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tommyspeakycap · 4 years ago

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Can you do a jealous John stones please 🥺🥺🖤

jealous stonesy coming right up! feel like john is the quick to get jealous type :) this gif does things to me

Black Tie Turbulence

John’s hand is both a constant and comforting presence on your lower back from the moment you both stepped out the car. He’s careful with his feet to not step on the bottom of your beautiful long dress that was matched in colour to that of his delicately placed pocket square.

“Aren’t you two a sight?”

John leads the turn so you can both face Kyle and Annie, also both dressed to the nines and offering each of you a glass of sparkling champagne. “The heels are already a killer,” you joke, making Annie giggle immediately. Heels were a must for almost all black ties, but more so when your boyfriend is an absolute giant.

It was a charity ball that a good few England and their players had been invited to, mostly in order to try and sweet talk the donors into giving more of their money than they originally would. You had gotten used to these events and liked to think you had actually gotten very good at sweetly chatting the vendors into emptying the metaphorical pockets. John wasn’t the world biggest fan of these events, but he knew they had to come hand in hand with the joy of doing what he loves each and every day. Plus, he gets to see you all dressed up. That’s good enough for him.

“I’m gonna go see if I can grab another drink.” You tell John, leaning up to press a chaste kiss into his jaw. He nods, eyes following you intently as you walk off with your heels clinking and dress swaying. “Earth to Stones.” Harry Kane waves, clicking his fingers to get the defenders attention. John shakes his head with a soft chuckle. “He’s fucking whipped, mate.” Kyle laughs heartily, eliciting similar laughter from Kane and his wife.

You stood up at the bar as the tuxedo glad bartender went off to collect your order for you when an older man appeared next to you. He too was looking to order a drink. “I hear the sambuca shots are exquisite this year.” You suggest with a teasing grin and a sparkle in your eyes, very successfully gathering the full attention of the silver fox who you had turned to face. He chuckles, eyes meeting yours as his tongue hits out to lick his lips. He was probably in his mid fifties, so you didn’t feel gross for a little bit of flirting to get some cash for a children’s charity.

“I’m just joking,” you note softly, “But the whiskey is fantastic.”

He nods, a smile overtaking his pink lips and stretching his face to fill a happy 60 years worth of laughter lines. He seemed truly sweet, not that you were at all interested. But he wasn’t sleezy, didn’t have a wedding ring in and looked a little younger than you knew he was. A little bit like Patrick Dempsey, actually. “A woman after my own heart.” He responds, flagging down the waiter for two whiskey’s.

As you got to talking, you learned he was a CEO. You had always been in awe of the kind of money that John had immediate access to in his bank account, what with you still paying off student loans and such until John took went behind your back and payed them off with an insistence that “his girl shouldn’t be worrying about anything ever.” But this man had even more money than that, you suspected. He just screamed out overpriced whiskey, fancy holidays, houses on every continent and boatloads of cars that you hadn’t even heard of. Yet, he seemed very sweet. You told him about some of the work you had gotten up to on a year abroad doing aid work during your second year of uni and he had been extremely curious about it, genuinely listening which shocked you significantly.

John would have said it was because the way that you spoke, completely captivatingly as you got lost in your own stories. You made people feel as though they were part of the adventure, drawing them in and leaving them hanging on every word. Most would claim that you were the only reason John still got invited to these black tie charity events because he certainly wasn’t so good at wooing older men out of their money.

“You’re definitely a whiskey lady, then.” You nod your head at the statement from the older man, a small laugh as you remove your hand from his arm that you had reached for when he made you ‘laugh’ with his last joke. “Mhm…well travelled, beautiful, very elegant and clearly incredibly loved.” You furrow your brows slightly his words, eyeing him carefully in search of their meaning. He leans in slightly, his eyes soft with a kind smile of his face. He nods his head behind you, “He’s been watching you since the moment I stepped up next to you.”

Your eyes land on John when you turn around, trying to look as though he wasn’t watching the interaction intently with those fiery blue eyes. You giggle to yourself with a soft sigh. “You made an old man feel incredibly young again,” he begins with genuine joy in his eyes. “You could change the world with that heart. It’s that reason and that reason only that I’ll be making such a hefty donation. None of this wining and dining, fancy ballroom party they’ve thrown. Passion,” he pauses, “Your kind of passion for better is what this is all about. But I reckon you best get back to the man who looks like he’s going to eat me alive.”

His words were touching and incredibly sweet, but the end was also true. You could hear your boyfriend’s footsteps approaching at a pace that might make you question his fifa rating from last year. You turn yourself back around to offer a thank you for the donation in your name, but all you see is that head of salt and pepper hair disappearing off into the crowd. John has suddenly remembered why he hates these things so much. You’re very clever at getting exactly what was needed from these men and you had no shame at all for flirting with them. If you had it, why not use it? You always said.

Despite knowing it meant nothing, it still sent John absolutely crazy and though you’d never admit it, that was one of the biggest reasons you did it. He used to bring you these things as his friend before you had started dating, which was very coincidentally where he burst and told you he loved you when you had asked what had irritated him so much afterwards.

His jealousy wasn’t something you exactly regarded as a demon, a little bit more of a treat.

Seeing him hot and bothered, angry flush to his cheeks with his jaw set firm and his muscles tense in irritation. It was beautifully hot.

“Flirting with older men again, eh?” He says sharply, his eyes burning a hole in you with the fire of their irritation. You shrug nonchalantly and take a sip of your drink. “Not a big deal,” you hum softly in response, watching carefully as anger flickers through his eyes. He turns his back to you with a scoff and a shake of his head, grumbling something under his breath.

“We’re going.” He states. You roll your eyes. “Oh don’t be like that, John.”

“Like what, eh?” He presses, still not turning to look at you.

“All angry and shit, it’s not a big dea-“

John isn’t having it. He whips around quickly, using his large body to press you back into the bar and takes the drink from your hand with ease when you still, enjoying a sip of it before he places it down on the bar, out of the way easily with those long arms. His hands come down to hold onto the dark mahogany surface of the bar top, trapping you with your back against it between his arms and your front against his chest. “Not a big deal?” He challenges, being careful to wedge his thigh in between your legs, he presses it up against you.

“It’s all for charity, John.”

Your face remains unchanged as you look into his eyes, darkened by lust with his pupils swallowing the blue of his iris.

“I don’t care,” he rumbles, his voice low, reverberating through your ear where he had loved his mouth to, his lips and hot breath tickling your neck with each word he speaks. You open your mouth to response, but John sees this and ceases the opportunity he has primed himself for so you can’t speak before he does. The words are lost on your tongue, dying before they ever have the chance to exist when he flexes the muscles of the thigh between your legs, tightening and pushing it up against you. He swallows your squeaky whimper with his mouth over yours.

“You’re mine.” He growls against your lips, continuing to make his presence between your legs known, very very known. He does pull back k slightly though, his darkened smirk flattering to a soft smile as he tilts his head to take in your rosy cheeks. “My sweet, kind girl.” He coos, lifting both his hands to cup your cheeks, thumbs smoothing over the soft surface. You giggle at his words, blush deepening. “Seriously though, love,” he hums, “Hate the action, love the cause.”

That prompts another giggle, your head falling to rest on his chest gently. His hands strokes over your hair softly as his lips press down on the top of your head.

“Not mad?” You query, listening in to the soft and slow thud of his heart against your cheek. John has moved you effortlessly to the ballroom dance floor from the bar with only a few backwards steps, letting you lean in against his chest again. “Little bit, of course.” He replies.

John has his arms wrapped tightly around your body to keep you flush against him in every way, swaying back and forth in time with the music.

