin and poured me a drink. I recognised the mark on the jar; one of ours, and he hadn’t paid for it. Sorry to hear about your girl, he said.

He was watching me the way a dog watches a stranger. It happened to me once. I was over the other side of the island and two huge dogs ran out at me, barking their heads off. I froze. So did they. They growled but didn’t move. If I’d so much as twitched they’d have ripped my throat out, but so long as I kept perfectly still, nothing could happen and I was completely safe. Odryas the bull was watching me for the first move. I shrugged.

“The hell with it,” I said. “Plenty more fish in the sea.”

“You don’t mean that,” he said.

They don’t send them overseas unless they’re at least moderately smart. “No, but it’s not the end of the world,” I said. “We learn to live with stuff like that. You’d understand, if you were one of us.”

He laughed. “Glad I’m not, in that case. The day I learn to live with something like that, kill me, I don’t deserve to live.” He watched for a reaction. “You’re a smart kid, Lysidemus. You’re like your old man. We can do business with someone like you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Talking of doing business...”

While I outlined my proposition, he was watching me like a hawk. But as well as being third in command of the garrison and a big wheel in military intelligence, he was also the trade attaché. Bulls sent here have to do a lot of different jobs, because it’s really difficult to get anyone even slightly more intelligent than a trowel to take a posting like this at all. “Sure,” he said when I’d finished, “why the hell not? Assuming the price is right, of course.”

I mentioned some figures. He barely haggled at all.

Either you go to the Black Island against your will, kicking and screaming, or you don’t go at all. It’s not somewhere you can just decide to visit, even if you own a ship that’ll take you there. Only authorised visitors clutching a clay slab sealed by a proper officer are allowed to land, and since there’s only one place you can land a ship, there’s no chance of sneaking ashore unobserved. If you jumped overboard and tried to swim, you’d be drowned by the currents or smashed up on the rocks; if by some miracle you survived, you’d die trying to scale the unscalable cliffs. I asked the scribe about forging a landing permit. As soon as he figured out what I was asking, he started to hum very loudly, so he wouldn’t be able to hear any more of what I was saying. Besides, why would anyone in his right mind want to go there?

But, as Odryas the bull had told me to my face, I’m a smart kid. People can’t go there; it’s different for things. Slaves of the monster they may be, but the bulls aren’t averse to making money, and a good way to do that is to buy something dirt cheap on one island in their dominion and sell it for an extortionate price on another. The only problem with that is that if the goods go direct from Island A to Island B, central government might easily miss out on customs, tariffs, purchase and sales taxes; also, things might get bought and sold and commodities moved around from place to place without them knowing about it, which might tend to screw up their economic models and distort their projections.

So, if you want to take a hundred jars of pickled walnuts from Aeschros to sell in Callirhoe, the shipment can’t just hop the three miles of clear, calm water across the straits. It’s got to go island-hopping from Aeschros to Deisidaemon to Pandateria to Seleuthoe to the Black Island, where it’s registered, invoiced, weighed, measured, ticketed, given a number, and stuck in a bonded warehouse for a month before setting off for the longer anticlockwise leg of its journey, only this time sailing into the prevailing winds. It’s not an ideal way to do business, but it ensures that the revenue gets its rightful two obols in the drachma. More to the point, it means that jar of pickled walnuts can go where a man can’t.

Pickles, then, have all the luck. Even so. Who in his right mind—?

“Since when,” my father asked me, “have we been in the lumber business?”

“There’s money in it,” I said.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Sixty-four cedar logs, thirty feet long, three feet diameter, in a neat stack outside our door. I’d neglected to mention that they were coming. Simpler that way. If I’d asked him first he’d have said no. “Since that bull Odryas called me in and told me to do it,” I said.

My father knows me too well. “Told you.”

I shrugged. “I may have mentioned that I was looking around for a sideline of my own. You know, to take my mind off things.”

We hadn’t talked about the things I might want to take my mind off. Even a hint of that subject was enough to drive him off, like when you clap your hands and a whole flock of rooks rises up screaming at you out of the spring barley. “Still,” he said. “Lumber.”

“The bulls are crazy for it,” I said. “For construction.”

He looked at me. “That’s the thing about lumber,” he said, “it grows on trees. What makes you think it could possibly be worth anyone’s whole to shift these great big heavy logs all the way from here to—?”

“Not just logs,” I said. “Cedar logs.”

He paused, as though he’d just put his foot in something. “They’ve got cedar on Aeschros,” he said. “And Pandateria.”

“Not as good as what we’ve got,” I said.

“How would you know that?”

“The bull told me,” I said. “It’s something to do with growing higher up the mountain. You get a straighter grain or something like that.”

One of the many things my father and I have in common is complete ignorance about the technical aspects of forestry. “That figures,” he said, trying manfully to look as though he knew what he was talking about. “And there’s enough in it to make it worth our while?”

“Using our ship and crew, yes,” I said.

“You want to use the ship.”

It’s been a bone of contention between us for ages. He had the wretched thing built so he could haul grain and building stone from one side of the island to another without having to cart it overland. It was, he freely admitted, a good idea at the time. It cost him more than he thought it would; considerably more than he could afford. My mother, rest her soul, gave him a really hard time about it, every chance she got.

“Yes, the ship,” I said. “That’s where we’ve got the edge. It’s a slim margin, but if we can get a foot in the door, we can undercut the competition and start getting big orders. The bigger the scale in this business, the more money you make.” He was about to say something, so I went on quickly: “There’s thousands of good trees on the mountain just sitting there, no use to anybody. And we’ve got a ship, which just sits there most of the year doing nothing. And people. We could make a lot of money.”

He looked at me as though I’d suggested we start breeding peacocks so we could have the feathers. Why would we want to make more money, he didn’t ask; we’ve got plenty already. He was reassessing me in the light of new and unexpected evidence, and his conclusions surprised him. “I guess we could,” he said. “It’s a risk, though. You pull people off other work to do this, suppose it doesn’t work out? We lose what we’ve put into it and what we would’ve made from the other stuff that didn’t get done.”

I told him: “It’s about cold, hard numbers. If the arithmetic works out, you do it. If it doesn’t, you don’t. If you want to get ahead in the bulls’ world, dad, you’ve got to start thinking like them.”

He looked at me as though I’d just pissed on his shoes. “There’s an element of truth in that,” he said, and walked away.

Hesychius, my oldest and best friend, came to see me. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” he asked me.

I picked myself up off the ground and wiped blood from the corner of my mouth. “You hit me,” I said.

He did it again. This time I was expecting it and managed to stay upright. He’s not a violent man. “You bastard!” he yelled at me. “I don’t know what’s got into you. You never used to be like this.”

“For crying out loud,” I mumbled, “get a grip and stop hitting me.”

They say that a bow at full draw is nine-tenths broken. He was at full draw. The slightest move on my part, or the wrong words, and he’d flatten me. He’s a tad shorter than I am but much stronger. “When they told me, I couldn’t believe it. You, of all people.”

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit?”

The wrong words, definitely. I tried to block with my forearm, but all I parried was the feint. It hurt and I couldn’t breathe. This time I landed on my arse, which wasn’t so bad. “No,” he said. “Get up.”

“Not likely.”

He took three or four deep breaths, and I watched the will to murder seep out of him, like wine from a cracked skin. “You really are a sorry piece of shit, Lysidemus,” he said. “I ought to smash your face in.”

“You just did.”

Normally he laughs at my jokes. Mind you, it wasn’t all that funny. “You could try explaining,” he said.

I got up. He didn’t knock me down again. I sat down on a log and explained.

His family are tenants of ours. What I’d done that had annoyed him so much was take them away from the haymaking, which has to be done when the weather’s right or there’s no point bothering, and order them up the mountain to brash and haul timber. Properly speaking he should have been up there with them, but I didn’t feel like rebuking him just then. He’d assumed that I’d done it because I was brown-nosing the bulls, or simply to make money. I was disappointed. I thought he knew me better than that.

“Think,” I said. “What’s the special thing about trees?”

“The what?”

“Trees,” I said. “What makes them different from everything else that gets carried on a ship?”

You could see the thoughts slowly crossing his mind through the windows of his eyes. When I can’t sleep, I imagine Hesychius thinking. Other people count sheep; same principle. “They’re heavy.”

“By volume, copper’s five times the weight. Try again.”

“I don’t know, do I? They’re—” He frowned. “Long?”

I touched the tip of my nose with my forefinger, then pointed at him. “They’re long,” I said. “Why is this significant?”

“I’m going to kick your head in a minute.”

“It’s significant,” I said, “because the bulls desperately want good cedar in lengths suitable for building, but they can’t carry them on their own ships. Their ships are galleys, designed for war.”

“So they pay more?”

I shook my head. “So wherever they’re shipping it, they’ve got to go via the Black Island, but they can’t go on a bull ship. They’ve got to go on one of our ships. Crewed by our people.” I paused. He hadn’t got it. “One of whom will be me.”

He looked at me as though after all these years I’d suddenly turned out to be somebody else. “You want to go to the—”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Three fucking guesses.”

I’d shocked him. “You’re out of your mind,” he said. “Does your father know?”

“Good God, no,” I said. “It’d kill him.”

All the anger melted out of him. “You’re a lunatic,” he said. “What do you think you could possibly achieve?”

“Remains to be seen,” I said. “And don’t you breathe a word of this to anybody, all right?”

He nodded wretchedly. “Everyone’s saying you’ve sold out to the bulls. They reckon all you’re interested in is money.”

“Good,” I said. “It’s really good they think that.”

“They hate you.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t talk stupid. You’ve got to live with these people.”

I grinned at him. “Chance would be a fine thing.”

He breathed in deep, then out through his nose. That means: I want to tell you how stupid you’re being, but you won’t listen. Some people are harder to read than one of the scribe’s clay bricks. Hesychius is practically a map. “I suppose you want me to come with you.”

“Absolutely not. What harm did you ever do to me?”

The look on his face was a sight to see; as though I was drowning and he’d just let my fingers slip through his hand. “You can’t fight the bulls,” he said. “You know that.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “That’s why I’m not even going to try.”

Because, you see, I had figured it out for myself. Actually it came to me in a flash, a blinding moment of pure insight.

There is no monster.

That’s not strictly true. There are lots of monsters, thousands of them. But human, just like you and me, and mortal, and capable of being reasoned with.

Think about it. Supposedly we’ve been sending our annual tribute for hundreds of years. Now, then; either this monster is mortal, in which case he must’ve died years ago, because nothing lives that long except oak trees, or else he’s a god, and gods don’t need food.

Think about it some more. The stories say he’d been there on the Black Island long before the bulls arrived, and when they got there it was uninhabited, apart from him. Therefore, no people for him to eat, for a long time. He hadn’t starved to death, but there was no food.

Think about it some more. The bulls rule five islands. We’re one of the bigger ones, with a larger human surplus. Assume for the sake of argument that each island sends an average of twenty victims. That’s a hundred bodies. The monster is supposed to be nine feet tall and incredibly strong; therefore it follows that he needs to eat a lot more food than you or I do. My grandfather told me about a king on the mainland who kept a lion as a pet, and it ate a whole ox every day. This monster would have the appetite of two lions. A hundred human bodies to last him a whole year; he’d starve. So, either he’s a god and doesn’t need food, or he isn’t real. And if he’s a god, he doesn’t exist, because gods don’t. Trust me on this. I prayed every day, every long, sleepless night, for them to let her go, but they didn’t. Therefore, they’re aren’t any. Logic.

So; no monster, but lots of monsters. And the twenty-four victims rounded up and herded onto ships every year don’t go to the Black Island to be eaten; they go there to work, because the bulls don’t work, they’re too busy being soldiers and overseers and revenue officers. They tell us the victims are dead so we won’t go over there and free them, and to terrify us, but it isn’t true. So she must still be alive, on the Black Island, existing there as property. And the thing about property is, you can buy it, even if you have to pay silly money for it.

Everybody cheats. For us, it’s more than simply a business practice; it’s the only form of cultural expression the bulls have left us with. And we take it seriously. It used to be that we only cheated the bulls, but now we cheat each other, to keep in practice, to perfect the art.

Take the drachma. Everybody knows that a drachma is the weight of a handful of barley grains. You owe someone a drachma, you get your bag of chop silver, your scales, and a jar of barley. A level handful of grain goes in one pan, and you drop bits of silver into the other pan until they balance. It’s absolutely fair, and everyone knows where they stand.

When my father and I do business with anybody, one of us does the buying, the other one looks after the selling. I have small hands, like a girl. He has hands like shovels. So he sells, I buy. Over the course of a year’s trading, it makes a substantial difference; enough to pay two men’s wages. Cheating isn’t just an art form, it provides employment.

The bulls drink wine, not beer, so they don’t know about malting. If you soak your grains so that they’re just about to sprout, then roast them enough to kill them, they weigh just a little bit more. Furthermore, all barley isn’t the same. We grow one variety down on the flat and another on the upland terraces. The upland variety has very slightly smaller, lighter grains. The bulls don’t know this. When they came round in my grandfather’s time, teaching us how to farm more efficiently and maximise our taxable yields, they gave—sorry, sold—us Black Island seed corn, which derives from a mainland variety and was much better than what we used to have. They assume that all the barley we grow is that variety. It was my father who figured out that the old strain might have its uses and searched till he found an old boy up in the back country who still grew the garbage variety. He’s smart, though maybe not as smart as me.

Everyone cheats, even when it isn’t really worth the effort. If you ask him nicely, Anaxandron at the foundry will melt down your silver, mix in an unnoticeably small proportion of copper, cast the resulting alloy into ingots, and draw it down into wire. You have to pay him for his time and trouble, of course. I generally give him half a jar of honey for making me two pounds of slightly polluted silver wire out of thirty ounces of good stuff. Half a jar of honey for a morning’s work is daylight robbery, and I’d be losing on the deal if I didn’t get the honey more or less for free from one of our tenants in exchange for letting him draw water from a well that I didn’t dig and which would be no use to me if he didn’t use it. Besides, you can water honey down a bit, if you’re careful not to overdo it. And when we weigh the wire, we use my scales.

Everyone cheats. I tried to fix the lottery, but Philopoemen got in ahead of me. He cheated me before I could cheat him. Both of us tried to cheat the bulls, but that doesn’t count.

I may have overdone the loading a little bit, because by the time we had the lumber on board and secured so it wouldn’t move about, the ship was a smidgeon too low in the water for comfort. Not to worry. We weren’t going far, and it’s plain sailing to the Black Island.

The crew were all men I’d sailed with before, but there was something slightly different in their manner, as if they were ready, willing, and anxious to forgive me just as soon as I apologised, though what for wasn’t at all clear. Maybe it was because the ship was full to bursting, so no room for personal stuff, and traditionally everyone brings along a few jars of this and that to sell on his own account. (That was how my great-great-grandfather got started, incidentally, trading top-quality almonds from half a dozen spindly trees in his father’s back yard, until he earned enough to buy his own ship.) Or maybe it was simply that nobody likes going anywhere near the Black Island, understandably enough. Anyway, it was a quiet trip, with nobody in the mood for talking. I didn’t mind that particularly, though usually I like to chat. I had things on my mind.