To any onlookers, it would appear as normal, mundane and incredibly sweet to see the relatively young couple enjoying each other so close on one of his few nights off. Truly, it was adorable when you factored out the reason for the proximity John keeps to your body.

“John?” You lilt, your voice a daring misfire between sweet and sultry. “Mhm?” He rumbles in response, keeping his cheek rested on the top of your head. “Your hard-on is pressing into my stomach.” He chuckles to himself, your words too quiet for anyone else anywhere near to eavesdrop on but enough to flush his cheeks ever so slightly.

“And I would much rather it was in some far more pleasurable places.”

John does not need those words explained to him, nor does he waste even a moment leading you hastily off towards the exit of the ballroom, sure that he could find somewhere in this venue suitable enough to let everybody hear just who you belong to.

#john stones #john stones x reader #john stones imagine #john stones imagines #england national team #england national team imagine #footie fics #football fics #footballer fics

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lambden · 4 years ago

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Here’s some belated Geraskier fic that I finally get to post, as last week’s flash fic challenge has wrapped up! This was originally published anonymously; kudos to those of you who guessed that I was the author. Head to the collection to see the picture prompt that inspired this, as well as view the other works. I've been having a great time participating in fandom events like this; I promise there's more on the way!!! (Read on AO3)

Up To Date

prompt: "You were so hot that when you asked if I was the blind date you were looking for, I lied and said yes. But then your actual date comes up to introduce themselves and I'm so embarrassed."

G, 2.3K words, modern AU, Geralt/Jaskier

It shouldn’t be this difficult to find inspiration. He never used to struggle like this in high school, finding his muse in everyone and everything. Even his mundane trip on the city bus to and from school would give Jaskier hundreds of ideas, for poems too personal to publish or lyrics too deep for his band to use. Back then he had thought he lacked discipline and experience, so the clear choice had been to take his interest in poetry one step further and go to university.

The problem, as he’s now discovering halfway through his second year, is that he maybe hates university. He loves it, of course; he loves the praise from his professors and peers, he loves learning about the history of literature and art. He even loves the academic rivalries that wax and wane every term, and the competitions that ignite a mean streak in him he didn’t know he had.

But his assignments are of worse quality than anything he’s ever written before, and try as he might, they aren’t getting any better. Putting words on the page just to meet a count is impossible for a poet, not when the space and thoughts and images are all supposed to be cohesive. Poems used to flow from him so freely he hadn’t been able to keep track and now his well of motivation has just about run dry.

That’s what led him here, for the third time this week. His creative dysfunction has forced him into the day-to-day habits of an elderly man who spends his days reading in public gardens. It hasn’t helped so far, but maybe this third time will be the charm. Jaskier finds his favorite place: right by the koi pond, next to a strange art installation with ivy crawling along it. He sits at the base of the giant question mark, dropping his backpack onto the bench beside him.

“This better fucking work,” mutters Jaskier to himself and the koi, opening today’s book to a random poem. He refuses to let his mind wander at first, gluing his eyes to the page and reading with intense intent. The first poem he sees is about love.

Groaning, Jaskier flips the page. The next poem is also about love.

The third poem is about war, and Jaskier thinks that might be alright, until he realizes what this long-dead poet is trying to tell him, which is that war is also about love. Because it is, of course, but also of course it is. Jaskier scowls deeply and flips through the book to a random page, hoping to find something to spark inspiration that won’t just make him feel hopeless and single and hopelessly single.

Before Jaskier can get through the title, someone speaks to him, startling him so badly he jumps. “Are you Yennefer’s friend?”

Jaskier scrambles to catch the book by its cover and nearly drops it. He hadn’t even heard anyone approach. “Sorry?”

The stranger audibly sighs, as if Jaskier has inconvenienced him terribly. With all the force of someone announcing their presence at their own death row, he grits out, “I’m here for a blind date she set up. With you.” Jaskier looks up at the man and sees him wearing a blank expression, pointing at the question mark in front of the bench. “By the thing.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, still looking at the man. It takes a second for the words to sink in because the stranger is perhaps the most handsome person Jaskier has ever seen. He could write a thousand poems and still fail to capture his beauty. He has golden eyes, for one, and a sharply chiseled face. Even grimacing like this, his jaw is set in the loveliest way, and his stern brow is framed by platinum white hair, half-tied up. He’s wearing a fairly gloomy outfit for a blind date, but maybe he told whoever Yennefer is that he would be dressed in black. Regardless, he’s making it work.

The gorgeous stranger is still waiting for an answer, scowl worsening as Jaskier tries to make his decision about how the fuck to handle this. Really, there’s no decision at all— he just impulsively takes the leap. All his best ideas come when he’s stumbling forward blind anyway. “Yes,” he finally says, jumping to his feet. “Yes, um, I’m sorry, you caught me off-guard. I’m Jaskier.”

“Geralt.” They’re of a similar height, but Geralt is so much wider. Jaskier wants to climb him like ivy on a question mark. “I’m sorry I interrupted.”

“It’s fine! I got here a while ago. You know, can’t be too early!” Jaskier has never been early for anything in his life. He sits down again and shoves his books into his bag as quickly as he can. Geralt shifts his weight back and forth between his feet before awkwardly sitting on the bench next to Jaskier, looking out at the garden. “I’ve never done this kind of thing before,” he admits, which is true. His usual lies and schemes are much less chaotic.

Geralt doesn’t reply to that, leaving Jaskier to privately wonder about his dating life. He stares at the plants, giving the impression that he might be hideously nervous. Jaskier has no idea why someone like Geralt would be nervous about anything but it’s an awkward situation, to say the least. Right as Jaskier’s about to suggest they get out of here before Geralt’s real date shows up, the man asks, “What were you reading?”

“I was studying, sort of,” Jaskier says. “I’m a student.” Then abruptly he wonders how much Geralt knows about who he’s supposed to be, and he swallows, pulse racing.

Glancing over, Geralt’s yellow eyes meet his. There’s no obvious doubt there, just a curiosity. “What’s your major?”

“Poetry,” Jaskier grins as their conversation starts to pick up something resembling a rhythm. “What about you, are you in school?”

“No,” says Geralt, cutting his dreams of a normal date conversation short. “Are you any good? At writing poetry?”

What a weirdo. Jaskier’s heart thrums. “I’d like to think so!” This, at least, is something he knows how to talk about. Except, of course, it isn’t really the truth. “Well… recently, I’ve been in a bit of a creative rut. Just waiting for the right burst of inspiration to come along.” Perhaps this blind date that he’s stolen will suffice, but he doesn’t say that. “This place is great for that, actually. I mean, it hasn’t worked yet, but I’m sure any day those fish will sing for me.”

Geralt blinks. Jaskier feels a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck. He tries a different tactic, crossing his ankles and asking politely, “Are you a reader? What kind of things do you enjoy?”

“Nonfiction,” Geralt answers, slightly stilted. His gaze drifts over to the plants once more. “Not biographies, more like… encyclopedias and field journals. I like field journals.”

“Alright,” Jaskier says, shrinking into himself. This is going terribly. “I’ll have to go bribe some scientists for their field journals, then.” The corner of Geralt’s lip twitches, and Jaskier’s stomach flips. Gorgeous and weird and maybe, although he’s trying his best to hide it behind seven layers of nerves, maybe a little amused by Jaskier. Jaskier is going to fuck him right here in the garden. “Do you take journals of your own for work?”

A rather roundabout way of asking ‘what the fuck is it that you do’ but somehow, it lands. “I’m a… researcher,” Geralt mumbles. How very vague. “But I don’t publish my findings very often.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “Do you work… for a company?”

“No.”

“Right. So you’re just keeping all your findings to yourself for no good reason at all.”

“No.”

“Then it sounds like you’re a pretty terrible researcher, actually.”

Geralt’s eyes flash as he turns to glare at Jaskier. “What?”

“Well, if you don’t share what you’ve found with anyone—”

“My… colleagues—”

“Aha! So you have colleagues!” Jaskier pokes Geralt’s side. “You aren’t just holed up in some depressing storage unit with months and months of research just for you.”

Once more, Geralt half-smirks. Not even half— more like a one-fifth smirk. “Years,” he admits.

“Years…” Jaskier tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. “Why do I have the feeling that you’re perhaps a significant number of years older than me?”

“I had the same thought when I saw you sitting here,” Geralt mumbles.

Jaskier snorts. “Seems like something Yennefer should have warned us about, perhaps. I would ask you directly how old you are, but I’m fairly certain that the only response I will get is a very gruff no.”

“No,” says Geralt, nearly smiling.

Making a show of pouting, Jaskier folds his arms over his chest. “Is that your favorite word?”

“No.” Geralt breaks into laughter as he repeats himself, and his whole face lights up with it. Jaskier laughs too, delighted by how joyous Geralt looks. He’s even more beautiful when he’s happy like this, and Jaskier wants very badly for this not to be their last date. “If I tell you my favorite word, you’re bound to judge me for it, as a poet.”

“As a poet, I swear not to mock you,” Jaskier raises his hand to cover his heart, barely restraining himself from grinning.

But before Geralt can share whatever it is, someone else approaches their bench. A second stranger— a woman about his height with short brown hair, wearing a pretty blouse. Jaskier notices her much more quickly than he’d noticed Geralt, and he makes the connection instantly. This can’t possibly end well.

“Oh, Yen wasn’t kidding,” says the stranger, eyeing Geralt. “You are very distinctive!”

Geralt stares back at her, slack-jawed for a moment. “What?”

“I’m Renfri,” Geralt’s date introduces herself. Jaskier wishes the earth would open up and swallow him whole, especially when she glances over at him. Her gaze slides back to Geralt, as does Jaskier’s, and yeah, he is very fucking distinctive with that white hair and those yellow eyes. Damn. “My friend Yennefer set us up for a blind date…?”

As Jaskier contemplates throwing himself into the koi pond, Geralt twists to stare at him. Jaskier can only imagine how mortified he must look right now; his face burns as both Renfri and Geralt look his way. Perhaps Renfri will figure it out before Geralt says anything; she looks like a smart woman.

But Geralt just gets up, dusting himself off and shaking his head. “No,” he tells Renfri, which would almost be funny if it weren’t the weirdest thing Jaskier has ever seen anyone do. Then Geralt leaves, turning to walk away from both of them, leaving Jaskier and Renfri alone together in the garden. Renfri frowns, watching him go with obvious increasing confusion. Jaskier also jumps to his feet, equally confused but determined not to lose sight of Geralt.

He chases the man— and it does feel like a chase, Geralt must be fucking speed-walking away— and finally tracks him down well outside the garden. Geralt is thundering down a set of stairs leading to a parking lot and he doesn’t stop at the sound of Jaskier careening towards him. Only when Jaskier desperately calls his name does he finally stop, slowing until he reaches the bottom landing and then standing there, still.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier calls down the stairs, breathless. He begins to descend them but Geralt doesn’t turn around. “Fuck, you’re fast! Shit. I’m sorry, Geralt.”

Without looking his way, Geralt complains, so quietly that Jaskier nearly misses it, “Yennefer is going to kill me.”

“I would have fucked off,” Jaskier says quickly, hurrying down the rest of the steps until he gets to the bottom. Geralt still doesn’t look at him so Jaskier slides none-too-gracefully into his space, demanding his attention. He’s hardly red in the face or anything, but he looks embarrassed. Jaskier crumbles. “I’m sorry. I— seriously, I don’t care, I would have fucked off. I should’ve left, I should’ve— You should go back there, she’s beautiful!”

Geralt’s nostrils flare but he doesn’t look away. “Why did you lie,” he demands, flat.

“Well,” Jaskier deflates. “Um. You’re beautiful.”

“Hmm.”

“I really am sorry,” he offers.

Geralt, still watching him closely, says, “You don’t sound sorry.”

“What do you want me to do?” Jaskier throws his hands in the air, breaking away from Geralt’s stare— in the greenhouse, surrounded by bright lights and open, manmade nature, it had been easy to sit under the weight of Geralt’s eyes on him. Down here, at the end of a staircase and the entrance to a dark garage, chest still heaving, it feels too intimate. He puts some distance between them, sighing. “You want me to go back there and explain the whole situation to poor Renfri?”

When Jaskier finally turns around again, Geralt’s gaze hasn’t left him. “I want you to come have dinner with me instead,” he says, slowly but purposefully.

“Oh,” breathes Jaskier. “That’s— well, if you want that.”

“I already made a reservation for two. My name’s on the list.” Geralt is fidgeting with the end of his sleeve at first but when he approaches Jaskier he drops it, striding forward without hesitating. “Table for Geralt and one young brunet friend of Yennefer’s.”

Jaskier chokes on his own surprised laugh. “I don’t actually know Yennefer,” he needlessly explains.

“She’s going to hate you,” says Geralt, half-smirking, and then he adds, “Well, she’ll hate both of us now.”

They get to the restaurant twenty minutes late, Geralt’s hair mussed up and lips a bitten red and Jaskier wearing his backpack and a shit-eating grin. The host sees them and immediately tells them their table has been cancelled, and they end up getting terrible two-dollar slices from a hole-in-the-wall pizza place. They eat on the way back to Geralt’s car and then he drives Jaskier back to campus, kissing him soundly in the door to his apartment until Priscilla comes home and yells at Jaskier to get a room. As they squabble Geralt apologizes, polite and nervous, and kisses Jaskier’s cheek and tells him it was nice to meet him.

Jaskier goes inside and spends the next thirteen hours writing the best poetry he will ever write.

#my writing #geraskier fic #geraskier #flash fic challenge #events

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jetaime-jespere · 4 years ago

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Prompt #36/129

#36: I don’t know who I am without you / #129. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you.

It isn’t the first time Aaron comes to see her with flowers in hand, and it doesn’t make visiting her grave any easier, or any less painful.

Flowers became a thing early on, starting with their first date several months before. Aaron had been anxious in the hours leading up to it - distracted all day, letting his eyes linger on her a few seconds too long here and there. It’s clear something was up. He assumed Dave must have overheard him confirming with Jessica about picking Jack up from his playdate, and that he’ll pick him up from her place around nine. All day he’d dodged the carefully timed stares, a few subtle winks whenever Emily’s back was turned.

“Got a date?” Dave asked casually on their way out, much later that afternoon, keeping his eyes forward as the elevator doors closed. But he’d smiled, which suggests he definitely overheard, and has all but figured out why Aaron is leaving so uncharacteristically early.

Aaron plays dumb, scrambling for an excuse for his early departure, and manages something out about a friend being in town. Dave had simply laughed. “Emily likes flowers,” he’d said as Aaron held his briefcase with a slightly sweaty hand. “I hope you picked some out.”

The quirk of an eyebrow, and the amusement hidden in the subtle contours of Aaron’s face all but give him away, the exact reason now known. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dave.” It’s an attempt in vain.

“But you do, and before you even ask how, just know I have my ways.”

Aaron had never been happier to see elevator doors open. What he doesn’t tell Dave is that he’s had flowers figured out already, for a few days now.

He remembers that night - their first date - like it was yesterday; it’s never fully dissipated from his mind. She’d been wearing blue - cerulean, to be specific - and she blushed ever so slightly when he handed her the bouquet of Dahlias and told her she looked beautiful.