Obviously none of us had ever been to the Black Island before, so we had no idea how to get in to the harbour without ripping out our keel on some hidden peril we didn’t know was there. They’d thought of that, naturally. If you’re the hub of a major shipping enterprise, obviously you get ships coming in all the time who don’t know the waters. So there were plenty of nice, clear seamarks—buoys, flags, piles driven into the seabed and posts on the harbour wall to line up with. The main hazard wasn’t rocks, shoals, or reefs, it was keeping clear of other ships. When you think what a ship represents, in terms of materials, manpower, time, skill, and expense, it was amazing to see so many of them all together in one place: dozens of them, merchantmen and galleys, just lying about as if they didn’t matter. “Do you reckon it’s like this all the time?” one of the men said, with a look on his face like he’d accidentally gatecrashed the wedding of two gods. I knew how he felt. Not just the ships, but all the stuff they must be carrying; all that cargo, all that wealth of material goods, all that money.

Odryas the bull had given me a lump of baked clay the size and colour of a flattened turd, pecked all over with little wedge-marks, which was supposed to make everything all right with the harbour authorities. To my utter amazement, it did. The harbourmaster—actually, in a busy place like that I think it must’ve been the deputy harbourmaster’s acting deputy assistant—glanced at it, nodded, and told us to stay there, someone would be along in a minute. We stared at him. Here we were, perfect strangers from another island, he didn’t know our names or whose sons we were, but everything was fine because everything about us that anybody needed to know was somehow contained in a few squiggles poked in a wet tile. Extraordinary. And yet people live like that, apparently, all the time.

We hung about, not daring to get off the ship. Time passed. We began to wonder if they’d forgotten about us, or whether there was something we didn’t know about that we were supposed to have done.

It got dark. We were hungry, but all we had left was a few bits of stale crust and a few dried figs. “We could just leave,” Pythias the helmsman said. “They wouldn’t give a shit.”

“We can’t do that,” someone else said. “They know we’re here. We can’t leave without a departure permit. A bull told me that, back home.”

“Fine,” Pythias said. “What’s a departure permit?”

The man shrugged. “I don’t know, do I? One of those baked brick things.”

“We’ve got one of them. Let’s go.”

“Doesn’t work like that,” I explained. “It’s got to have the right squiggles on it. Our brick’s only got coming-in squiggles, not going-out. Let’s all just hold our water and see what happens, shall we? These people must know what they’re doing, it’s their job.”

Sure enough. Shortly before first light, when we’d all finally managed to drop off to sleep, a gang of bulls turned up with huge carts and a crane and told us to wake up. They hadn’t got all day, they explained, and where was our bill of lading?

The bill of lading turned out to be the other side of the clay turd, and it told them everything they needed to know about everything. All we had to do was manhandle the logs so they could get the chains round them and hoist them onto the carts. While we were doing that, I had a good look at the men working the crane. They weren’t bulls. You can tell, quite easily. Bulls are tall and lean, apart from the short, fat ones, and these men were sort of square and stocky. Also they did what they were told without answering back. I’ve never worked with anyone who hasn’t known a better way of doing the job. It’s practically a point of honour.

They got the lumber onto the carts in no time flat, and the chief bull handed me a small clay tile with squiggles on it. Take this to the paymaster, he said, and then you can get your clearance and go home. Thank you, I said, and where would I find the paymaster? He looked at me as though I’d asked him what the big shiny white thing in the sky was, and he pointed in the direction of a row of brick buildings half a mile away. Then he yelled at the carters, and the carts rumbled away, taking our valuable lumber with them.

“You stay here,” I told the men. “I won’t be long.”

They scowled at me. I grinned at them, as though I had the faintest idea of what was going to happen next, and set off toward the brick buildings.

When eventually I found the paymaster, he glanced at my bit of tile and told me it was no good.

“Oh,” I said. “Why not?”

“Needs countersealing. You want the merchants’ association.”

“Of course I do. Where—?”

“Over there.”

Actually, the merchants’ association was exactly what I wanted, though I hadn’t realised it. At the merchants’ association, once they realised I was the man with all the sensibly priced three-foot cedar, they were delighted to meet me. Sit down, they said. Have a drink while we get your chit sealed.

Gradually, as I talked to them, I came to realise that not all bulls are the same. The ones we get at home are one sort, but these were different: easy-going, friendly, only too happy to know you if they thought there was a chance of making some money. They explained to me, very kindly and patiently, where I’d gone so disastrously wrong. I’d allowed Odryas to talk me into selling my valuable lumber to his friends in Consortium A, when what I should have done was sell it to Consortium B, who would treat me with respect and pay me very slightly more. Alternatively—and only because they liked me so much and felt guilty because I’d been treated so badly—Consortium B and I could get together and form Consortium C; in which case I wouldn’t actually get paid for my logs, but I’d be entitled to a full share of profits at some point further down the line, once Consortium K had sold them to Consortium L. I said I’d like to think about it. Of course, they said, and in the meantime, have another drink.

“All this money,” I said. We were drinking wine. We make a lot of wine at home, but we drink beer and sell the wine. The bulls mix it, three parts water to one part wine. I could drink that all day and hardly notice, so I had to pretend. “All this money,” I repeated, “what’s it for?”

They grinned at me. “You can buy stuff with it,” one of them said.

“Stuff,” I said scornfully.

“Stuff is good,” another one said.

“Nah,” I told him. “Takes up space and you’ve got to dust it. Who needs stuff? I don’t. All stuff is shit.”

One of them looked at me severely, to let me know that words of wisdom were on their way. “Stuff,” he said, “is what marks us out from them. We’ve got stuff, they haven’t. That’s what stuff’s for. It’s for having.”

“Bullshit,” said another one. “What you want is nice things. Pretty things, none of your rubbish. Why does everything in life have to be horrible? Why can’t you have something nice for a change, if you can afford it?”

Another bull said: “Sure. Nice things, not shit. And we’ve got it and you haven’t. No offence,” he added graciously. “That’s the point, isn’t it? Stuff is how you know who’s better than everybody else. Stuff is how you keep score.”

I was concerned they’d drink themselves incoherent before I could ask my questions. I’d been working towards my goal slowly and carefully, patiently stalking it through the long grass. But with the bulls in that state there didn’t seem to be much point. “So what happens to the slaves from the islands?” I asked.

“Slaves?”

“All the young kids who get brought here,” I said. “Back home, they tell us they get fed to a monster and eaten, but that’s all shit. Bullshit,” I couldn’t resist adding, but it was lost on them. “So what happens to them really? They’re sold as slaves, right? Only I’d really like to buy one, with all this money I’m going to be making. Expense no object,” I added. “Top dollar.”

They were all looking at me as though I’d exposed myself. “You what?” one of them said.

“The kids from the islands,” I repeated. “That’s what you do, right? You make them into slaves. You turn people into stuff. Fine. That’s fine by me.” I held up my hands, palms outwards. “We all do it, that’s fine, you’ve got to do it or nothing ever gets done. I’ve learned that, since I’ve been dealing with you gentlemen. It’s progress, it’s what builds cities, it’s what makes you better than us. That’s great. That’s the stuff I really want to buy. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Are you out of your mind?” one of the bulls said. “You can’t own people. That’s sick.”

I wasn’t having that. “Oh come on,” I said. “You do it all the time. Look what you do to us.”

He stared at me, then laughed. “You’re nuts,” he said. “Listen, my stupid provincial young friend, you’ve got us all wrong. Sure, we don’t treat you like we treat our own, of course not. We’re better than you, go figure. So we push you around a bit, we rip you off right, left, and centre, of course we do, that’s natural. That’s the point of being strong. So we cheat. Everybody cheats. Cheating’s as natural as the air we breathe, and the fact we can do it gives us the right. But owning a person. That’s horrible. If we did that, it wouldn’t make us better than you. It’d make us worse.”

“They do it in Assur,” one of the others pointed out. “On the mainland.”

“Yeah, well,” the first one said angrily, “that proves my point, doesn’t it? They’re animals over there. Anybody who could think that sort of thing is all right, got to be something wrong with them.” He looked at me. He was upset. “Look,” he said, “you want to sell us your fucking logs or not? If not, piss off. I don’t think I like you any more.”

I wasn’t really interested in whether he liked me or not. “Answer my question and I’ll give you the stupid logs,” I said. “What do you do with the kids from the islands? Where do they go? What happens to them?”

For a very long two seconds nobody spoke. Then one of them said; “They go to the citadel.”

“And?”

“They go to him. He eats them.”

“This man is starting to annoy me,” said the bull who didn’t like me. “I say the hell with him. Some cheap lumber is too fucking expensive.”

“Free lumber,” I corrected him. “You can have the whole cargo for free, if you’ll just tell me the truth. What really happens to the kids from the islands? Who buys them? Where do they end up? Who do they work for?”

They looked at each other. Then they threw me out.

All that trouble and unpleasantness, just to obtain one word. But it was worth it. That word was citadel. Cheap at twice the price.

Back outside in the bright sun, I lifted my head and looked around. I could see a ridiculous number of buildings, some stone, some brick, some with flat roofs, some with arched roofs sheathed in copper, would you believe. But there was one building that stood out from all the rest, because it was bigger and taller and it was built on top of a hill. The sort of building, in fact, for which the word citadel was invented.

I went back to the ship to get something. “Well?” they asked me.

“Deal’s off,” I said. “Go home.”

“You what?”

“Take the ship,” I said, “and go home. It’s all been a waste of time. You can dump the cargo in the sea if you want, it’s dangerous, the ship’s riding far too low. If you hit a squall on the way home you’ll go straight to the bottom. Fuck it.”

They were staring at me. “What about you?”

I was wrapping cloth round my leg. “I’m not coming.”

“You what?”

“I’m staying,” I said. “There’s something I want to do. You go.”

“Don’t be stupid,” they told me. “How are you going to get home?”

“I’m staying,” I said. “I like it here.”

When I was a kid, my father told me about a pet notion of his. He called it the dominion of the weak. I don’t understand, I told him. Well, of course you don’t, he said, you’re just a kid. But it goes something like this:

I’m stronger than your mother, he said, so if I wanted to, I could beat her up real good. And sometimes I really feel like doing that, like when she gives me a hard time me or goes on and on about how much money I spent on that stupid ship. But I don’t, he went on, because I’m stronger than she is, so she can’t fight back. And your mother is stronger than you are. She could pick you up by the ankles and bash your head against the wall. And you make her so mad sometimes. But she doesn’t, because she’s stronger. And if I wanted to, I could burn down old Chares’s house and push him off his land and take it for myself, because he’s old and he’s got a gammy leg, he couldn’t stand up to me and six of the hired men. I could do with that land of his, it’s right between my top pasture and the river. But I don’t, because I’m stronger.

I don’t follow, I said. It’s not about who’s stronger. You don’t do that stuff because it wouldn’t be right.

He smiled at me. You’re just a kid, he said. What does right mean?

I didn’t understand.

Right and wrong, my father said, what do they mean? Tell me.

So I tried to tell him. Wrong is the stuff we aren’t supposed to do, I said, because it’s not right. Like beating up on people who can’t fight back, or taking stuff that isn’t ours.

Fine, he said. Why is it wrong?

I knew the answer but I couldn’t find words. Because it isn’t fair, I told him. You can’t go around beating up on people just because you can, because who made you the boss of them? I drivelled on like that for a bit, and then he stopped me.

It’s because you’re strong and they’re weak, he told me. That’s why you mustn’t do it. You mustn’t hit kids or take what doesn’t belong to you, because you’re strong and they’re weak. Is that right or isn’t it?

I guess so, I said.

Well then, said my father, let’s try something else. Give me your best shot.

So I hit him, right in the pit of the stomach, as hard as I could. He laughed. You see, he said, it’s fine if you hit me, because you’re weak. Do you understand now?

I shook my head; I was being particularly dumb that day. It’s the dominion of the weak, my father said. Try thinking about it. If you can hit me but I’m not allowed to hit you, who’s the boss? Or take me and your ma. Or me and old Chares. He drives his sheep over onto our pasture every spring, soon as the new grass comes, and what do we do about it? We shoo them back and don’t say anything, because he’s just a poor crippled old man. So he takes advantage and we do nothing. It’s like when we cheat the bulls. Who’s the boss, him or me?

That made no sense. My father was the richest man on the island and Chares was nobody. It’s the dominion of the weak, he repeated. Right and wrong, that’s all it is. It’s how the weak are the boss of the strong, and it’s not fair, and there’s absolutely nothing you or I can do about it.

On that day I decided I couldn’t make sense of what he’d told me because I was seven years old. Then, as I grew up and became aware of the bulls and the way they cast their shadow over everything, I decided that my father was just plain wrong. It’s all about strength. The weak are nothing, so all you can do in this life is try and make yourself a little bit stronger, to shift the balance a fraction in your favour, as regards the balance of who tramples on you and who you trample on. What he’d said stayed with me though, perhaps because dominion is how the bulls describe their operation in the islands. Meanwhile old Chares, frail and shaking, gradually shifted the boundary stones a few yards every spring. We did nothing about it, because he was just an old man in poor health, and when he died, he had seven acres more land than his father had left him, and we spent a lot of money buying it back from his nephew. It’s like the war between the ants and the elephant. The elephant started by trampling a million ants, but the other fifty million scurried away into cracks in the ground where he couldn’t get at them. Then, at night, when the elephant was asleep, the ants crept in through his ear and ate his brain. My father would say that the ants won because they were small and weak.

I prefer to think that they cheated.

A kindly bull stranger saw me hobbling up the street. “What happened to you?” he said.

“My own stupid fault,” I told him. “I fell out of a tree and tore my knee.”

He didn’t laugh. “Nasty things, knee injuries.”

“I’ve got it strapped up well,” I assured him. “Just makes walking a bit difficult.”

He hesitated for a split second, then gave me his walking stick. The handle was carved in the shape of a leaping dolphin. I thanked him. As soon as he was out of sight, I threw it away.

I’d anticipated that getting inside the citadel would be a major problem, quite possibly insuperable. Not so. There were two sentries at the gate, sleepy-looking bulls who snapped awake when they heard the sandal of my dragged foot on the cobbles. “Excuse me,” I said.

“What?”

“Can you tell me how to find the captain of the guard? Only I’ve got something for him.”

“What?”

I showed them the clay turd. It was too dark for them to read it, even if they could read. “He bought some stuff from us,” I said. “He needs to take this to the bonded warehouse, and then they’ll hand it over.”

One of the sentries peered at me. “Give it here,” he said. “I’ll see he gets it.”

I put on a scared look; who am I afraid of more, my master or this soldier? “Sorry,” I said, “but my boss said only to give it to the captain, in person. I don’t know why, that’s just what I was told.”

My luck was in. The sentries grinned at each other. “Figures,” one of them said. He leaned forward a little and lowered his voice. “He’s a fucking twister, he is. Mind he gives you a receipt.”

“What’s a receipt?”

They laughed and stood aside. Through there, they said, first left, second right, up two flights, first left, straight on, you can’t miss it. And what happened to your leg? Ah. They can be nasty, torn ligaments. Try plantain mixed with goose fat, or a hot stone wrapped in a bit of linen.

As soon as I was out of sight of the gate I stopped, slid down the wall into a crouch and closed my eyes. In my mind was the view of this citadel I’d been studying all afternoon until it got too dark to see. I’d been trying to figure it out, this stone and brick puzzle; how would you build something like that if you wanted to house a monster? Or a king? Gradually, the purpose grew into the shape: a secure container inside a bubble of security. Or, taken in reverse, high walls, guardhouses and the keep itself, a series of concentric circles so as to leave no one weak point. For the centre to be equidistant from all directions of hazard, the perimeter must be a circle. Therefore, if you have a circle, the thing secured must be in the—

I was standing in front of a door. It was pitch dark, apart from a moonbeam slanting in through an arrowslit, but I’ve always seen well at night. I could see that the door was massive, strong and old; ten feet high, five feet wide, and four bolts as thick as my forearm. Bolts on the outside.

Not a king, then.

I thought about the story. I tried to remember who I’d heard it from; was it my father or my mother or my nurse or one of the other kids or one of the hired hands? No idea. It had been a part of me all my life, like my hands and my feet, or a scar from an injury when you were very small. He was there before the bulls came, wasn’t he? That was how I’d always known it. The bulls came here in their long, low ships and thought they’d found the promised land, and then suddenly, in the night, they found out they weren’t the first here, or the strongest. In which case, surely, he was the boss of them. In which case, surely, the bolts would be on the—

They were stiff, and they made a horrible screeching noise as I pulled them back. So much for sneaking about quietly. Unless the guard were deaf or dead they must’ve heard it, and so must have whatever lived behind the door. I tried spitting on them and it helped a little bit, but too little and too late. The third bolt drew two thirds of the way back and then stuck solid. I bashed on the handle with the heel of my hand until I realized I was making a real mess of something I might need quite soon, so I tried kicking it instead. I think I broke my toe. Then I got wise. I drew the top bolt out all the way and used it as a hammer. It sounded twice as loud as Anaxandron at the foundry making horseshoes, but apparently nobody was interested. It worked. The fourth bolt came out easy as anything. Presumably it had been watching what I’d done to its brother and was terrified.

So there I was. The door would open if I pushed it. I knelt down and unwrapped the cloth from around my leg. The sword Anaxandron had so reluctantly made for me dropped into my hand, like a dog bringing you its lead in its mouth. I closed my hand around the grip. We’d had a long discussion about the shape and profile of the grip, Anaxandron and me. He said, you want a crossguard so your hand won’t slide forward, and something similar on the back end. I said, that’ll screw up the balance, balance is important. Neither of us knew the first thing about swords. In the moonlight it glowed the colour of honey, my last and best possession. I put my foot against the bottom of the door and pressed down. The door swung open, just a little.

Light came streaming out; golden light. I froze where I was, waiting for roaring and the onset of a monster. Maybe the room was empty after all. If I was a monster, would I crouch behind the door to gain a tactical advantage? I put the fingertips of my left hand against the door and flexed my fingers. The gap was now wide enough to let me through, just about.

It was the most amazingly beautiful room. On the walls, paintings: white background, with terracotta-red figures of men, slightly more than life size, carrying dishes and trays of fruit. The floor was black and white tiles. The ceiling was so high up I couldn’t see it, it sort of folded in on itself in a blaze of gold leaf, and I guessed I must be looking at the underside of a dome. There was a bed, made of what could only be ivory, and a table and a chair made of some sort of black wood I’d never seen or heard of before. In the chair, which was huge, sat a man with his back to me. He was huge too, and his head wasn’t human. He was looking into a mirror.

Ah, you’re saying to yourself, he’s got a mirror. Clearly a rich bastard.

Some mirror. The back was ivory, and from the way the face seemed to shine in the lamplight, I figured the mirror had to be gold. He was looking into the mirror, so what he saw was himself, and in the background, me.

He put the mirror down on the table, no great hurry, then slowly stood up and turned to face me. A very tall man, very broad, and instead of a man’s head, he had the head of a bull. Around his wrists were gold bracelets, and chains on his ankles, tethering him to the wall.

I took a step forward. The room was round, with his table and chair in the exact centre. Propped against the wall was a big sack, full of bones. I guess, just because you’re a monster doesn’t mean you’re untidy. The room smelled faintly of roses. The bulls pay good money for dried roses, for distilling into perfume. You can pack the bottom of the jar with cabbage leaves and they never seem to notice.

I wondered if he could speak, but I decided I wasn’t interested. Even if he could, what would he and I possibly have to say to each other? It was nine paces from the door to the centre of the room. He stood there, not moving, and I couldn’t understand the expression on his face, because his face wasn’t human.

I hadn’t killed a man before, but I’ve killed plenty of animals. When you kill a large animal, like a big old sow or a bullock, it makes it much easier if you stun it first, with a pollaxe or something like that. I only had the sword, so I figured quick and neat was the way to go. Normally you’d cut the big vein in the neck, but he was so tall I couldn’t reach and I didn’t fancy trying to do it standing on the chair. So I stuck the sword into the pit of his stomach, while he just stood there and let me. It went in quite easily. Anaxandron and I had been a bit concerned that the blade would just bend instead of going in. Anaxandron wanted to stiffen it with a central rib, but I didn’t want the extra weight. It turned out that Anaxandron was fussing about nothing, as usual.

He dropped to his knees and I took a quick step back, to keep away from the tips of his horns. He gave a great sigh and toppled over onto his side, and that was the end of him. I waited to see if he’d twitch or jerk about, but apparently not. I couldn’t get the sword out. The way he’d fallen meant that the blade was clinched in the wound by the full weight of his upper body. Shucks.

I sat down on the giant chair. My head was splitting and I felt sick, first-time-on-a-boat sick, only worse. I was trying to think—I had a lot to think about—but thoughts slipped away, like when you take live fish out of a net. I had those floating things in front of my eyes, the ones that you can see even with your eyes shut. If this is what murder does to you, I said to myself, I’m surprised people bother with it, because it’s no fun at all.

I started shivering. Something fell on the floor with a clatter. It was the clay turd. I must have shaken it loose from inside my shirt. I stared at it, because there was something very odd about it. It took me a moment to figure out what it was. I could read it.

Not that it was particularly interesting; it said, forty-eight logs, cedar, two obols per board foot, sixty-two drachmas two obols payable. I looked at it again and couldn’t understand how I hadn’t been able to read it before. It was perfectly clear, if a trifle mundane. Just business, that’s all.

The floating things had cleared away. I glanced down at the dead body. It was changing; it had changed. Not a bull’s head, not any more. It took me a moment before I realised that I recognised her—my own, my darling, the light of my life, my reason for living, the whole object of the exercise. I reached for the mirror. In it, I saw the monster, the one I’d just killed.

Ah, I thought. I asked for that.

I tried banging on the door, but nobody came. Someone had shot the bolts while I was looking in the mirror. I found a small jar of oil to top the lamp up with. I was starving hungry, so I ate her body. It’s an acquired taste.

I guess they spy on me through a gap in the wall somewhere, though I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find one. When I’m asleep they come in and dust, fill the lamp, sweep the floor, empty the bone sack. Sometimes they leave a block of wet clay, an unexpected kindness, and if I write something they take it away, bake it, and bring it back. I tried writing help, please let me out but they didn’t take that one, or the letter to my father. I tried kicking the door down. I broke another toe. The next night they put the chain on my ankle, and now I can’t get that far.

Sometimes I feel angry, sad, frightened, disappointed, even cheated, but mostly I just feel hungry. I’d never known what it feels like to be hungry all the time. You can’t think about anything else, no matter how you try.

Where I went wrong (it seems so obvious now) was assuming there was no monster; that a monster was unnecessary, therefore superfluous, therefore there wasn’t one—just good old human nature, grafting its bull’s head onto everyday human flesh and blood. No monster, just people; and people can be reasoned with, bargained with, exploited, bullied—and cheated, let’s not forget cheated, because everybody cheats. I was right about that, of course, but what I hadn’t taken into account was the true nature of the bull and how smoothly it grows on your shoulders when you’re least expecting it. Staring into a mirror is dangerous because after a while the mirror starts staring into you. As previously noted, you have to be a rich bastard in order to own a mirror. By the very process of being able to acquire one, you turn it into something no sane man would want to gaze into, for fear of seeing the bull. I think I started to grow the horns the moment I let the means enchant me away from the end. Now look at me: king of the bulls, the strongest of the strong, fixed to a wall by the strongest of all possible chains.

Even so, I reckon that my father was partly right. Not completely right, because of course he didn’t understand, not being able to see the whole picture, as I can now; like a drawing of a ship by a man who’s never seen the sea, and here I am, adrift in it. I still maintain that everybody cheats; the boss, the monster, the hero, the victim, the man in the street, and the starving beggar at his door.

By the same token, everybody gets cheated, and I think that’s only fair.

#K.J. Parker #Stronger #short story #long post

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husbandohunter · 3 years

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Stardew Impact [Genshin+Stardew Valley/xReader]

Part 1/3 Kaeya, Diluc

Synopsis: “A mysterious phenomenon brought you and your s/o to an unfamiliar world: Pelican Town! Without the power of Visions, the two of you begin to learn the life of what it takes to be...a farmer?”

(DOMESTIC FARM LIFE YIP YIP)

Coming soon...

Albedo and Childe

Zhongli and Xiao

(A/N): So the brainrot was real in this one. I planned to add Albedo for a Mondstadt edition but kinda went overboard so I gotta split this one into parts too. Wordcount_almost 2k spspspsp

______________________________________________________

Diluc

• Already has the whole year planned in his head. Literally if Diluc were to play this game, he'd have a booming farm within year ONE. Calm and collected through and through, though the new environment raises alot of questions, as long as you were still with him, Diluc ain't complaining

• The town welcomes you two with open arms. It was all thanks to the attire. Diluc wore his usual dark coat adorned with regal gold while you had a dress made of Liyue's finest silk, one that he bought for you. Needless to stay both of you reeked the aura of rich aristocrats (Mayor Lewis is pleased that greedy bastard)

• Once the farm was permitted to your owndership, Diluc began to think of ways to turn it into a vineyard. He was a businessman afterall. Although the staff back at the Dawn Winery were the ones who tended the field, Diluc still knew a few things about planting due to his childhood days Master Crepus would bring him out to their yard and demonstrated the process of gardening. He still remembers those days clearly, doing the very same this moment with you.

• Occasionally works at the Saloon bar. It was the perfect opportunity. As you took care of the farm side, Diluc continues to look for more ways to increase the income while gathering information from the folks around town. Gus LOVES to have him over, like he's just so efficient and reliable! They soon become good friends saying if Diluc were ever to own a wine stock, he would gladly buy from him.

• This is why Diluc would stay a little later due to just chatting with the people from the bar. One time you walked into the Saloon only to the front desk with Emily alone. Turns out the others were in the other room, too busy playing a game of pool. You decided to leave him be since it was rare to have Diluc so relaxed in leisure activities. Thus in the end, you spent your time chatting with Emily until a whole hour has passed before your lover notices and apologizes for losing track of time.

• Everything felt like a dream because it was his dream. To live a life undisturbed from chaos, his duties and the dangers that lurk in Teyvat, Diluc grew fond of the domesticity. There was nothing he loved more than to spend his hours by your side, day after day, returning home to your freshly handmade meals.

• Spring: Already up and early planting the parnersnips (I'm very soft for gardener Diluc you see). What do you expect from a workaholic? Even during his leisure time you would often find him near some plant as he does consider this hobby quite therapeutic. But when it rains, Diluc would be standing beside you with an arm around your shoulder, smiling contently as you lean into his touch. He gazes through the dripping window and silently admires the current progress you both made on the farm.

• Between the two annual spring festivities, I would say the flower dance. Diluc is a private man and would prefer to take things where no eyes were on sight. But with a little bit of nudging from Gus (your wingman), he gives in and leads you to the center stage. Elegant. Graceful. The way you two moved together became the talk of the event. Though, Diluc was already used to people staring by now, all he needed to do was to ignore them and keep his focus on you.

• Summer: No blankets in bed. Nope, its bloody hot in Pelican Town. He tends to stay indoors or anywhere with shade, in other words, his work hours in the Saloon increased.

• Diluc always has a nice cold drink prepared for you if by any chance you were to pay a visit after a whole day of labour. It's a habit he's made subconciously as if it would be a natural occurance for you to enter the door. His colleagues would ask him who did he make that drink for? Honestly so cute i cri

• Moments like these remind him of Mondstadt, where he quietly wipes the glasses while listening to you talk. Your voice is soothing. Sun rays peek from the side casting onto the umber tables, reflecting a rich golden light as the radio plays a soft song in the background. It's so peaceful, the town was small hence not many people visited the bar, Diluc came to appreciate this warm privacy (plus no Venti and Kaeya which is a huge pog realization).

• Autumn: Harvest time baby. The kegs are full and the sheds are full of kegs. This season was huge stonks and the house ended up getting an upgrade. Diluc is the type of man who wants to make sure that his spouse wouldn't have to work another day of her life. I reckon this is why he's so ambitious because he wants you to have the best and you deserve the best. (Husband material. Slap a ring on him ladies).

When there was no more work left to do, time would be spend peacefully exploring the woods. While you skipped a few steps ahead as the leaves crunched beneath your feets, Diluc follows slowly from behind. He sees your back but his eyes stares somewhere far beyond whats in front of him: His future.

It was such a stark contrast to the one he envisioned before. One filled with uncertaintly, blocked by darkness with no silver lining in sight, endlessly wandering as he drags the claymore against the ground. There was never a day in which the Darknight hero wouldn't think of Mondstadt. Leaving the city in the incompetent hands of Ordo Favonious while Abyss Mages continue to lurk fuels him to find a way to return as soon as possible and yet...

"Higher big sis!" Jas tightens her hold on the ropes as you pushed the swing with all your might. She laughs, like a child, it was full of innocence and joy. Later Vincent came in and nugdes you, asking when his turn will come.

"You wanna go too? Alright alright don't worry," waiting for Jas to come down, you lift the boy up so that he was seated safely on the chair, "3..2..1 go!"

He wonders if he could just be a little selfish for once.

• Winter: Best man to have in this season. Every morning Diluc would find himself restricted in movements due to a pair of arms around his waist and legs entangled with yours. Turns out you've been doing it subconciously because he's just so warm (Diluc keeps it lowkey and pretends to sleep longer cuz of it)

~~xx~~

Kaeya

• Haha looks like the portal is gone, guess we'll be stuck forever :)). No kidding Kaeya would be so down to stay here for the rest of his life and the best part is to spend it with you. He doesn't show a shred of concern regarding Teyvat, not like he's easily shaken by events that are abnormal, but you can see that Kaeya is truly and genuinely happy. (You're stunned).