Their reservation (at a Tapas bar close to the National Mall) had mysteriously gotten deleted, leaving them without a table only after they arrived at the restaurant. Emily had laughed despite Aaron’s visible frustration, taking the whole thing in stride as she tucked her hand in his arm. Instead, they ended up walking around the Monuments and eating street tacos from a food truck wrapped in heavy coats. Despite the cold, it was light, fun, and as he dropped her off in front of her building, he’d kissed her - brief, but full, his lips on hers a promise of a second date sooner rather than later.

There was indeed a second date; this one to an antique bookstore in Alexandria followed by coffee on a chilly Sunday morning. The threat of snow later that afternoon hadn’t deterred them. Aaron brings her flowers again - lilies - and she’d held them to her nose for the briefest of seconds as the blush rose to her cheeks once more. The second date was three weeks after the first, thanks to a barrage of cases that seemed to multiply, one right after the other, at a relentless rate with little time for anything else, let alone any semblance of a personal life. And yet, they picked up right where they left off, the same easy banter and familiarity that comes with years of knowing someone as well as they do. He kisses her again, this time bringing a hand to her hair and another around her back, pulling her in close. It’s not even a question if there will be a third date when they pull away, breathless.

Their third date was Valentine’s Day, and she’d come to his place for the first time in over a year, since the days after Foyet threatened to rip his family apart. Aaron bought roses - two dozen red ones - as cliché as it was, handing them to her when she’d arrived. She’d beamed as she shook the light dusting of snowflakes off her shoulders, apologizing for her lateness, murmuring that the flowers were beautiful. He’d planned on making her dinner but instead he’d taken her to bed, leaving their clothes scattered across the living room floor. Emily was beautiful beneath him; her long legs wrapped around his waist as he’d learned her, taking his time finding all the places that made her moan. Her fingers tangled in his hair when he’d kissed his way down the flat planes of her stomach and between her legs, her hands gripped his shoulders as he thrusted into her, she’d lowered herself down to press her chest against his, his arms wrapped around her as she rode him to completion with his own finish coming in the seconds after her own.

Aaron also ruined their dinner during their preoccupation - overcooked the steak and burnt the potatoes to a blackened crisp, rendering it all inedible. With a sheet wrapped around her chest, Emily had reached for her phone and ordered pizza, which they ate in bed straight out of the box. “The best Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had,” she’d whispered in his ear much later, her lips smoothing down his jaw as she pushed him onto his back, a devious grin on her face. Hours later, he repeated her words right back to her, pressing kisses to her lips.

It all fell apart shortly after that.

Date number four was cruelly ripped right out of their hands as Emily slipped away, literally and figuratively, the threat of Ian Doyle becoming a reality. She’d withdrawn, becoming distant and even secretive, slipping into briefings late and sneaking clandestine glances at her phone throughout the day. Aaron had been oblivious to the truth (she hid that from all of them), but he knew something was direly wrong.

Two weeks after she cancelled their fourth date with a heaviness in her voice that culminated over the last few weeks, he heard the name Lauren Reynolds for the first time. And about ten days after that, he signed the paperwork that essentially rendered Emily Prentiss dead.

So now, Aaron always brings her flowers. It feels wrong not to, because he always has. This time he brings Irises; Emily likes those. She told him that once, back when he hung on every word she said, his brain absorbing every last detail of her to commit to memory. Now those memories come back and haunt him like a curse. The car door slams but he doesn’t hear it, and he adjusts the hood of his jacket and tucks his keys into his pocket. He keeps his head down, grateful for the soft rain that falls in the summer wind like a whisper as he maneuvers through the gate, stepping over the neat landscaping. Every step he takes brings him closer to her yet she’s never been further away from him, and he finally releases the breath he’s been holding when he sits down next to her headstone.

“Hi,” Aaron says softly, fumbling with the stems in his hands as he sets them down beside the ones he’d brought the other day, brushing his fingers over the cold marble headstone. “I miss you, you know. I’m sorry it’s been a few days. It was a hell of a week.” Being here is a familiar ritual, one that brings him an unexplainable bit of comfort and yet a profound sense of grief. It’s been four months since they buried an empty casket into the ground as she convalesced in the hospital. Four months since he explained to Jack with as much patience as he could muster that Emily had to go away for awhile, possibly forever, and calmly answered his son’s questions even as his own heart was shattering into pieces.

Aaron supposes it feels mildly silly, talking to someone who isn’t even there, spiritually or whatever, because what most don’t know is she’s not even dead.

She may as well be. Those were her words, not his. It’s what she said in the days after Boston, still too weak to travel but awake and fully cognizant, the impending reality looming in the distance. Aaron had sat at her side, as close as he could get without physically climbing into the bed with her, his hand a fixture in hers for the better part of the two weeks she’d spent there.

“These nurses are like drill sergeants,” Emily had groaned one afternoon after she’d taken a few laps around the floor, pushing a walker with Aaron hovering at her side, a protective hand on her back. It took nearly all of her energy; her eyelids had fluttered within minutes of returning to her bed.

“They’re supposed to help you get better, you know.” And while he can’t help but feel proud of her for how far she’s come, her returning strength is a reminder that soon enough she’ll vanish from their lives, unceremoniously, as if she never existed at all.

Her grave is the only place he feels close to her, as if she, wherever she is, might be there in some way too. It’s where Aaron talks to her, tells her the mundane things about life - the life that has seemingly paused since she left- anecdotes about Jack’s soccer team, Dave’s new car, every now and then he’ll mention a case. Sometimes it’s a haze of confusion, asking the questions he most likely will never get answers to, his voice breaking at the most simple, yet complicated of them all. Why? How?

Other days, it’s grief that courses through his veins and clouds his heart, like a vice grip around his windpipe that makes every intake of breath more painful than the last. They all feel her absence; a numbness has enveloped them all in the last couple of weeks especially. But he bears the pain of knowing the truth and being responsible for the secret they’ve held to keep her safe. Today is one of those days.

“I wish I could be angry with you,” he says, never taking his eyes off the headstone. “For what you put us through.” He’s tried that. Anger never lasts long, because Aaron sees her face in his mind, full of poorly concealed fear as he and JJ had passed over the dossier of new identities into her hands, signifying the beginning of the end.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you,” Aaron chokes through the mounting thickness in his throat. “It’s not the same without you. Nothing is.” His face is wet, and it’s not because of the rain. Most of his visits end this way, and he takes the long way back home to pull himself together. “We miss you. I miss you.”

It’s getting harder to breathe, harder to conceal the sobs that are coming like the stormcloud in the distance, and he buries his face in his hands to cry because there’s nothing left he can do. “I don’t know who I am without you, Emily.”

There’s a rustling in the trees behind him sometime later. If he closes his eyes he can almost hear her footsteps behind him, sure and steady. Aaron can’t bring himself to turn around because she won’t be there - she’s already gone.

“I love you,” he whispers, knowing he should have said it a long time ago.

#hotchniss #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #aaron x emily #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #this is an angsty one #prompts #I made myself sad but really it was the wine talking

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the-great-lightwood-bane · 3 years ago

Text

Gospels

Malec | Rated teen | tw swearing, mention of torture & kidnapping | Good Parabatai Jace Wayland, Good Sibling Isabelle Lightwood, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, (in the past), Alec Lightwood Deserves Nice Things, Magnus Bane Loves Alec Lightwood, Established Relationship, Engaged Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Sparring

Summary: Magnus Bane has been taken. Alec Lightwood is not merciful in his quest to take him back.

Conversations during the in-betweens and the after.

(Missing scenes from Revelations by ClinicalChaos.)

A/N: This won't make sense unless you've read Revelations already, so go do that!

(Rated T for swearing and mention of torture & kidnapping at a milder level than Revelations.)

Read it on AO3 or below the cut.

I. Catarina (ft. Jace)

Magnus drifted slowly up toward consciousness.

A certain sluggishness in his mind suggested that his lack of pain was due more to painkillers, either magical or mundane, than to an actual lack of injuries. Exhaustion lay over him like a blanket, making him feel like he was underwater — light danced on the surface above him, but he was too tired to claw his way up there just yet; darkness gaped open beneath him, the depths of sleep beckoning, but he’d spent so long there already that he didn’t want to slip back down.

People were talking above him — it took him a moment to identify Cat’s and Jace’s voices, murmurings half-heard, far above. The meaning of their words was also distant, wavering and unclear like he was at the bottom of a pool and it was at the surface; Magnus felt too tired to think it through properly.

“He’ll be alright,” Cat was saying, but it didn’t seem like she was talking about Magnus — though Magnus couldn’t quite remember why he wouldn’t be alright, or who else might not be alright. It left an uneasy feeling in his chest, but he didn’t know why that would be, so he ignored it. “He’ll be out for a while — longer than Magnus, most likely — but he’s in the clear.”

“Yeah,” Jace replied, sounding exhausted. “He’s really done a number on himself, these past four days.”

A moment of quiet followed, but Magnus didn’t think they’d left. He felt like he was missing the context to what they were saying, context that was up above the surface where he couldn’t quite grasp it. The darkness was chasming open below him, beckoning him down toward sleep, but he chose to float in the in-between for just a little while longer.

“He was so — calm,” Catarina said at last, voice soft. “The whole time, in the Helion — he just didn’t react.”

Jace hummed. “We — Shadowhunters — are taught to suppress our emotions. Alec was always good at that — perhaps better than he should be.” There was something almost pained in his tone, though Magnus couldn’t quite place the emotion that had caused it. “He was using a Calm Anger rune, too, but even without it — he makes himself cold, ice down to his soul. Sometimes I can feel other emotions through the bond, but it’s always muted. Quiet.”

“Effective, I suppose.” Catarina sniffed, profoundly disapproving. “If unhealthy.”

“Shadowhunters are like white blood cells, remember? Mental health isn’t exactly a priority for us.” Jace snorted, sounding morbidly amused.

She sighed. “It was really rather terrifying to watch. When we saw Ethel Barany, when she showed us Magnus — I thought he’d try to fight her, but he just talked to her, as though nothing was wrong.” A brief pause, and Magnus felt the exhaustion beginning to build again, felt himself sinking down through the water. He held on to hear the rest of what she was saying. “—and he was taking risks, too — the wards on that door could’ve killed him, but he didn’t seem particularly bothered.”

Jace murmured a response — something along the lines of he’s rarely bothered about himself — but Magnus was too tired to decipher it through the layers of water dividing them.

He’d figure out what they’d been talking about later. For now, he’d drift down into the dark peace of unconsciousness.

II. Isabelle

When Magnus woke up properly, the first thing he saw was Alec.

Not, unfortunately, Alec sitting by his bedside waiting for him to wake up. Instead, Alec was lying on a bed next to him, obviously unconscious, bandages peeking out from underneath the blankets.

The sight served as a sharp reminder of all that had happened, water slewing away to reveal the memories. The kidnapping — abducted off his own streets, the idiocy of it — and the Baranys’ taunts, the pain, the desperation, and underneath it all the certainty that Alec would come for him.

Apparently, Alec had come for him, and hurt himself badly in doing so. Magnus swung his legs to the side in preparation to get up.

Unfortunately, several doctors hurried into the room before he could do so — the gently beeping machinery next to him must’ve alerted them — and they insisted on fussing over him, refusing to let him stand or even sit up. Admittedly, his torso was sore and wrapped in bandages, but Alec was more important. Magnus reached for his magic, to find out what was wrong with Alec or to heal him, but he felt only an ache of magic depletion—

“Magnus, Alec is going to be fine,” a sharp voice said, cutting across his growing panic. Isabelle. “You, on the other hand, were quite severely injured, so lie the fuck back down.”

Her glare was enough to have Magnus giving in to the doctors’ ministrations, worry at least temporarily abated. “What happened? How long—”

“I’ll explain when we’re done checking you over,” she replied, tone brooking no argument. Magnus subsided, allowing himself to be checked over — after the initial group of doctors came Catarina, who fussed over his sore torso; he’d really worried her, this time, and did his best not to make her job any harder.

His chest was throbbing, although it was clear that without the painkillers still pumping through his system, it’d be far worse. Cat did another round of healing on it, which reduced the pain somewhat; she left with strict instructions not to do any more magic for at least a week.

Once Magnus had been deemed healthy, Izzy returned, glaring at Magnus when he tried to sit up at the sight of her.

“First off, Alec’s going to be perfectly alright,” she began.

An ominous start, Magnus couldn’t help thinking — he could recall most of Cat’s and Jace’s conversation from earlier, their words muffled by his sleepiness but still understandable. It had been four days between Magnus’s kidnapping and Alec’s rescue of him; what Alec had done to himself in that time—

“Secondly, he’s done quite a number on himself,” Izzy continued, voice controlled so it didn’t waver. “He — I don’t think he’s eaten anything since you were taken, hence the IV drip.” She gestured to it, lost in a maze of medical equipment. “There’s also rune overuse, thanks to all the Nutrition and Stamina runes he was using, as well as the fight itself—”

“What happened in the fight?” Magnus cut in. “Where did the Baranys—”

“A building in London, called the Helion. The Baranys’ base. It took us four days to figure out who’d taken you, find the building, and get a team together — we worked with the London Institute, too, to take it.” She took a breath. “We sent in four thousand Shadowhunters, but it was taking too long to clear all the floors one by one, so Alec climbed up the elevator shaft.”

Magnus’s own elevator shafts were warded against such an attack, at Alec’s suggestion; it was lucky that the Baranys hadn’t done the same. Another, more worrying thought abruptly occurred to him— “How tall was this building?”

Izzy’s lips compressed. “He started on the ninth floor. The penthouse — where they were keeping you — was the thirty-third.”

A sharp inhale escaped Magnus’s lips. He’d known it would be bad from Izzy’s expression, but twenty-four floors. Climbing up an elevator shaft. “Oh, Alexander…”

“I wasn’t there, so this is all from Jace, but— yes. Between exertion, rune overuse, lack of nutrition, and a few injuries from the battle in the penthouse—” Izzy paused, shaking her head. “He’ll recover, but I doubt if he’ll wake up for another day or two.”

Magnus swallowed back the selfish desire to talk to Alec now. “He is going to recover, though.” It wasn’t nearly as certain a statement as he would’ve liked.

“Yes, he is.” She managed a small smile. “And I have no doubt he’ll be desperate to see you as soon as he wakes up.” A slight narrowing of her eyes. “So make sure you’re in better shape by the time he sees you.”

Huffing at the overt guilt-trip, Magnus nevertheless felt tiredness creeping up on him again. And it was true that it would do Alec no good to see Magnus in a bad state; reluctantly, he relaxed back against the pillows.

“Sleep, Magnus,” Izzy said softly, smiling more genuinely, and the last thing Magnus saw before he drifted back down was Alec on the bed beside him.

III. Raphael (ft. Catarina)

“There’s something we haven’t told you yet,” Raphael said abruptly.

He, Magnus, and Catarina were all in the private room set aside for Magnus and Alec. In the twenty-four hours since Magnus had woken up, two more healing sessions with Cat had returned him to something like normal; now, he could sit in a proper chair to watch Alec, rather than lying in a bed. He’d still refused to leave the infirmary for more than the half-hour necessary to shower and change at the loft, so Raphael and Cat had come to see him there.