• Oho we also have this marvelous landscape just for the two of us? And a cozy little cabin to go along with it as well? This should be fun~

• Of course Kaeya would also know a few things about planting, just the basics since he did grow up with Diluc. When they were kids, Crepus would give each of them their own pots so they can grow their own plants. It eventually became a competitive thing where whoever's plant grows the fastest gets to eat the other person's dessert for a year (no one wins. They end up sabotaging each other which Diluc started first, thinking it'll be funny as a joke).

• You are, and will be going on dates with him. In fact, the amount of dates you two went on increased since then. The townspeople would call you two "lovebirds" since he's practically by your side 24/7.

• I mean he doesn't have the responsibilities as a Cavalry Captain anymore so what else is there to do?

• Would attend all annual events no matter what season.

• Evelyn constantly gushes how much of a wonderful pair you and Kaeya make and often is the one who provides Kaeya a fresh bouqet of flowers for him to use as a gift. George on the otherhand just rolled his eyes mumbling something along the lines of "youngsters these days" and "crazy hormones."

• Befriends Pam. Love for beer plus somewhat cynical attitude? They get along real swell! She starts sending some recipes into the mailbox of course saying if yall ever need a hand, let her know.

• Spring: I can see Kaeya be switching back and forth between caring for the farm or taking quests posted on Pierre's bulletin board. He likes to keep things interesting, learning the ways of the new world while also getting to know the people around town.

• Would NOT return Mayor Lewis' shorts in which he found in Marnie's room. It's such high quality blackmail material. Kaeya is currently plotting what is the best way to use it to his advantage.

• He didn't tell you of course.

• Summer: There are no blankets because he is your blanket. Since your cabin was small so was the bed. That's why he has to hold you so that no one falls off when rolling over. Either he hugs you with your nose close to his neck, or your back against his chest while spooning you or holding hands if sleeping on your sides became too much. Yall need a serious house upgrade.

• For some reason Kaeya becomes more energetic in the summer. He lets you rest in the shade while handling the farm work for the time being. If you guys got a pet it would be a cat. Hes the first one to refill their bowl every morning outside.

Another day passes as summer comes to an end, the town’s Mayor invited you and your lover to see the annual Dance Of the Moonlight Jellies. Kaeya being the opportunist was delighted to come along. Locking the door of your house, you follow him down the path and made your way to the beach.

Everyone from town was already gathered by the docks when the sun had disappeared down the horizon. You stood by his side in a space far from the others, watching the candle boats set off to ride the waves, lighting up a small ray of light for creatures to find.

“Wow,” your tone almost above a whisper, “If only our friends back home could see this too.”

“Perhaps,” he says. Kaeya slips his fingers into yours and you shot him a curious glance, “But let us enjoy this moment shall we? Just the two of us.”

And there they were. A sea of luminescence radiating colours of brilliant blue with hints of green like a city of laterns floating in a world below. Their image reflects in the star of Kaeya's eyes as he wonders, where would they go? Where would the light lead them? They were so free with nothing to worry, so serene just like the sea and unknowningly, he squeezes your hand. It was a sense for confirmation. One to remind him that this moment was indeed a reality he wishes to keep.

Autumn: Finally a house upgrade and a kitchen!! Because it was harvest season, you guys end up making a set of delicious meals with all the recipes the townspeople gave you. Kaeya can cook since he lived by himself back in Mondstadt. Most of the stuff he learned to make were food that can be accompanied by alcohol though...

• Ahah remember Mayor Lewis' lucky shorts? He found a use for them. It was displayed on the stands during the Stardew Valley Fair (Oh my how did this get here? Must be the wind). Ends up buying a Rarecrow for the farm when Lewis bribes him not to tell this to anyone.

Winter: This was mostly an indoor season for the both of you. With the existence of television, nights would be spent until morning while watching movies at the couch. A blanket drapes around your shoulders as extends to his. Oh and don't forget the hot chocolate!

#genshin impact #stardew valley #genshin impact headcanons #diluc x reader #kaeya x reader #diluc #diluc ragnvindr #Kaeya #kaeya alberich #genshin x reader #genshin headcanons #genshin imagines #genshin scenarios #nya-writes #genshin impact scenarios #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact imagines

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batsandbugs · 3 years

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A Kiss With a Fist

AN: Hey everyone another fic coming at you! This is for the Maribat Drabble Exchange hosted by @eat0crow I’m so excited to be participating! My fic was for @pixiebuggiewrites who wanted a Daminette soulmate fic. Sorry I couldn’t squeeze anybody else in here it was already getting pretty long! I hope you all enjoy! You can also read it here on ao3! (Pictures are NOT mine)

Damian stormed away from the hotel, aggressively zipping his coat. He didn’t care where he was going, only that it was away from here.

He didn’t want to be in Paris. He didn’t want to watch out for incompetent amateurs. He didn’t want to ‘control your anger, Damian’. He wanted to be sent home.

The calm night taunted him, the Parisian streets were too bight and too clean, resembling nothing like his dark city. He missed patrolling, he missed his animals, hell, a part of him (a small, barely negligible part he would never admit to) even missed his siblings. But no, he was stuck here, under his father’s orders until the situation in Paris drew to a conclusion.

Considering it took five years for outside help to be even called in, he had no clue how long the mission would last. He still hadn’t met the so-called-heroes of Paris, but the research he conducted showed they were ill-trained, undisciplined, and relying on so much luck it was a fucking miracle their city wasn’t a smoking ruin by now.

He sighed, sticking his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. He regretted not grabbing his gloves in his storm out. He’d been so irritated at his father that even though the man was on the other side of a screen, half-way across an ocean, Damian needed to physically leave to calm his anger. It left him little time to grab essentials for a chilly winter night like a hat, or gloves. He considered himself lucky for remembering to grab a coat at all.

He wandered for a solid hour, the cold sinking into his bones chilling the raging inferno that always seemed to bubble inside him. By the time he no longer wanted to scream at anyone, he was sufficiently lost, considering he hadn’t taken his phone with him either.

Coming to rest on a bridge he took a seat on a small bench. He puffed a warm breath of air into his chilly hands rubbing them together. Nighttime in Paris was so… different compared to Gotham. While big cities never truly slept, this was positively peaceful in comparison to what he was used to. He hadn’t even heard a single sound of ruckus or distress, which seemed strange considering the city was currently besieged by a magical butterfly terrorist.

Damian inwardly scoffed. Butterfly terrorist. True, being a Gothamite meant no room to judge, but he found it hard to think of a stranger string of words.

He sighed; Damian didn’t even know what his father wanted him to do here. Sure, he knew French and was a proficient fighter, but what could that even lend to the situation? They needed a detective, and, as much as he hated to admit it, Drake would have been the better option in that department. Unfortunately, he was off-world. Grayson was dealing with a problem in Hong Kong with Cass. Brown was paired with the rest of the Sirens taking care of Gotham along with Batman, and Todd…

Well, even he recognized what an awful choice Todd would be against a villain who literally used strong negative emotions as his weapon of choice. Damian had a temper; Todd was a ticking-time-bomb.

A high-pitched screech cut through the night air, before being noticeably muffled. Damian was on his feet and running before he even mentally acknowledged it. The thud of his boots on the cobblestone bridge sent small shocks through his legs. Another large clatter directed him off to a side street a couple of feet away. Three men had cornered a tiny slip of a woman, who held her purse like a weapon.

Damian saw red. “Hey, why don’t you pick on someone your own size,” he yelled in French. There was one benefit to being in a foreign city, Damian did not have to play the part of a clueless rich kid who couldn’t hold his own in a fight.

The brutes turned to him and grinned mean smiles. One guy stepped forward. “Come on man, we’re just having a little fun. You can join if you-” Damian cut off the disgusting words with a jab to the nose. Then he spun around, sweeping the second guy’s feet from underneath him, hitting him with a punch to the face to knock him out cold. The first guy hadn’t lost consciousness, but he was doubled over which allowed Damian to knee him in the stomach. Another punch to the face and he was out cold too.

He turned to finish off the last guy, only to see the woman roundhouse kicking him to the head. The burly man fell with a thud. The alley turned eerily silent, the only sounds coming from the sharp breaths of both Damian and the girl. His pulse fluttered fast; the heat of the battle warmed his chilled limbs.

A red purse laid on the ground near his feet. Picking it up he walked over to the small woman, no teen she looked about his age, who was still sharply breathing.

“Here, this is-” a blur is all he saw before a sharp pain spread across his nose.

Did she-

Did she just punch him in the face?

The shock of it sent him sprawling onto the ground, and he blinked away the tears forming in his eyes. Damian cradled his throbbing nose, anger bubbled once more under his skin before-

*Zing*

The connection hit him like a train. A deep well of rightness spreading through him. He looked up through bleary eyes to find the woman staring at him in similar shock.

“You’re my soulmate,” they sputtered at each other.

Damian inwardly groaned. The League made initiates kill their soulmate should they ever find them to prove their loyalty. He grew up never wanting to find his soulmate, knowing they would serve as nothing but a distraction and weakness. Even when he joined his father, the idea seemed an unneeded liability. Sure, his brothers found their soulmates within the superhero community, but what were the chances he would too?

A small whimper escaped the mouth of the guy lying unconscious on the ground, knocked out by the woman the universe thought would be the perfect match for him. Damian tilted his head. She might not be a superhero, but maybe the universe knew him better than he first imagined.

“OhmygoshIamsosorry!” the flood of words spilled from his soulmate’s mouth, her face a deep shade of red. “I was just-”

“Acting on instinct and adrenaline? Appropriate, considering the threat you just faced,” he said without anger. “Your right hook is sufficiently adequate.”

“Um… thanks? Are you alright though?” She extended a hand to help him off the ground. He took it, his larger hand enveloped hers, but she showed a surprising amount of strength as she pulled him up. The contact sent another *zing* through his body, smaller and more subdued though. Damian found himself reluctant to let go.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” He suffered worse in training before. With the initial pain dissipated, all that was left was a dull throbbing that would be gone by morning. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” she said with a bright smile. He took the chance to finally observe his soulmate. She was small, couldn’t be more than 5’2, which meant at 6’1 he towered over her. She was of mixed descent, with dark hair spilling over her shoulders, and bright blue eyes. Her arms and legs were toned with muscle, and she held herself with grace and confidence. She wore a face of tasteful makeup and was clothed in a short red dress and a pair of strappy heels with no jacket in sight. He had no clue how she wasn’t freezing to death.

Her smile dimmed a bit. “Actually, no, I’ve had better days. Today has kinda been a perfect disaster; first I’m late for school, then I forgot my homework, and my class bully decided it was a pick-on-Marinette day. There’s a three-hour Akuma fight, involving mind-control, which is always a total drag. I finally get home to find my parents worried sick about me because I hadn’t answered my phone which got destroyed at the beginning of the fight. I go to my class’s senior Valentine’s day dance hoping to finally confess to the guy I’ve had a crush on for years, only to get humiliated because he already has a girlfriend, and everyone else in my class knew and decided not to tell me. When I get away not to cause a scene, not only do I forget my jacket, but I also get attacked by three bumbling idiots with more mouths than brains.” She chuckled, hollow and verging on manic.

Damian stood there, unsure how to take all of that. He filed away the fact she was being bullied, and that she commonly dealt with Akuma attacks. Both equally important, as far as he was concerned.

“Now, here I am, standing in front of my gorgeous soulmate I punched in the face, after beating up said earlier idiots, rambling my mouth off because I don’t know the meaning of the word chill. Yep! I’ve certainly had better days. Ohmygoshimatotalmesskillmenow.” She muttered the last part into her hands, but Damian understood her all the same.

He would come back to the gorgeous thing later.

“…Do you want my jacket? You look cold.” It wasn’t the smoothest thing he could have said, nor the most appropriate considering the mess of a day she’d had. However, the manners Alfred drilled into his brain came knocking and if he was cold with a turtle-neck long-sleeved shirt and a jacket, she must be freezing in all that… nothingness. He averted his eyes from her exposed skin, looking at her face instead.

His soulmate looked at him for a long moment, before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

“You know what, yeah, a jacket would be nice,” she said in a tired voice. Damian shed his coat quickly, not minding the sharp sting of cold that hit him. He helped his soulmate into the sleeves and took an odd little pleasure in seeing how tiny she looked in the folds of his jacket.

“I’m Marinette, by the way, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” She wrapped the jacket closer cuddling into the heat. “Sorry for kinda freaking out on you there.”

“The kind of day you’ve had has surely broken lesser mortals. Any coping method is your due. I’m Damian, Damian Wayne. It’s a pleasure to meet you Marinette.” He smiles, although the gesture feels odd, trying to appear non-threatening. While his soulmate (and maybe he was coming around to this faster than he thought possible) was obviously skilled at dealing with a variety of stressors, he didn’t want to add any more and risk her being akumatized.

“You as well Damian.” She shivered despite the added protection of his coat, as a gust of wind swept through the alleyway. “As much fun as this conversation has been, it might be best for us to get out of the cold.”

“Indeed. What will we do with these inconveniences?” he asked, poking one of the guys with the tip of his boot.

She sighed, picking her purse from the ground where he’d dropped it. “We’ll call the police to come pick them up. They’ll be cold, but fine.”

Damian scowled, “It’s better than they deserve.” He sneered at the guy who offered for Damian to join them. Join them in assaulting this tiny, bright girl, who’d been through enough. His soulmate. The bubbling rage began anew, and he wished he’d done more than just knock them unconscious, they deserved far worse for thinking, daring, to touch-

A small hand rested on his arm, dragging him out of his violent thoughts. “I’m fine Damian. Even if you hadn’t arrived, I would have been fine. I can hold my own in a fight. This is Paris after all.”

“Tt,” Damian scoffed. “Fine. We’ll leave them to their fates.” And if their fates happened to involve complete ruination of their online lives, credit scores, and secure information? Well, that was hardly his fault, now was it?

“There’s a good café opened late around the corner. Would you- would you like to go there?” Marinette asked.

Damian smiled at the tentative offer. “I would very much enjoy that, yes. I’ve been out for longer than I should, coffee would be great right about now.” She giggled and he felt his stomach flutter. Funny, giggling always annoyed him, but that bright clear sound... he could grow used to that.

Walking out of the dark alley, listening to Marinette talk to the police on her phone, Damian sighed. The streets no longer felt too clean, or the lights too bright. Yes, he was colder, and yes this was a complication, but for some reason, Damian could not bring himself to care.

Maybe Paris wouldn’t be so bad after all.

#fanfiction #damian x marinette #daminette #damianette #maribat writing exchange #maribat #marinette dupain Cheng x Damian wayne #maridami #damimari #marinette x damian

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happyocelot · 2 years

Text

Noodles

For Day 17: Fairytale AU. In which Naruto really is a fox. :)

FFN/AO3

Hinata squinted, picking up the strands of blonde hair lying on the rough forested ground. Which meant that Naruto had gone running off again, even though he had told her that he'd wait for her to catch up.

The silly little zenko who lived in her village in Hyuuga no kuni didn't seem to understand that humans couldn't magically run halfway across the village in half a minute like he could.

She didn't know why this zenko, Naruto, had picked the form of a human teenage boy as his guise. From what she understood, this was rare. Nor did she know why had come here from his homeland in Awa no kuni ten years ago.

Well, he was...mysterious, but at least he was nice. She knew he had to be at least a hundred years old, but he acted like a kid given a lifetime supply of dango, with his cheeriness and friendly, eternally smiling face, and he was always dragging village children like herself and Hanabi off on games in the forest nearby. Such as now.

There was absolutely no indication, most of the time, that he was a kitsune, except for those odd whisker marks on his cheeks. And his laugh was just a regular, mischievous boy's laugh, not a fox bark. When she mentioned this to her father, he would always turn his lips down, but he didn't say anything, so Hinata could only assume that he didn't (or couldn't) object to the fact that she was associating with a yokai like Naruto.

That he helped the priests of the nearby shrine was probably a big factor in his acceptance by the village. That, and they were assured by him that he would be a village protector, and wouldn't let any harm befall them. After one or two years, most people's fears had gone out the window of provoking the wrath of Inari Okami, or that he would possess any who dared cross him, and be forced to run helter-skelter through the village, or froth at the mouth, or eat fried tofu by the handful.

Hinata knew that this was a foolish fear anyway. Naruto wouldn't do anything like that. He'd given his word. And besides, if Naruto were a nogitsune, he would possess people to eat his favorite food, some kind of noodle from China that no one in her village, and probably no one in Hyuuga no kuni, nor anyone in this part of Saikaido, had ever heard of.

Naruto was always whining that this food was nowhere to be found even many ri away. She wondered why he bothered.

"But surely," she found herself telling him the other day, after enduring another rant about this mysterious soba and how no one in Hyuuga no kuni had it, "a shapeshifting being like you could easily travel to the capital or to any big city or even to Chang'an itself to get these noodles that you love so much."

And then he'd blinked and stared at her in epiphany, his eyes momentarily becoming dark, murky, shadowed, revealing his true nature.

Just for a moment.

Then he'd beamed, and Hinata found herself worrying at the sheer intensity of the smile.

"Thanks so much, Hinata! You're a genius! Meet me at the forest, ya know! I'll wait!"

He vanished with a bright flash of fire and lightning, leaving her blinking, confused.

He'd never learned proper polite speech, either, but he wasn't really a human, so no one in the village held it against him.

Still...he said he would wait for her. Which he didn't do.

Just then, something nudged at her feet. Hinata whirled around, dropping the strands of blonde hair, and her jaw dropped.

Nine bushy tails and a rich orange fur.

Happy, friendly, glowing eyes.

A fox kit.

Balancing on its head a bowl of...

Those noodles he loved so much.

#nhmonth2021 #nhmonth #naruhina month #naruhina #naruto #mine

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ragingbookdragon · 3 years

Text

It's Who We Are Underneath That Defines Us

Kyle Rayner x Batsis One-Shot

Word Count: 1.9K Warnings: Explicit Language, Slight Angst

Author's Note: Really gotta make the story where the Batfamily learns she and GL are dating. Enjoy! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

“Hey babe?”

She hummed absentmindedly, her eyes still trained to the stars above. “Yeah, Kyle?” Fingers twitched against her palm, then laced with her own; a heartbeat pounded against her skin, like a pulsing speaker, causing her to look over at him. “Is everything alright?”

Evergreen eyes met hers and he murmured, “Do you ever think about what life would be like if you weren’t a superhero?”

She blinked, the question giving her a slight pause. Leaning closer, she propped her chin in his shoulder and teased, “Thinking about how you could’ve had an apple pie and picket fence life, Kyle?”

A grin crossed his lips and he glanced over at her. “To be honest with you, (Y/N), I’m more of a cherry pie kinda man.” His gaze dropped, and his eyes roamed her body. “Blame Warrant on that one.” She rolled her eyes, but the laugh she gave him showed her amusement. Kyle paused, his gaze searching her face. “But back to my original question...what do you think you’d be doing if you weren’t a vigilante?”

(Y/N) inhaled deeply, rolling away from his shoulder and laid on her back, her eyes scanning the immense field of stars above them. “I don’t know, honestly. I’ve never really given it much thought.” Raising her hand, she traced the scars across her expanse of her arm with her eyes. “I’ve been training to be a vigilante since I was ten years old...helping people is all I’ve ever really wanted to do with life.”

She looked back over at him. “But since you asked, if I wasn’t a vigilante, I’d probably be a stuck-up rich bitch who overcharges her dad’s credit cards and throws hissy fits when she gets told no.” Kyle snorted, and she giggled.

After a moment of silence, he looked to her and asked, “Would you ever change anything you’ve done?”

The question he’d given her had been one she’s asked herself so many times. What if’s rising to the tongue of a girl too afraid to choose a path other than that of the least resistance, but ultimately keeping them contained and taking the hardest ones anyway. (Y/N) bit her lip slightly, the memories of every mistake, every wrong choice, flashing behind her eyes like lightning in a storm. The fingers laced though hers squeezed gently, dragging her from them, and she glanced back over, her eyes tracing the wisps of hair at his temples that had fallen from the gel he’d put in it earlier.

She blinked, then gave him a smile, her voice soft as she replied, “No...I don’t think I would change a single thing.”

Kyle’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion and he questioned, “Why not? Hasn’t there been a time where you’ve screwed up monumentally and couldn’t change it?”

(Y/N) watched him carefully, the words toying with the tip of her tongue as she asked calmly, “Are you talking about what happened to Alex?”

His face momentarily darkened, a mixture of anger, hate, and self-loathing, then it fell, and she saw the pain and regret in his eyes and heard it in his voice as he muttered, “I’m talking about everything that I’ve done wrong.” He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees, the heel of his tennis shoes scraping against the brick of the roof. He let out a heavy sigh, causing her heart to tighten, and she rose beside him, curling her arm through his.

They stared at the city across the water, then she murmured, “When I was sixteen, I accidentally shoved someone over a support beam during a fight.” He eyed her, silently wondering what had happened and just what the hell this had to do with his issues. “Didn't mean to, of course. But he grabbed me from behind, and I did what I'd been trained to do—react. I freed myself and made the distance between us. But I misjudged the force of my kick and he tumbled over and down about a hundred feet onto concrete.”

She paused, thumb rubbing the back of his hand. “When my family and friends saw what I’d done, even if it were an accident, a lot of them decided to keep me at an arm's length. ‘She might kill again’, they said, ‘If she’s killed once, she’ll do it again...there’s no way we can trust her anymore.’ Eventually, I stopped patrolling with the Titans and Teen Titans. Hell, I even stopped helping the Justice League. I did my own thing by myself because no one trusted me anymore. ‘Til this day, there are some people within the superhero community who shun me and don’t trust me. And at every meeting, somehow, someway, it's always brought up.”

(Y/N) looked over at him, squeezing his hand again. “Wherever I go, whatever I do, that follows me. It’s never going to be let go, and it’s certainly never going to be forgotten. However, despite those problems and feelings, and what occurred in the past, that accident doesn't define meor my actions. Yes, I unintentionally took someone’s life, but I’m not a murderer. I carry that burden with me, and I always will and while I can't change what happened, it drives me to make sure that I don't make the same mistake again.”

She let go of his hand, slipping her legs on either side of his body, her hands coming up to cup his cheeks; she caressed his cheekbones with her thumbs, staring into his eyes, and mustered the sincerest voice she could. “Kyle, what you’ve gone through, the people you’ve lost, the people you’ve saved, and the friends you’ve gathered along the way? That’s not who you are...it’s what you do with it that defines who you are.” His eyes widened slightly, and his lips parted to speak, but no words fell from them.

(Y/N) gave him a warm smile and leaned forward, pressing her lips against his forehead; she pulled back and murmured, “It may not mean much, but I'm proud of you, Kyle. You make me proud every single day.” She watched him exhale shakily, and she swore she could see the damn inside him breaking as he lowered his head, his arms reaching to pull her against him.

She shifted, perching in his lap, and let him bury his face in her neck. Kyle let out a breath, but it felt more like a soft sob, and heat blossomed against her skin where his lips touched.

He let out a sound, crossing between a groan and grunt as he told her, “I love you, (Y/N).”

She hummed, wrapping her arms around his neck, her lips brushing his temple. “I love you too, Kyle.”

They stayed that way for a few minutes, simply holding the other. Providing the anchors needed to keep their spirits alive. Eventually, (Y/N) pulled back and dragged his face away from her neck, huffing a laugh when he whined lowly from the loss of contact.

She reached up and wiped his face. “You look like a kid who was told no to ice-cream before dinner.”

Kyle let out a chuckle, moving her hands away and rubbing at his face vigorously. She climbed out of his lap and sat beside him once more, and he looked over at her wondering, “How do you manage to stay so positive outside the mask? To be the same person in costume and out?”

(Y/N) went silent, thinking for a moment, then she said, “A few years ago, I asked my dad the same thing, and he told me, ‘It doesn't matter who we are underneath the costume or out in the real world...it’s what we do in or out that defines us. If the person you claim to be isn’t the same person inside and outside of uniform, you don’t need to be wearing it.’” She glanced back over at him, nudging him in the ribs. “Don't worry about it though, you’re still a dork inside and out of G.L.”

Kyle let out an amused scoff, placing a hand against his chest. “I can't believe you would insult your boyfriend like that. A dork? I’m hurt.”

(Y/N) rolled her eyes, looking back at the city. “Kyle, you doodle in the middle of J.L. meetings, and it’s usually caricatures of my dad strangling Hal, the Joker, Jason, or Dick…typically it depends on what’s going on during the meetings and who’s been a pain in his ass for it.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but shut it, then raised a pointer finger at her. “Alright, you have me there.”

(Y/N) looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. “Of course I have you there, Dork Lantern...” She gave him a grin, wiggling her eyebrows and quipped, “I sit and doodle with you.” The two of them laughed, and she rested her head on his shoulder, letting out a sigh. “I could stay with you here forever.”

Kyle nodded, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Me too.”

A moment of silence passed them, and as they were enjoying it, a voice called out, “Oi! Kyle! Queenie! Are you guys up there!”

She let out a groan, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “So help me God, I can’t enjoy anything without dumb and dumber sticking their noses into it.”

Kyle looked over at her, his eyebrows furrowing as he pointed out, “But there’s only one?”

(Y/N) raised a hand in a ‘wait’ motion, then she waved it and, “Of course they’re up there Little-wing. The roof is where all the teens go to make out.”

Her eye twitched, and she leaned over the ledge, shouting, “The only person who’s made out on the roof is you, Dick. And it was with Kori after you guys broke up...AGAIN.”

A scoff sounded below followed by, “Hit me where it hurts why don't you!” She rolled her eyes, huffing, then he asked, “Is Kyle up there with you?”

“And what’s it to you?”

“Just wanted to make sure you guys are acting appropriate.”

“Dick...I am older than you. Kyle and I are both older than you.”

“So?”

(Y/N) turned to Kyle and mouthed, ‘Wanna get out of here?’ He flashed her a grin, then a strike of green blinded her, and he stood before her in his Green Lantern suit. He held out his hand. A beam of green light surrounded them, and a moment later, (Y/N) felt herself drop into a seat. She looked around, a grin appearing on her lips as she ran her hand along the dash of the constructed car.

“Kyle, are you trying to woo me with my love of nice cars?”

He matched her grin, laying his unoccupied arm across the seats. “I don't know...is it working?”

She nodded, sliding over into his side. “Yes. It is.” He chuckled, and they started moving, leaving her two brothers yelling for them.

“Kyle! Are you letting (Y/N) ride in the Green Machine?! You never let me do that!”

“(Y/N)’s my girlfriend, Jason!”

“I’M YOUR FUCKING BEST FRIEND! WHAT EVEN!”

She leaned across Kyle, glaring at Dick and Jason. “Go do something productive with your time, losers.”

“I am hurt, Jellybean! I thought you loved me!”

“Only when I can get something out of it!” (Y/N) glanced at Kyle and grinned. “Hit the gas G.L. Don't let ‘em catch the taillights.” He smirked, and they waved as they left Wayne Manor behind them.

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odos-bucket · 3 years

Text

Bruce Being Super Protective of His Kids in Their Out-Of-Costume Lives Pt. 2 Re-Write

Basically this story with a little bit of extra angst injected in

Jason isn’t particularly well adapted to the kinds of social gatherings that Bruce’s position within the city demands they participate in. He attends his first event a few months into his stay at Wayne manor. He goes in fully expecting it to be terrible, and is not disappointed.

The old ladies trying to pinch his cheeks were something that Dick had warned him about. His tone had been light, like maybe it was something that he thought was funny, or was trying to think of as funny. But Jason doesn’t like to be touched, not by people he doesn’t know. He's only just starting to feel okay about casual physical affection from his new family. He doesn’t think Dick was trying to scare him exactly, but he accomplishes it anyway.

From the time the shindig begins he’s wound so tight he’s practically vibrating. He has no idea how he’s supposed to act at something like this. Things he’s never thought about before are suddenly tormenting him. He can’t figure out how to stand, or what he should be doing with his hands. He’s never been self conscious, but now he’s in this stupid room, wearing this stupid suit, surrounded by these stupid people, and it’s making him feel awkward.

The first time somebody tries to touch him he flinches away violently. He doesn’t mean to; it’s just what happens. It earns him a series of incredulous looks, from the man who had made the mistake of putting a hand on his shoulder, and a few other people in the vicinity.

Jason relocates himself quickly, not that one corner of the large room is really any better than any other.  The next time someone tries to touch him, it’s his face. He had already decided that he didn’t like the woman in question before it happened. Her voice is an annoying pitch. Her words are all condescending. And even before reaching out for him she had been standing way too close.

If the proximity hadn’t been enough to put him on high alert the patronizing way she spoke to him certainly would have done it.

When her fingers come to press against his chin- as if she wants to turn his head to examine him- he pushes her away. Again, he doesn’t mean to do it exactly. It’s an instinctive reaction (and a pretty reasonable one, he thinks).

This time, however, he gets more than a few suspicious stares. The movement itself had been subtle enough not to draw any attention he didn’t already have. But the woman replies with an outraged squawk, that suddenly brings dozens of eyes onto them, and sets Jason’s heart racing at a panicked pace.  He freezes. Being stared at had been pretty high on his list of things to avoid tonight. And now people are talking too.  “Why you little-“

“What happened?”

“Wayne’s little rat-“

“Did you just hit her?”

“Delinquent-“

“Did he just hit her?!”

The woman he shoved looks like she might be about to slap him, but he’s honestly less concerned about that than he is about the mix of curious and indignant bystanders drawing closer. They’re not surrounding him really, but it sure as hell feels like they’re trying to, and Jason’s had enough experiences being surrounded to know that it never leads to anything good. At the moment he’s having a hard time processing anything beyond the terrified impulse to lash out again, not to hurt anyone, just to get them away, so that maybe he can get away.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Oh god, Bruce. Jason’s not surprised the scene got his attention, but he’s a little startled to hear a much darker tone than his regular civilian voice.