“Oh?” Magnus asked, curious and slightly worried — Raphael’s tone was difficult to read, to say the least, but Magnus thought he’d detected a hint of reluctance to tell Magnus whatever this was. Which meant that probably Magnus didn’t really want to hear it.

“Yes.” Raphael huffed. “It’s about Alec.”

Magnus couldn’t help straightening slightly in his chair, glancing quickly at Alec on the bed before turning back to Raphael. His anxiety only grew at the expression on the vampire’s face. “What is it?”

Cat’s lips compressed slightly; Raphael hesitated for another moment, then began. “After you were taken, we were — quite desperate to get you back. Alec had gotten a live video feed; you weren’t in a good way.”

“So I’ve heard,” Magnus said cautiously. His heart ached at the thought of Alec, searching desperately for him, but that probably wasn’t what Raphael wanted to tell him.

“Yes. Well, we found somebody — Edward Ross, a vampire. He obviously knew something about where you’d been taken, but he wasn’t talking. I asked if there was anybody who could — make him talk, like what Aldertree did to me.” Raphael paused again, the hesitation uncharacteristic, and Magnus felt his sense of foreboding grow. “Alec — got the information.”

“Got the information,” Magnus repeated, stupidly, mind processing at a rate substantially slower than usual.

“From Ross, and from another warlock we found in a warehouse in New York.”

Cat leaned forward, a hand going to Magnus’s knee. “He was desperate. We all were. If he hadn’t done that — I’m not sure if we could’ve found you in time.”

It took Magnus a moment to realise that she was defending Alec to him, as though Magnus might be angry with him. As though Magnus wouldn’t’ve done the same thing, had their positions been reversed. “No, I’m not mad at him, I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, eyes resting on Alec like he was a lodestone, a magnet. Impossible to look away. “Oh, my Alexander…”

Magnus wasn’t angry with Alec — how could he be, when Alec had only wanted to protect him? — but a question remained: where had Alec learnt such things? Who had taught Alec how to extract that information? To hurt, to maim, to torture? He doubted he’d get an answer, not until Alec woke up, but that didn’t prevent him from wondering.

“He thinks you’re going to leave him,” Raphael said, far more softly than usual. “He thinks that what he’s done is unforgivable.”

Magnus met his eyes, mentally promising himself to assure Alec of his devotion as soon as his fiancé was awake. “There is nothing to forgive.”

IV. Jace

Magnus didn’t talk to Jace again until nearly a week later.

Jace had been at the Institute, running things in Alec’s absence — Izzy chipped in to help, but she had plenty of her own work in the infirmary to keep her busy. Neither one of them particularly liked being Head, but they were perfectly capable of stepping in for a while if necessary, as they had in the aftermath of the attack on the Helion.

Seeing as Magnus had banned Alec from the Institute for a solid five days after he’d woken up, Magnus didn’t see much of either of them.

Once those five days were over, however, Alec insisted on checking up on his Institute; Magnus insisted that he not use runes, stay out of the field, and not spend too much time working (he had faith that Alec would try to do at least one of those three, but knew that more than that was optimistic). Upon arrival, Alec had spent a good hour and a half in his office with Jace — presumably catching up on whatever he’d missed — so Magnus had gone down to the Infirmary to offer his help. Izzy and Cat had promptly banned him from using magic to heal anyone, but he’d stuck around anyway to catch up with them.

After that, Jace was unceremoniously kicked out of Alec’s office, and he came to the Infirmary to ask Izzy to spar with him, as he hadn’t put in his usual hours over the last few days. “I don’t know how Alec fits in time to do anything but paperwork.”

Izzy begged off with the excuse of having things to do, but Magnus offered to join him instead. “I’ll never give up on a chance to take Blondie down a peg.”

Jace scowled, but his eyes were full of a competitive light. “You’ll be the one taken down.”

Magnus raised an eyebrow. “Let’s find out.”

“You know,” Jace said, blocking Magnus’s strike with his staff, “Alec didn’t wear his ring at all while looking for you.”

“I know,” Magnus agreed, sidestepping Jace’s flurry of attacks. “He’s wearing it now, though.”

“Yeah.” Jace paused momentarily, focusing on driving Magnus back a step and then avoiding Magnus’s return fire. “Did you two — talk about why he wasn’t?”

Magnus ducked a swipe of Jace’s staff, swinging back at him so that Jace had to jump sideways to avoid having his legs knocked out from underneath him. It was easier to talk like this, physical exertion allowing him to hide his emotions; perhaps there was a reason why Shadowhunters seemed to work out most of their issues by sparring. “He thought I’d leave.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Jace grinned at him, going on the offensive in an attempt to knock Magnus’s staff out of his hands, but Magnus managed to hold on to it. “I’d hate to have to kick your ass.”

“As if,” Magnus shot back, not bothering to specify which part of Jace’s words he was referring to — it applied perfectly well to both.

Jace didn’t reply, opting instead to try to land a hit on Magnus’s side. Magnus ducked under it; his counterattack sent Jace stumbling slightly, but he regained his footing with Nephilim speed. Another series of clashing blows, the wooden staff almost creaking under the onslaught, and Magnus managed to duck abruptly sideways — the movement disoriented Jace for barely a moment, but it was enough for Magnus to land a hit sideways into Jace’s knees, sending him neatly to the ground.

“Fine, fine, you win,” Jace huffed, taking Magnus’s offered hand to pull himself to his feet. “I’ll beat you someday.”

“Not a chance,” Magnus replied as he turned to put his staff back into the rack.

A huff, and then a momentary pause as Jace replaced his own staff. He turned to Magnus, head tilted slightly, eyes abruptly serious. “Thank you.”

“No thanks needed,” Magnus said, matching his sincerity, though only for a moment. “I’m always delighted to knock you on your ass.”

“One day, Bane—” Jace began, laughing.

“Lightwood-Bane, soon enough,” Magnus corrected, and smiled.

#tsc #tmi #magnus bane #alec lightwood #magnus x alec #alec lightwood bane #malec #alec x magnus #magnus lightwood bane #fic #my fic

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lov3nerdstuff · 5 years ago

Text

Voluptas Noctis Aeternae {Part 5.1}

*Severus Snape x OC*

Summary: It is the year 1983 when the ordinary life of Robin Mitchell takes a drastic turn: she is accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Despite the struggles of being a muggle-born in Slytherin, she soon discovers her passion for Potions, and even manages the impossible: gaining the favor of Severus Snape. Throughout the years, Robin finds that the not quite so ordinary Potions Professor goes from being a brooding stranger to being more than she had ever deemed possible. An ally, a mentor, a friend… and eventually, the person she loves the most. Through adventure, prophecies and the little struggles of daily life in a castle full of mysteries, Robin chooses a path for herself, an unlikely friendship blossoms into something more, and two people abandoned by the world can finally find a home.

General warnings: professor x student, blood, violence, trauma, neglectful families, bullying, cursing

Words: 5.4k

Read Part 1.1 here! All Parts can be found on the Masterlist!

______________________________

There was a major difference in the way Robin approached this summer break in contrast to the last years. The dread that usually overcame her even before she stepped onto the train back to London was still very much present and accompanied by a deep sadness at the prospect of not being able to have coffee with Snape every night, but she didn’t feel quite as desperate about the length of the break. This year, she actually had something to look forward to.