Every muscle in his body that wasn't already tense tightens up, and heat flares at the back of his neck. He doesn't want to be in trouble. He doesn't even really know what being in trouble means in this new life yet, and he's been hoping to put off finding out as long as possible.

Bruce forces his way through the crowd. Some of the onlookers redirect their attention away as he approaches. A handful of voices from different directions make overlapping attempts to answer his question. Jason hears something about how he’s, “not as well behaved as your last stray,” but isn’t looking up in time to see how the comment makes Bruce bristle, and just feels the warm shame that he wishes it didn’t ignite in him.

Bruce reaches them in seconds, takes in the woman’s body language, and immediately drags her several feet back from Jason. When he speaks, he manages to sound like Batman (at least to Jason’s knowing ears), even without the voice modulator.

"You will never put your hands on my child again.”

Jason's not sure what he had been expecting Bruce to say, but that wasn't it, and hearing it gives him whiplash, makes his heart that had already been beating in his throat stutter to a halt.

“I didn-“ the woman begins. “Your urchin-“

“Did you touch him?” Bruce's voice is deceptively calm.

“I was only-“

“Yes or no.”

“I didn’t hurt him,” she scoffs.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Jason wants to say that it doesn't matter, that it isn't a big deal, because really it shouldn't be. He shouldn't be afraid to be touched; it's just one more thing about him that so glaringly doesn't belong. But he's still not sure whether or not he's in trouble, and if he is then he's learned from experience that it's better to keep his mouth shut.

“Mr. Wayne, the kid attacked her. All she did was touch him.” One of the few onlookers who isn’t pretending not to be paying attention pipes in.  Bruce’s jaw grinds, as he looks slowly between the man who had spoken, and the woman.

“So you did touch him?”

“This is ridiculous!”

It's somehow the worst thing she could have possibly said. Jason already knows he's ridiculous. He can feel it with every fiber of his being, and the confirmation that everyone else can apparently see it too sparks a stinging sensation at the back of his throat.

“On that we’re agreed.” Bruce slips further into his regular public persona as he speaks, and Jason flinches slightly at his words.

Bruce looks over the remains of the audience they’d acquired, making pointed eye contact, silently subduing any conflict before it can arise. By the time he turns back to where the woman had been standing, she’s hurried away. The sparse handful of people still shooting them scandalized glares are at least a little easier to ignore.

Bruce approaches Jason, who forces himself to keep his eyes open and his gaze up.

He's getting ready to apologize. He hadn't wanted to embarrass Bruce, or to get him in trouble with whoever the hell those people had been- with his luck probably someone important. He doesn't want to be in trouble either, but he recognizes that that ship has probably sailed already. He just wishes he knew what kind of punishment to expect; he hasn't been here that long, and adult behavior is hard to predict.

“Are you okay?”

Jason blinks, and apparently it takes him longer than he thinks to process and respond to the question, because Bruce asks it again.

This time he nods, figuring it’d be pretty stupid for him not to be okay.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Bruce asks.

Jason knows that it's not really a question; he's already done enough damage for the night after all. He nods his head. He’s not totally sure how to get back to the manor from here- he still doesn’t know this part of town very well- but he’s sure he’ll be able to figure it out before Bruce wraps up here.

“Let’s get our coats.”

Jason looks up in surprise, but Bruce is already walking away.

Right. He guesses it makes more sense that they’d be leaving together. He's noticed that rich families like to keep any shows of conflict private. One of the consequences of which being that he still doesn’t know how the hell these people discipline their children.

He nods again, cheeks still burning with embarrassment.

They leave the party without further incident, catching a cab back to the manor.

Bruce observes Jason’s defensive body language as they slide into the backseat.

“Are you sure you’re okay, lad?” He asks slowly.

He receives a tight nod in reply, and sighs.

“Do you want to help me get a better picture of what happened in there?”

Because what he’s looking at isn’t okay. He’s seen his witty, outgoing child shut down like this before, and it usually means he’s scared. Bruce needs to know if he was spooked by something innocuous, or if he’s going to need to hurt someone.

Jason turns from being seemingly caught off guard by the question, to apparently desperate to answer it in the span of a second.

“I swear I didn’t hit her! It was just that she-“ He shakes his head, apparently deciding against whatever he’d been about to say. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what? You’re not in trouble, Jason, not unless I’m really missing something here.”

That earns him a long suspicious look.

“I don’t like to be touched,” Jason grumbles after a minute.

“And people shouldn’t feel entitled to touch you.”

He learned pretty quickly when he first became a parent not to assume that adults would always respect children’s boundaries. And he knows that Jason has been hurt. He’s not sure exactly how, or by who, but the signs are all there. And he shouldn’t have to deal with being forcibly reminded of that by the carelessness of others; he’s a kid for god’s sake!

“Is that all-“ He stops himself from finishing the question. “People shouldn’t feel entitled to touch you,” he reiterates. “Can you tell me if anything else happened? If anyone hurt you, or threatened you?”

Jason starts to shake his head, but stops with his neck angled slightly toward Bruce.

“I thought she was gonna hit me,” he admits.

Bruce’s body tenses up. He had noticed that himself when he’d first entered the scene, and what he had read in her body language had made him see red.

“And then there were so many other people,” Jason continues. “And they were talking, and staring at me. It had me feeling kind of boxed in.”

“I’m so sorry, son.”

Jason looks a little startled up at him.

“Just to be clear,” he says slowly. “I’m not in trouble?”

“You’re not in trouble,” Bruce confirms. “I promise I will always do whatever I can to protect you from people like that.”

#batfamily #batfam #bruce wayne #jason todd #batdad #batman and robin #dc #my writing #dcu #batman #*John Mulaney voice* ''that's the same story twice''#i know #shh

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kaijurakunsobs · 3 years

Text

Seeds

remember guys! you can ask me to tag them on future updates

Summary: The idea of a soulmate is well known, they will come to you one day, either as a lover or a friend. A single bond made of invisible thread is what will let you feel their emotions, joys and worries, to experience their pain and for them to feel yours.

But beware, for not all blessed unions are meant to be, if you were to hate and push them away, a slow death shall consume them and a garden will bloom within their chest, the flowers will fight and push to feel the sun from the outside, a poetic dead of a broken lover. A beautiful dead for your hollow existence.

You know that your mother was never a good person, or so you have been told.

Miranda meet her when she came from the city to the village, four months pregnant and with the false story of being “sick”, her sickness? She decided to cheat on her rich husband and she wanted to have you away from prying eyes and possibly abandon you here. Your birth giver was upfront about how "Having a bastard could ruin my lifestyle!", Mother Miranda smiled sweetly and had Alcina give your mother refugee and help during the birth, the Lady agreed and housed the woman.

On the night of your birth, Alcina held you in her arms, begging Miranda to let her keep you, but she denied. You were hers and hers alone.

As for your mother? Only Miranda knows what happened to her, but you suspect, that her body is buried somewhere in the forest, alone and forgotten, you couldn’t care any less.

Miranda was the one to raise you, to love you, the one who would be there when you were sick, to kiss your tears away when nightmares woke you up. She was the one to break your body apart and scream in our face how much of a failure you were, just like Alcina or Donna or those pesky lycans running amok outside, but within your failure, she saw minimal success, you were quick to learn how to care for her experiments, which were the signs of cadou rejection and how to treat it, at least, you could be useful until she placed you in the mansion the villagers were building for you.

You have seen so many people been brought to the lab, so many lives being taken for a selfish reason, that you grew numb, there was no anger or pain, you felt no grief when the test subjects saw you and begged for help, you did nothing for there was nothing inside you.

You are surprised when Miranda begins to show interest in a kid, you know he was brought here years ago and somehow had managed to survive the horrors your mother put him through. Interest grew into an obsession and then into pride, hope, you will forever remember how hard Miranda screamed when her golden child came out a failure too, cursing at the skies and asking why? He had been so close to being her perfect little boy and he turned out to be yet another fuck up.

But she doesn’t throw him away, her favoritism shows when she moved him from the medical area into a room in her private chambers, never allowing you to go close to him, slapping you and kicking up a storm whenever she saw you too close to his door, even if you were passing by. But you never resent him, you can’t hate him or her, all you can do is nod and go away.

But curiosity is something hard to get rid of, and so you waited for days almost a month until Mother left to meet up with Alcina, using the moment to sneak into his room. A beautiful room, compared to yours, he had a big bed with a canopy, the thick curtains prevent you from seeing him, it feels like a fairy tale when you part the curtain to peer inside.

Truly like a fairy tale...a beautiful boy lays there, his golden hair is going gray, probably out of stress. He has a couple of scars on his face and some new ones on his arms. You feel like reaching inside and kiss him to break the spell, but it feels...wrong, like if you could tarnish him even further by touching him, like if your mother would appear and toss you aside for laying one of your dirty hands on his skin. No matter how bad you wish to be his Knight and save him, the terror you feel over defying Mother Miranda’s orders makes you stay still.

And then, it happened.

It began as an agonizing stab in your chest, it made you trip backwards painfully slamming your head against the wall, gasping for air when the pain as a needle began to pierce through you slowly making its way to your heart, a pitiful sob left your mouth, rendering you useless while your body overcomes the initial discomfort. It takes all of your willpower to get straight and look up at the ceiling through your tears, the light it's blinding and it leaves you dizzy, almost ready to empty your stomach.

Karl Heisenberg, age eleven, lays on his luxurious-looking bed, his entire body shakes painfully, breaking through his mouth, and the fever that's racking his body is the only thing keeping him from noticing that, his soulmate is standing a couple of steps away from his bed.

But how do you even know this?

Because Miranda told you about the concept of someone blindingly loving you for all eternity, who would be your other half and the missing piece to your broken existence, Dimitrescu once said that those stories were silly little fantasies, that love should be won over and one should prove to be the right person for someone else and not just have it “hand it over”.

You used to dream of the day you would feel the connection between yourself and another person, of being able to experience their joy when their eyes fell on you. But this is far from what you wanted, what you always wished for! All you can feel is pain, radiating from so many places in your body, rendering you useless, overwhelmed with anger, grief, sorrow for “yourself”.

Everything quickly piles up, so consumed by what Karl is feeling that you don’t hear the tray that falls and the porcelain plates that shatter, you vaguely register the sting of Miranda slapping you and the distant sound of her screams.

She drags you out of the room and into the cold world outside her home, across the heartless forest and you wonder...if you might end up like your mother, buried under some tree to be forgotten. But Miranda keeps walking until she throws you at the feet of Lady Dimitrescu, speaking to the tall woman and leaving you under her care, forever.

When you were younger, you used to fear the Lady. She was imposing and so strong, a self-made matriarch, but she's so careful when helping you up and guiding you through her beautiful home, her hands are so kind when she helps you to undress and sit in the tub filled with warm water, racking her fingers through your messy hair...so this is what a mother truly is like?

She only leaves you alone when she goes to fetch anything you could wear, looking displeased when she hands you a maid's uniform "We must send for the seamstress, I cannot have you wearing those shabby clothes" that, for some reason gets you to smile.

Later, her movements are soft as she runs a brush through your hair, the fire makes the wood crack and explode, filling the room with a nice warmth, something you never lacked off but that never truly permeated your body.

"Y/N, care to explain why mother Miranda was so angry, earlier?" you hear the concern in her voice, a bit of worry hidden in a stern tone.

Alcina can see you shrink a bit, as if ashamed of what you had done “I saw the kid mother keeps in her chambers” it comes out like a whisper, scared of Miranda appearing at that moment to slap you again “I think he’s my soul mate, Alcina!”

Lady Dimitrescu chuckles lightly and smiles when you turn around to look at her ”Your soul mate, some dirty man-thing? Oh my sweet girl I hope it isn’t real and you were just revolted by the sight of a man!”

“But I felt his pain and his emotions...it was scary, but maybe he will love me!”

“Just because you can feel what he feels, doesn’t mean everything will be alright. That’s why those romances are so volatile, darling! There’s no real reason for them to work beyond being stubborn and tell yourself that it will work out” the lady is classy and gracious in her movements as she poured herself another glass of wine “That the other person at the end of your bond will fall to their knees the moment they see you, but in reality, they might resent your sole existence and end up killing you!”

“Killing me?” that comes as a surprise, you have never heard of this.

“Yes...a cruel and unjust dead” Alcina brings you to her lap letting one of her hands spread over your small chest with a sorrowful look on her face “Your lungs will get infested with flowers, a bouquet of throe will bloom within your body, each day the garden will grow and fight to see the sun beyond your mouth and it will rob you of all air and kill you in no time”

She sees you wonder about it, a million questions that you wish to ask, everything falling apart when her curious daughters come into the room, moved by the rumors some maids had shared about their mother adopting another child. All too eager to know their new sister.

After that day, the topic is never brought up.

You grow and learn everything under Alcina’s guidance, the woman is hellbent on making a lady out of you. She teaches you how to read and write, about math and how to sing, applauding when you show her the gift the cadou in your stomach gave you, Midas' touch.

Her daughters and your self-appointed sisters, all laugh and joke around you, treat you like if you were another human when you are no different from their mother, another failed creation, a remainder that Miranda was cursed to not have what she wants. But the love of your little family drowns those thoughts, leaving the happiness of your existence in a nice home and the ever-presence of pain and resentment in the back of your head.

As you grow you notice, each cut and wound that leaves a scar on your skin turns to gold when made by you, but looks as pale lines when made by Heisenberg. You can’t help but laugh when the idea of being a piece of pottery repaired via kintsugi pops in your head, and for a moment you ask yourself if Heisenberg also has golden scars to match yours?

You cry the day when you finally leave the castle, trying hard to convey your love for your mother and sisters with hugs and kisses, in low whispers, promises of coming over as much as you can. The Lady kisses your forehead and sends you off with some final words of advice.

"Never lower your head and always do your best, remember you have us and we would never let you fall"

You are eighteen when you become the miracle worker of the village, crafting medicines with alchemy, signing at the church when the congregation asks you to, turning anything into gold with your touch, smiling with grace, and claiming to have been blessed with a precious gift by Mother Miranda to help the poor and keep the village off absolute agony. In the end, everything tastes like vile and ash, the forced smiles and the sweet tone of your voice make you gang behind the long veil that covers your face.

The days when you sing at the church, are the only ones when you can feel all his hatred directed at you, each painful stab making your eyes tear, yet you keep on making the people happy with hymns crafted before you were even born. If you could let him feel how similar your anger for Miranda is, perhaps the pain in your chest would dissipate, but you can't because you are hollow.

Among the villagers you are Lady Y/N L/N, the golden touch child, you are adored and blindly loved, Miranda smiles radiantly whenever she hears nothing but good words from her cattle, how much they dote on you, ready to serve without a thought, the eagerness to work under you. You may have been a failed vessel but you are a success as a flycatcher, bringing the sheep down to the slaughterhouse to be sent to the other Lords.

On meeting day, the pain and emotions that you feel seem to amplify the closer you are to Heisenberg.

As you sit beside your adoptive mother, your smaller hand in hers, while Mother Miranda speaks and praises each one of her children, lingering a bit too much on her golden child. The pressure in your chest grows, it feels like when you submerge in the tub as if your lungs were being crushed under an invisible force, ready to cough and gasp for air.

Across from you, he sits, posture closed and annoyed beyond belief when Miranda asks him to stay a bit longer after the meeting is done, you feel relief when Lady Dimitrescu gets up, opting to ignore Heisenberg in favor of bringing you back to the castle for your scheduled visit.

You two aren't even halfway through your journey back when you notice you are missing something, a small gift for today's reunion, a bag of fine jasmine tea.

"Mother, I need to get back. It seems I misplaced something, you go ahead!"

There's no time for Alcina to respond before you volt back to the church, the soft lace of your veil beautifully flying behind your hurried steps, slowly dropping your speed the closer you get to the entrance of the building, from it you can see Miranda, she as shed her mask off and is touching Heisenberg's face the way you have seen brides or wives touch their husbands' faces.

A pulse of repugnance and despise make you stumble back, pressing your back against the outer wall, it feels like the first time you met him, it's blinding and leaves you disoriented for a second, a hand flies up to your mouth when a wave of nausea hits you. He's not only pissed, he feels filthy and is suppressing a murderous intent behind a mask of indifference.

The sensation grows and grows until it's crushing you. One look up and you see him standing before you, a hand caging you between him and pillar.

"What are you doing here, freak? The tall bitch sent you to spy on me? tell her to fuck off" this isn't the first time you hear his voice, but it feels like it, even if his words are filled with malice, they taste like bitter wine for you.

"NO!...I mean...no, Lord Heisenberg. I came back because I lost something, a small bag"

"So you are afraid the dog stole from you, are you calling me a thief?" your mouth opens to explain to him once more, but the burly man only growls and steps away "Think whatever you want, I can't care any less for whatever the scum thinks of me"

Later, in the solitude of your home, you will call yourself an idiot, asking yourself why you reached for his empty hand when he turned around ready to leave, why you didn't revealed who you were, why you didn't cried when the man slammed your body against the wall.

"DON'T YOU DARE TO TOUCH ME, BITCH!" Heisenberg's tobacco infused breath hits your face, the painful stab of hatred felt like if your body were being torn apart "I CAN'T STAND PEOPLE LIKE YOU, YOU MAKE SICK!"

This time, when he turns around to leave, you don't reach out, you stay there, gasping for hair and coughing like if you were drowning, a slick sensation in your throat makes you gag and cough harder than before, both of your hands are cupped over your mouth, scared at the idea of throwing up.

Thank God you don't.

The moment passes and your body calms down, but your eyes grow wide when you see what made you gag.

A single yellow carnation petal covered in spit rests between your hands.

-----

Yelow Carnation: rejection and disdain

tag list: @happygalaxymilkshake @mightybeeb @kittyb2000

#re8 #resident evil village #resident evil 8 #resident evil #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader

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invisibleanonymousmonsters · 3 years

Text

no grave can hold my body down – 1/2

Character: Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

Summary: It took time to get Jason Todd away from the darkness. Sometimes it felt like he was always standing at a tipping point, at risk of completely losing himself. But not when he was with her. She made him better and she would continue to make him better.

Word Count: 5,500

A/N: I am very new to this fandom and extremely nervous to write something for it. To clarify, I have not read any of the comics. But I’ve watched a lot of the TV and movie adaptations, and have done a lot of research. Jason is much older in this – like 30? – and therefore the rest of the BatFam is older, as well. But this takes place after Jason Todd is resurrected, but is still on rocky territory with his family.

Jason dropped down to the fire escape of his apartment with a quietness that seemed impossible for how large he was.

On the other side of the small fire escape, Y/N sat with a blanket over her lap, a book in her hand, and a mug of coffee balanced perfectly on the metal grates.

“Thought I told you not to wait up for me,” Jason greeted, knowing she noticed his arrival, but just kept reading her book. His book, to be precise.

It was almost 4AM and Jason had called it a night after taking out an entire drug cartel. It had been a lot of waiting, until it finally led up to 20 minutes of utter chaos. He left them on a silver platter for the police to arrest them and actually clean up the mess.

Y/N finally looked up at him and he saw how tired her eyes seemed. But she gave him a soft smile, clearly happy to see him home and...alive.

A pang of guilt went through him. He did that to her.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she told him with a shrug.

Jason slowly nodded. Then he nudged his head towards the book, “Jane Eyre again?”

She smirked. “It’s a comfort read.”

He smiled back at her – which she couldn’t even see, because he was still wearing the red helmet that covered his entire head.

“You shouldn’t stay out here so long. It’s too cold.”

“I was waiting for you,” she countered.

“I thought you couldn’t sleep.”

“I couldn’t…because I was worried about you,” she finally admitted.

There it was.

“You have a voicemail on your cellphone. Alfred called,” she quickly added to change the subject.

Jason left his personal cellphone at home when he was on patrol, not wanting any sort of pointless distractions. Y/N had a direct line to his comms if there was an emergency, which was the only thing he cared about. His old family could figure out ways to contact him if they really wanted to. But he didn’t go out of his way to give them that info.

“Get inside before you catch a cold,” he told her as he nodded toward the open window.

She chuckled at his attempt to sound stern. It was hard for her to take it seriously. But she listened to him anyway, knowing that if she tried to ignore him, it would end in him dragging her inside. And that was not a physical battle she ever had a chance at winning.

30 minutes later, Y/N was laying in bed and still reading her book as Jason tried to erase the night.

He always took long, scolding showers after patrol. Even if there was no blood to be washed away, there was always a need to cleanse himself of…something.

Y/N had asked him if he was hurt as she crawled through the window back inside their apartment.

“I’m fine,” he’d insisted.

But she knew “fine” just meant he didn’t need stitches, or bones reset, or the need to call the actual doctor he had a certain under-the-table deal with. She also knew she shouldn’t be surprised when he took off his clothes and she would see new bruises and shallow cuts covering his skin.

Jason finally crawled into bed with nothing but his black briefs. His hair still wet from the burning shower he just took.

He let out a sigh and stared up at the ceiling.

It was always a battle for Y/N, trying to figure out when to leave Jason to his thoughts and when to force him to talk. She knew he couldn’t drown himself in his own mind. But she also knew she couldn’t pretend to be his therapist.

“J?” She asked him softly as she put her book down.

“Hmm?” He asked, looking at her.

“You OK?”

He nodded.

She let it be.

Jason turned his gaze back to the ceiling. “Alfred has a foundation to raise money for under-funded schools in Gotham. It’s all him, but it has Bruce’s name all over it so all the rich assholes will want to save face with the Wayne family by donating.”

“I can support that type of manipulation,” Y/N said with a smirk.

“He holds a gala at Wayne Manor for it every year. Gets them at least a mil every time.”

She listened closely.

Then Jason looked at her again. “He asked me to come this year.”

“Oh,” her face fell.

Jason had told Y/N about his tumultuous relationship with his family. While he mended most of the damage with his brothers, he wasn’t quite willing to do so with Bruce. Y/N didn’t try to push Jason to reconcile with his adoptive father. She understood his heartbreak and frustrations there. She wasn’t a huge fan of Bruce herself after learning the damage he’d done to her boyfriend.

But it was because of the past traumas that Y/N hadn’t met any of Jason’s hodgepodge, vigilante family.

She also guessed that it was his overprotectiveness of her that stopped him from wanting to fully submerge her in that part of his life. To Jason, the less she knew about the Bat Family, the safer she was.

“He asked me to bring you, too.” Jason suddenly added.

Y/N blinked. “I…I didn’t realize they knew about me.”

He smirked at that. “Of course they do.”

“Even Bruce?”

His smirk disappeared. “Well, I didn’t tell him. But he’s a nosey son of a bitch. And even if he didn’t figure it out for himself, one of my brothers probably ran their mouth.”

Y/N didn’t think Jason and Bruce had a conversation out of uniform since he became the Red Hood. Probably hadn’t even addressed each other by their actual names in years.

Y/N fully turned on her side to face her boyfriend and scooted closer. “What do you want to do?” She asked carefully.

Jason sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Then he too turned on his side and stole a look at her. She looked so tired, but still beautiful. He knew he put her through too much. He didn’t deserve her. And she deserved a better man than he could ever be. He had guilt on his conscience, blood on his hands. He was the poster child for the harshness that was Gotham. She was a normal woman who would’ve never gotten mixed up in this world if it weren’t for him.

But Y/N insisted that she wanted to be here. Told him so by just staying each and every day, and never questioning her decision. Even left New York City to slum it in Gotham with him.

Jason brushed some hair away from her face.

“You’d come with me?”

Her face scrunched from him even feeling the need to ask. “Of course.” Then she gave him a sad look, “I’ve been wanting to meet your family for awhile.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He asked.

Her eyes darkened. “You know why, J.”

He stayed silent.

“Listen, I know things haven’t been…good with your family. But I also know that they raised you. Whether you want to admit it or not, a lot of the man you are today is because of them. And I happen to love that man. So, yeah, I’ve wanted to meet them.”

Jason had a look full of love that he was trying to contain. “Come here,” he demanded with a grin.

Y/N giggled and moved into his arms.

Jason immediately pivoted her body so she was hovering over him. Without any hesitation, he pulled her down for a kiss.

“It’s gonna be filled with rich snobs and ass kissers. Don’t go hoping for a fun time,” he warned her as he narrowed his gaze playfully.

“Then you’re really gonna need me there. Who else is gonna make fun of them with you?” She teased.

Then a thought suddenly occurred to her. “Will this be a fancy affair?”

“Unfortunately.”

Her gaze darkened. “So, I’m gonna see you in a suit, huh?”

Jason pinched her sides.

Y/N yelped before laughing, “Do you even own a suit? I’ve never seen it in your closet.”

Suddenly he flipped her body so he was now the one hovering over her. Y/N couldn’t ignore Jason’s massive size when she was caged below him like that. “You’re on thin ice, kid.”

“Oooh. I’m so scared,” she mocked.

Jason almost looked offended.

But he sighed, getting back to the previous subject. “If I have to wear a suit, that means you have to wear a dress.”

“Or I could wear a suit, too.” She countered and raised a brow at him.

He smirked at her challenge. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you in one either.”

That seemed to please her.

“I promise I’ll look real pretty. Ya know, really play the part of the arm candy for the famous Jason Todd.”

Jason scoffed. “You’re always beautiful.” Then his gaze darkened. “And the arm candy was always Bruce and Dick’s thing. Not mine.”

“OK. So what should I be?”

“My accomplice,” Jason confirmed.

——————————————————

Y/N fidgeted in the back seat of the car as the black car drove to the outskirts of Gotham and to the Wayne Estate.

Jason had sent her a text from his patrol comms about something coming up. Vague, as always. He did it to keep her in the dark as much as possible.

Apparently he’d tried to tell Alfred they couldn’t make it. But the old man wouldn’t let him off the hook that easily. He told Jason he’d send a car for Y/N and that he better show up too.

Y/N had worn her fanciest dress, curled her hair, and done her makeup to perfection. She knew she could dress the part, but it was the acting bit that had her stressed out.

Despite Jason’s relationship with his family, she still dreaded the thought that they wouldn’t like her and that they wouldn’t approve. Yeah, they were secretly vigilantes, but they were also the richest people in Gotham.

Y/N swallowed as the car parked right outside the front entrance of Wayne Manor. There seemed to already be hundreds of people there. Everyone looked rich and fancier than Y/N could ever even pretend to be.

‘You’re here for Jason. You’re here for Jason.’ She repeated in her mind as the driver opened the door for her and offered his hand.

Y/N told herself to become a character as she held her head high and made her way into the mansion.

“Mansion” didn’t even seem to cover it. Y/N felt like she was in a Jane Austen novel or Downton Abbey.

Guests eyed her as soon as she made her way inside. She was much younger than the general demographic of the party. It seemed that old money also meant literally old.

She did a once over to see if she could find Jason. But he was nowhere to be found. Y/N decided she needed a drink to face a gala full of unwelcoming strangers alone.

She ignored the curious and judgmental gazes as she made her way to one of the many bars set up through the home.

‘Maybe red was too much,’ her imposter syndrome was telling her. Clearly it was making her stick out. But she knew Jason loved seeing her in red.

Y/N quickly ordered a strong drink from the bartender, who was kind enough to sense that this young woman needed liquid courage and she needed it fast.

“Are you sure you meant to use that bottle?” A male voice came up beside her, speaking to the bartender on her behalf.

Y/N turned to see a very boyishly handsome man with blue eyes and brown hair so dark that it was almost black.

He gave that bartender a look and Y/N watched as he nervously grabbed the much more expensive brand – the one Y/N would never in her life buy for herself.

“Thank you,” Y/N said as politely as possible when the bartender slid the drink towards her.

Then she turned her attention to the young man. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He gave her a crooked smirk. “You deserve the very best.”

Y/N might not have ever met Jason’s brothers. But they were famous enough to make frequent appearances in the media. Everyone in Gotham knew what the Wayne kids looked like. Especially Dick Grayson, who seemed to thrive in the spotlight in a similar manner to his father.

“Oh? And how do you know what I deserve? You don’t know me at all,” Y/N challenged with a tilt of her head.

Her sass seemed to excite him.

“Well, I was hoping, since I saved you from the cheap stuff, that you’d give me a chance to.”

Y/N shook her head with an almost baffled smile. This faux charm and air of confidence was so unlike Jason’s. While Jason was quietly confident and sure of himself. It came almost from a place of nihilism. But Dick…Dick had an edge of haughtiness and self importance.

“Your reputation precedes you, Dick Grayson,” Y/N cooed, with mischievous glint in her gaze, before taking a sip of her drink. He was right: this was the good stuff.

Dick’s amusement seemed to falter now that she confessed to knowing exactly who he was. “And what reputation is that exactly?”

“Cocky, charming…flirtatious.”

Dick didn’t seem to mind these adjectives at all. In fact, he seemed rather proud of himself. He stepped a little closer to her. “It feels a little unfair that you seem to know me, but I haven’t even gotten your name.”

Y/N tried to suppress her smile. She was really starting to enjoy this little game. “You’ll realize soon enough.”

“Well, until then…” He stepped even closer and somehow managed to put his hand on her back without it feeling creepy. “Would you like to dance?”

“Move that hand any lower, Dick, and I’ll fuckin’ break it,” Jason said from behind Y/N.

Dick barely moved away from Y/N, but looked at his brother with confusion.

Y/N turned and maneuvered her body away from Dick’s grasp.

Then she smiled at Jason as she took in the sight of her boyfriend wearing a suit. Like, a real suit, not one made for a vigilante. He managed to tame his hair without using too much product. And his face had its signature scruff but cleaned up a bit.

“How long has this one been annoying you?” Jason asked her.

“Not long,” she replied before giving him a sweet kiss.