It had come as a surprise on her last evening at school, when she had been talking to Snape about summer plans, that he had handed her a letter that had originally been addressed to him. At first Robin had been understandably confused why he’d given it to her, but after a moment of explanation, things had started to make sense. It was an invitation to a one-day conference in London, taking place two weeks into the holidays. According to him, it was an ‘insignificant’ event with a series of lectures and discussions about anything related to the overall subject of potion making. While the invitation was meant for Snape himself, he had made it rather clear that he had no interest in attending and thus wanted to give Robin the opportunity to listen to some of the lectures if she cared to go in his place. Obviously she’d been absolutely delighted by the possibility, and assured him that she would do her very best to lay low and make a good impression for once. He’d told her where to be on which day, then spoken a brief warning about some people he couldn’t stand but who likely would be attending, and at last they had changed the topic, talking about the book Robin had just finished that day.

On the train ride home the next day however, she had wondered if he really didn’t want to attend or if he merely wanted to give her the chance to go in his place, but seeing as she couldn’t answer that question, she had let it go after a while of pondering. But she did take pride in the fact that he obviously believed she would understand whatever would be talked about at this conference, and even more that he trusted her to not embarrass him in his absence. She would definitely try to learn as much as possible from this event, and be noticed as little as possible in return.

The two weeks until the anticipated day passed by slowly, but with something to look forward to, it wasn’t quite as dreadful as wishing and waiting for the end of the holidays already. Robin did actually end up telling her parents about the conference a few days before it would take place, and they seemed rather delighted about the fact that Robin was indulging in the same kind of academic endeavours they themselves thrived in so much. To be honest, Robin had merely told them because spending the entire day in London meant that she would be home very late if she took the train after the last lecture would be over, and she didn’t want them to worry. They however seemed fairly unbothered by the fact that their daughter would be out and about in the middle of the night, and Robin gave up on trying to get them to take interest in her person as much as they did in her 'career’. Thus they merely talked about proper behavior at an event like this, how to ask questions without being rude or make suggestions without sounding braggy, and Robin did in fact appreciate the advice for once. Who knew… maybe it applied to the wizarding world just as much as to the muggle world.

When the day finally arrived, Robin was nervous and delighted at once. Seeing as she would indeed have to stick to public transportation like the muggle she was pretending to be during the holidays, she opted for a more mundane choice of outfit too. Still, she wanted to make a good impression, and thus she chose to wear dressier clothes for once, which turned out more of a challenge than anticipated, due to an underwhelming amount of options. Eventually she ended up with a black, high waisted tube skirt that ended a little higher than a hand’s width above her knees, and an olive green blouse with long bishop sleeves which she tugged into the skirt. Paired with some dressy flats and her usual leather backpack, Robin deemed it fancy enough. Her mom also gave her approval, calling it 'appropriate enough’ for someone Robin’s age, and thus she was off to London even before it had properly started to dawn.

Finding the place where the conference would take place was actually easier than she had expected, especially if one considered that she had to rely on an ordinary, non-magical street map of London to find the correct building. This rule forbidding underage magic outside of Hogwarts was bullshit, in her eyes, but she also figured that not everyone was being as responsible with their magic as she was… so it maybe did make sense for some people. After finding the right building however, the next obstacle was being allowed in.

“Can I help you?” The first person she tried to simply walk past, once inside the entrance hall, already stepped into her path.

“I have an invitation for the conference.” Robin replied as self-assuredly as she could, portraying nothing but calmness on the outside while yet on the inside she felt rather overwhelmed by the whole thing. Too many people, too many strangers especially, and in addition to that a place she wasn’t familiar with and a situation nobody believed she belonged into. Great…

“May I see it, please?” At least the man was polite, even if a bit too condescending for Robin’s liking. Without protesting though, she grabbed the invitation card out of her backpack and held it under his nose with an indifferent expression.

“I apologise for the inconvenience, Miss. The conference room is on the third floor. Just follow the signs and you should find it with ease.” He said after but a brief glimpse at the paper, and stepped out of Robin’s way while pointing her to the staircase.

It really was beyond easy to find the correct room by following the signs, but before she even could set foot into it, she was held up yet again by a man sitting at a table in front of the room.

“Good morning.” Robin actually addressed him first, with a polite smile, as she came to stand in front of the table. Somehow she had rather hoped that she could just sneak into this like she had done in some lectures at university in the past years… but obviously that wasn’t the case.

“How can I help you, Missy?” The older man raised his eyebrows at her with a small smile, and Robin found herself conflicted by his disrespectful way of addressing her in contrast to his kind face.

“I am here for the conference.” She stated calmly though, and handed the invite to the man in front of her.

His eyebrows rose even higher as he read over the card, before he finally turned back to Robin with a surprised face. “What does a lass like you have to do with Severus Snape? You surely know that this is his invite, don’t you?”

“Of course I am aware of that.” She bit down the snarl and kept her tone polite and neutral like the adult she was trying to be here. “I’m his… friend. He couldn’t attend and therefore sent me in his place.” There was no need to tell him that Snape had called them an old bunch of idiots and hadn’t wanted to come here because it would bore him out of his mind, was there? No, certainly not.

“From what’s said about him, he doesn’t have a lot of friends I believe.” The man mused, but handed the paper back to Robin with a smile nonetheless. “Well, he still seems to have a decent taste in people if he sent you here today, huh? What’s your name? For the list of attendees, and the name tag.”

Robin almost would’ve snorted at the statement… Snape and good with people? Best joke she’d heard in weeks. But at least she wasn’t questioned any more than that. She would’ve hated to elaborate on her 'friendship’ with her professor. One sided as it was, especially…

“Robin Mitchell.” She answered with a small smile, and a moment later accepted the sticky tag he was holding out to her. Without questioning why it only read her last name, she stuck it onto her blouse a little below her collar bone, and then was granted entrance to the room at last.

If she’d had any hope to just not be noticed before, it definitely was gone by now. The room was crowded with wizards of all shapes and sizes, mostly of the older generations, and Robin spotted exactly two females other than herself. Age and gender… first things that drew quite a few eyes to her. But then there also was the small but very obvious fact that she was the only one not wearing robes. Hell, even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t have sat in the train for two hours looking like a kid dressed up for Halloween and not panic. Well… she could’ve changed once she got here. Too late for that idea now.

Many eyes followed her indeed as she walked across the room to sit down as far to the back as possible. At least there were many people scattered around the room, chatting and laughing currently; surely they would just forget that Robin was here at some point. Hopefully, if they didn’t ignore her, these people would actually treat her with some professionalism at least, even if she looked like she could be their grandchild. Well, at least she got why Snape had called them a bunch of old idiots now.

After her initial discomfort, the situation improved (fairly little at first) once the actual event began. Robin tried to somewhat keep up with the smalltalk the man next to her was trying to make, but he ended up spending more time staring at her mostly bare legs than listening to what she said in return, so she eventually just gave up on trying to converse in the first place. The lectures however were well worth the trouble, as Robin discovered, and she took plenty of notes about anything that seemed interested or useful to remember. In fact, she did understand most of what was said and even recognized a lot of it from her extensive readings. Events like this generally seemed to function more by knowledge than by experience, and Robin had theoretical knowledge in the plenty. Thus she actually had a pretty good time for the majority of the lectures, as it allowed her to completely ignore the fact that other people were present in the same room.

Only when they took a break at noon, she was approached by some people who probably only wanted to be kind and involve her in the conversation, which however served to make Robin feel rather nervous in the beginning. They asked her about her young age, of course, and she tried to politely convince them that intelligence wasn’t a matter of age, and neither was passion for a subject. At least the lunch break was spent with conversation this way, rather than awkward silence, and Robin actually found herself enjoying the polite and professional conversations they engaged in soon. Throughout the talking she got involved in however, she tried to share as little information about herself and her knowledge about potions as possible, for she feared that she would only embarrass herself anyway if she said something wrong. She was here to listen, not to talk.