Y/N turned to face Dick again, but remained close to Jason’s side. On instinct alone, Jason placed his hand on her back and pulled her even closer. It wasn’t possessive, but a habit he formed to comfort himself.

Dick blinked as his mind clearly figured out the change in situation.

“You’re Y/N?” He asked her.

She smirked. “Told you that you’d realize it soon enough.”

“Dick, this is my girlfriend, Y/N. Y/N, this is, Dick Grayson.”

Y/N didn’t miss how Jason didn’t refer to Dick as his brother.

To his credit, Dick recovered rather quickly and politely offered his hand. Y/N didn’t hesitate to shake it. After all, she still wanted to make a good impression on his family. And the flirting was harmless.

“I apologize for…” Dick’s words died out.

“Hitting on me?” Y/N offered with a laugh. “I would say I’m flattered, but I’m sure I’m one of many women you will be making moves on tonight.”

“Do it again, and I’ll swap out the rubber bullets in my guns, Dick.” Jason half warned and half joked.

Dick seemed unfazed by the threat. “Why don’t you say it a little louder so more people can hear?”

Jason ignored his brother’s warning.

He turned his gaze down to Y/N. “Let’s go introduce you to Alfred.”

Jason held her hand as he made his way through the crowd. It wasn’t hard to do. Y/N assumed it had to do with him technically being a Wayne or perhaps it was his large and imposing frame that told people to get the hell out of his way.

Then Y/N was standing in front of an elderly man who had perfect posture and mischievous edge to his welcoming smile.

“Master Jason, I see that you have finally brought Ms. Y/L/N for me to meet,” Alfred said with a smile.

Out of all his siblings and father, Alfred seemed to be the only family member that Jason didn’t hold any sort of grudge against. Though Y/N wasn’t really sure what anyone would have against him. From everything she heard, he sounded absolutely lovely.

He held out his hand, which Y/N instantly went to shake. But instead, Alfred brought her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her knuckles. There was something about this family that made everything they do seem charming rather than creepy and uncomfortable.

Y/N laughed at the gesture. “It’s so nice to meet you, Alfred. I’ve heard so much about you.”

He patted her hand before letting it go gently. “I wish I could say the same for you, dear. But it would appear Master Jason prefers to keep you entirely to himself.”

She just gave him a polite – yet controlled – smile. Another side effect of Jason being overprotective of her.

“Thank you for sending the car for me. You didn’t have to do that,” she told him.

“Oh, nonsense. I would not allow this one to use any excuse for missing tonight.”

Y/N asked him about his foundation with genuine interest. Alfred answered all of her questions with enthusiasm. She wondered how often Alfred got to talk about normal things with the Wayne family. She could only imagine the manor was entirely consumed with matters of vigilantism.

Alfred also asked Y/N far more questions about herself than she was prepared for. It made her realize that Jason really did keep her quite the secret. Y/N knew she shouldn’t be offended by it, but it made her sad that Jason’s family had clearly shown such an interest in her. Had she known, she may have put more pressure on Jason to introduce her.

There was a lull in conversation when Alfred’s gaze turned to Jason.

“Have you spoken with him yet?” He asked evenly.

They all know who ‘him’ was.

“I’m here for you, Alfred.” Jason quickly answered. “And we’ve kept you selfishly to ourselves for far too long. I’m sure everyone here wants to talk with you.”

Nice save.

Alfred dipped his head and lowered his voice, “Oh, you are two of the few people here whom I actually wish to converse with…” He finished with a wink before leaving them.

“And here I thought you got all your charm from Bruce Wayne,” Y/N teased her boyfriend.

But when she looked up at Jason, he had a dazed looked in his eyes.

“Hey,” she squeezed his hand in comfort. “You don’t need to talk to him if you don’t want to. In fact, we can go now if you want.”

Jason snapped out of it then. “And leave without destroying this open bar? Absolutely not.” Then he seemed to take her in for the first time that night. “Plus, you deserve to be shown off.”

He leaned down to her ear. “I was so distracted with saving you from Dick that I didn’t get the chance to tell you how beautiful you looked tonight.”

No matter how many times he said things like that to her or made her feel this way, she still managed to blush at such compliments.

And for good measure, Jason sealed the praise with a kiss, lightly gripping her chin to make sure she didn’t escape too soon for his liking.

He barely pulled away from her lips when he smiled and muttered, “Come on. Let’s go steal ourselves a bottle of Dom Pérignon.”

“Jason,” she scolded in a whisper, “Those cost like $2,000!”

“Exactly.”

The next hour or so was filled with Jason and Y/N drinking champagne while standing in a corner that protected them from being interrupted. And Y/N did exactly as she promised: joking with Jason about all the stuck up rich people that just came to kiss ass and social climb.

They were laughing about an old man that was desperately trying to hit on a young woman half his age when someone politely cleared their throat beside them.

But Jason smiled at the interruption.

A young man, who couldn’t be older than his early 20s, was giving Y/N a delighted smile. However, the first thing she noticed were the shadows under his eyes and how tired he looked. But that didn’t stop his excitement from showing.

“Y/N, this is my younger brother, Tim Drake. Tim, this is my girlfriend, Y/N.”

With a dorky enthusiasm, he shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Y/N. We’ve all been annoying Jason about bringing you around for quite some time.”

She smiled, “So I’ve heard…” Then she gave Jason a subtle accusatory look.

Tim’s face turned serious, as if he just remembered why he came over in the first place. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Jason would you mind…umm…looking at something for me real quick?”

Jason’s back straightened.

Tim was trying to be polite to the two’s relationship by keeping out any and all details pertaining to their night life.

But it was clear to Y/N that was what Tim was referring to.

Jason looked down at her.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” she teased him. “Go. I can entertain myself.”

He kissed her cheek and whispered, “If I’m not back in 30 minutes, please come rescue me.”

She chuckled. “I would, but I’m not sure I’m going to be able to find you...”

“I’ll bring him back in no time, Y/N. Promise.” Tim told her with a beaming smile.

Y/N watched them go and Jason gave her one last reluctant look over his shoulder before he disappeared around a corner.

Y/N sighed and poured another glass of champagne and told herself it was time to mingle. But when she looked up, there wasn’t a single person that looked like they had any interest in making new friends.

‘Some party this is,’ she thought to herself before abandoning her post and deciding to take herself on a tour of Wayne Manor.

Y/N decided she wanted to escape the curious and judgmental gazes of the party, and found herself in a darker hallway. Candles were lit everywhere, giving it a gothic semblance.

Y/N’s heartbeat quickened when she realized she’d discovered a hallway filled with artwork. Millions upon millions of dollars worth of artwork, to be precise.

She was glad no one else seemed to have wandered this far, for she could take her time to look at all of it.

“I think you might be the only guest of the manor who has ever taken the time to look at the artwork.”

Y/N jumped at the voice and turned to see the infamous Bruce Wayne watching her with what seemed to be amusement.

He was nearly as tall as Jason – nowhere near as stout, though. But that didn’t seem to matter because he had an intimidating presence that had Y/N realizing it made perfect sense that this man was also Batman.

She had no idea how long she’d been staring at the paintings. It was easy for her to get lost in art. It tended to consume her.

“Well, not everyone has a Caravaggio casually hanging in their home.”

Bruce chuckled at that.

“Sorry,” she quickly told him. “I didn’t mean to snoop. I feel like I’m at the Louvre.”

“Please,” he declined such an apology. “No one in that party could tell the difference between an oil and acrylic painting. It’s refreshing to meet someone who can appreciate art.” He paused. “Have you been?”

“Have I been where?”

“To the Louvre.”

“Oh,” she laughed. “Umm...no, sadly. It’s been my dream to go to Paris in general. I don’t speak French, though. So I don’t know how that would work out.”

Bruce Wayne seemed to be listening closely and had genuine interest in what she was saying. Which felt strange to her for some reason.

Suddenly, Y/N felt like she shouldn’t be talking to him. Jason made it clear he had no intention of making peace tonight. So Y/N figured she was meant to keep her distance as well.

“I’m…” she began.

“Y/F/N Y/L/N,” Bruce finished for her.

She raised a brow, unimpressed.

Of course Batman would know every single person coming into his home. He probably caught her lingering in this hallway from multiple hidden security cameras.

He reached out his hand. “Bruce Wayne.”

She hesitated, her eyes flickering between his fixed stare and his offered hand.

But it ended with her shaking it, nonetheless.

“Thank you for bringing Jason tonight. I have a feeling he would’ve never shown had it not been for you.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched in an attempt to stop herself from lashing out at Bruce.

Yes, Jason was protective of her. But Y/N was also protective of Jason.

It wasn’t the Wayne family that talked Jason out of the darkness. They weren’t the one who comforted him after his nightmares. They weren’t the one who kissed and touched the autopsy scars that he was ashamed of. They weren’t the one who made him realize he wasn’t a failure or a monster, that he was worth something.

That was Y/N.

And she wasn’t going to let any of them cause him to relapse.

“Did he tell you not to talk to me?” Bruce questioned.

He wasn’t one to beat around the bush.

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Jason doesn’t tell me what to do.”

Bruce smirked at how she didn’t back down and met his confrontation with confidence. “You’re not too fond of me, are you?”

Y/N shifted her weight a bit, but kept quiet, not wanting to confirm or deny his suspicions.

“I’m not sure what Jason told–”

“He told me everything,” Y/N cut him off sharply.

Bruce tilted his head. “Surely not everything.” Proving that he knew Jason completely kept Y/N away from his vigilante and crime life.

Then Y/N lost her composure and took a step toward Bruce. “You call him your greatest failure,” she accused him.

“Because I let him down.”

“But it doesn’t matter how you meant it. How do you think that makes him feel?”

Bruce’s body tensed and his jaw tightened.

Suddenly a dog came running out of nowhere and nearly tackled Y/N. She managed to stay on her feet, but her glass of champagne was knocked from her grasp and shattered on the floor.

“Titus!” Bruce growled at the dog.

A second later, a boy came running.

“Damian, what did I tell you about keeping pets away from parties,” Bruce scolded.

“I apologize,” Damian told Y/N in a voice that should’ve belonged to an adult, rather than a pre-teen boy. But he seemed rather annoyed that he had to apologize to a stranger.

Y/N chuckled at the black Great Dane. She barely had to bend down to pet the giant dog. “It’s fine. Dogs are always my favorite people I meet at parties.”

Damian looked between his father and Y/N, immediately getting the sense that she was not the average party guest.

“Who’s she?” He asked bluntly.

“Damian, this is Y/F/N Y/L/N.” Bruce gestured with an upturned palm.

“Todd’s companion?” Damian stated, clearly sounding unimpressed.

Jesus. They really did all know about her.

“Damian…” was all Bruce said to warn his son.

“I don’t know what you see in him.”

“That’s enough, Damian.” Bruce snapped.

That finally got the boy to shut his mouth.

Y/N was about to tell both of them that it was fine. She had expected such greetings from Jason’s youngest brother.

But her attention was diverted when she noticed Jason standing at the edge of the hallway.

Bruce followed her gaze.

There was a stare down between the two men that felt like an hour to Y/N.

“Jason,” Bruce greeted steadily.

Jason looked at his family coldly. “Bruce,” he replied with even less emotion. Then he looked down at his youngest brother, “Demon Spawn.”

“Todd,” Damian spat back.

Jason’s gaze softened when it landed on Y/N. Ignoring the tension, he reached out a hand in her direction. “We should say our goodbyes to Alfred.”

Y/N nodded and walked to her boyfriend, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze.

He quickly guided them back to the party without a second glance to Bruce and Damian.

As soon as they were in a mass of people again, Y/N turned to Jason to ask him if he was OK. A part of her felt guilty, like she’d been caught doing something bad by being alone with Bruce Wayne.

But Jason seemed to sense her concern and spoke before she could. “I’m stealing another bottle of champagne before we go,” and quickly went to the bar.

“He lasted longer than I expected,” Dick’s voice came up beside her.

Y/N barely glanced at him. “I’m proud of him,” was all she replied, as they both watched him.

“I apologize for my behavior earlier. I’m afraid I didn’t give you the best first impression.”

Y/N fully turned to face him and laughed lightly. “I promise I won’t hold it against you.”

“I’m sure you think we’re all just being polite…but all of us really were looking forward to meeting you, Y/N.”

“Even Damian?” She teased.

Dick laughed. “Well, rumor is that Titus took an immediate liking to you. And Damian trusts his pets’ judgement of character more than any of ours.”

News really did travel fast in this family.

Y/N smiled at that. “I’ve wanted to meet all of you for so long. I’m glad we finally made it happen.” She went back to their original topic.

Dick winced. “I’d rather not think about what Jason’s said about us…”

“I think you might be pleasantly surprised,” she countered.

“Ready to go?” Jason interrupted, ignoring Dick.

For good measure, he dipped down to kiss Y/N’s bare shoulder.

“Yeah, let’s go say bye to Alfred.”

But she turned back to Dick. And to everyone’s surprise, she wrapped him into a hug. Dick was surprised, but welcomed the gesture.

“Please keep an eye on him out there,” she whispered to him quietly enough so Jason didn’t have a chance of overhearing.

“Of course,” he told her.

————————

Bruce pretended to be listening to a conversation with old family friends as he watched Y/N and Jason hug Alfred goodbye.

He noticed Y/N say something to Alfred that made the butler’s face go serious. Then she handed him a business card.

Bruce wanted to talk with Jason. He’d been both dreading and looking forward to tonight, hoping a miracle would occur and he could finally mend things with his son.

But the way Jason had looked at him, Bruce knew everything he was feeling and it was clear Jason wasn’t going to let things go between them any time soon.

Bruce politely excused himself and went to Alfred’s side.

“What was that last bit about?” Bruce asked, indirectly telling Alfred that he’d been observing their conversation.

Now the two men both watched Jason and Y/N from a window that gave a view of the front drive.

Y/N threw her head back and laughed loudly at something Jason had whispered in her ear.

“She asked if I could teach her first aid.”

They both know it went much deeper than first aid. Y/N was asking Alfred to show her how to stitch wounds, how to extract bullets, when to know Jason was too hurt to be fixed up by his inexperienced girlfriend.

“She’s good for him,” Bruce thought aloud.

“That she is, Master Bruce.”

“I forgot what his laugh sounded like.” Bruce paused for a moment before adding, “I’ve never seen him smile like this. Not even before…” His words died. They both knew what ‘before’ was referring to.

Suddenly Y/N pointed to Jason as she walked backwards, clearly giving him a warning of some sort.

But Jason ignored her as he grabbed her by the waist and threw her over his shoulder. One of his hands was wrapped tightly around her thighs, securing her body to his chest, while the other hand held a bottle of champagne.

They could hear Y/N’s laughter, even from inside the mansion.

Alfred observed how Bruce watched his second son. “You must give him more time, Master Bruce.”

However, Bruce said nothing in return.

--------------------

Part 2

Please, please, please let me know what you think. I will take constructive criticism on my characterization of Jason Todd, as long as it’s done nicely😅

[Also, I finally stopped being lazy and made my own header. 😂]

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