That however changed drastically in the afternoon. After one particularly long lecture about medical potions and strategies of use, the following discussion was a furnace of opinions and arguments. Robin merely listened to the many arguments and counterarguments in silence, just as she’d been doing for the past few hours, and kept her own thoughts to herself. That worked rather well for her, right until the man who had held the lecture in the first place, Kenneth Crowe, said something undeniably wrong and everybody in the room seemed to agree with him. Instantly the desire to at least ask about it jumped to the very front of Robin’s mind, but she bit the insides of her cheeks to stay quiet. It wasn’t her place to say anything at all, and definitely not to correct a well renowned professional in the field. But it was such an obvious mistake… such a stupid but important little detail. And leaving it in the wrong might actually result in very much real consequences for people, especially in the medical field.

Crowe had introduced a new kind of healing potion in his lecture, a revolutionary invention of his that might cure yet untreatable curses… and Robin believed to know that it wouldn’t work. At least not in the way he was suggesting. Bloody hell, she just wanted to tell them, but she was also desperately scared to say something stupid. It wasn’t her place to speak up, it wasn’t her goddamn place to doubt these people!!! But the knowledge that she might be right sufficed to torture her mind more with every second she didn’t at least voice the doubt. At last Robin’s mind won over her churning stomach and racing heart. She raised her hand, was called on almost immediately, and after one deep and shaky breath, she started explaining to a room full of professionals why they were wrong about the subject.

“I… would like to ask a question.” She started, hoping that her criticism wouldn’t come off as such if she phrased it this way. “You, uh… You stated that the petals of the Varilion flower are a key ingredient, and so is the essence of Canticor, yes?”

“Yes. And?” Crowe looked down at Robin from his pedestal with a humored, but undeniably deriding smile. He probably thought that she didn’t even understand a word of what they were currently dealing with… oh, how wrong he was. A bit of the reluctance to possibly insult this man fell off Robin’s mind at the stupid look on his face alone, and she decided to continue more directly.

“I just wanted to be sure I didn’t misunderstand you.” She replied with a polite little smile that was born out of her newly arising wish to wipe his own smile off his stupid face. “Because as far as I’m aware, Varilion –as a plant in the family of nocturnal vinca breeds– would very likely cancel out the effects of the Canticor which are needed here. Without the Canticor however, the entire product would likely be unstable and thus lacking the functionality you have described.”

“That’s ridiculous, I tested the potion myself and it was perfectly stable. You shouldn’t make assumptions like that without prior knowledge of the subject, child. This potion will be perfectly stable.” He almost snapped back, and a few people frowned at his admittedly harsh reply. Robin didn’t let it impress her at all; she was just getting started. Somehow, now that the dam was broken, she really didn’t mind speaking up all that much anymore.

“Well, it is stable if the potion is made in a common testing quantity as opposed to an average production size. If one would try to make a sufficient amount of it in order to be able to give it to a human being with the desired healing result, one would run into severe problems, seeing as the Varilion and the Canticor start canceling each other out at an amount that is way smaller than what would be needed indeed. Thus it is not possible to use this formula to even make enough of the potion for one single person. Which, in return, renders the potion quite useless.” People stared at Robin with all kinds of mixed and shocked expressions as she spoke, some whispering and turning pages, but she used the opportunity of having the word already to lean just a bit further out of what she had thought to be her place. “However, seeing as the core problem is merely the radically dominating nature of the vinca breed in the Varilion, I would suggest replacing it with Plangentine. As another nocturnal flower with almost the same properties, as far as I’m aware, it might make a functional replacement even in larger quantities. But that, of course, is only my humble opinion. Thank you.”

With that she shut her mouth, leaned back in her chair, and observed how about thirty jaws dropped. Geez, it was hard not to smirk. This really shouldn’t be so much fun… What she had done wasn’t exactly considered polite, even if she had phrased it politely. Her parents would be disappointed. Snape however would likely be proud. Robin decided to focus on the latter.

For the long moment that followed, nobody said anything at all, and people merely seemed to think about what Robin had suggested. When the discussion was finally continued however, every single person who contributed something spoke in favor of Robin’s opinion or at least seemed to accept it as correct. Thank goodness… she would’ve hated to feel so smug and then be proven wrong. Thus, seeing as she had done her part in voicing her doubt and wiping the stupid smile off the man’s face, Robin went back to simply listening to what was said, and meanwhile noted down the discussed healing potion in her journal, with her own suggested change. She’d have to ask Snape about it when she went back to school. Maybe they could even test it, for fun.

The rest of the afternoon flew by just as the morning had, but with significantly more glances at Robin. One time she was even directly asked for her opinion on something, which freaked her out quite a bit on the inside at least, but she still was able to give a reply everyone seemed to be accepting as a contribution as valuable as any other person’s. Maybe she had finally gotten herself out of the grandchild box in their minds after all.

After the last lecture was over, fairly late in the evening, the entire group of attendees was asked to come to the podium to pose for a photograph. At first, Robin had respectfully stepped aside to let the real attendees take the stage, but upon multiple people insisting that she had played an important role in this meeting, she had found herself among the group as well. Right in the front. Definitely not as subtle as she’d planned to be today, but seeing as she was a good head shorter than almost everyone else, it did actually make sense to put her up front. Once all pictures were taken, Robin planned to head home, but she was quickly (and more or less against her will) pulled into a discussion about the very same healing potion once more. Now, in a smaller group of far less hostile people, she felt more comfortable with repeating her suggestion and explaining how she had gotten to the realization in the first place. Many people asked for her name, her age, her profession… and some went even further and asked for her opinion on all kinds of topics related to potions and even herbology. Robin did her best to answer with knowledge and educated guesses, but seeing as she was actually taken seriously by the people who bothered to talk to her in the first place, she also didn’t hesitate to say when she didn’t know about something. In those latter cases, she asked the person she was speaking to for suggestions on books or articles on the topic, so that she could one day maybe answer their question on a more profound basis. Finally, some time after eleven at night, she made for the train back to Oxford with a long list of things to read up on, and an even longer one of people she had left an impression with.

… … …

The days after the conference were as dreadful as the summer usually was, and any opportunity to make something out of the free time stayed ridiculously absent. Thus Robin was bored out of her mind even more quickly than usual, therefore spent more time reading than likely was good for her, and generally found herself desperately wishing to be able to return to school already. Every bit the usual summer.

After two weeks of this mind numbing madness however, Robin’s days became a little more bearable with an unexpected turn of events. She was sitting at breakfast, her parents about to leave for the day, when her mom came back into the kitchen to hand Robin a letter, saying it looked like her friends from school had finally thought of her after all. Robin didn’t have the heart nor the time to tell her that she didn’t even have friends, so she just took the letter out of her mom’s hand with a quiet thank you, shrugged at the question who it was from and merely tossed it onto a stack of books in feigned indifference. Then she wished her mom and dad a nice day at work, and continued to sip on her black coffee.

However, the very second the front door fell shut and the house silent in return, Robin had the letter in her hands again and flipped it over to see her name written on the envelope in the familiar spidery cursive she’d missed seeing in the past few weeks. Her heart skipped a beat, and she didn’t know if she should be scared or excited about this letter. Both, probably. Without wasting another second, she opened the envelope with a kitchen knife and fiddled a folded piece of parchment out of it. Yup, definitely scared and excited at once. But if she was in trouble, it surely would’ve been an official school letter, right? Not just an average envelope with nothing but her name on it… bloody hell, her heartbeat was louder than the silence around her. With a deep breath, she unfolded the letter at last.

Miss Mitchell.

You might find yourself wondering what led me to write to you in between terms, and you will find the main answer to that in the envelope with this letter.

Robin stopped reading at that point and took another look into the envelope she had carelessly dropped onto the counter. There was another piece of paper in it, folded in half as well, but Robin could already tell by the look of it that it was a newspaper cutout. Once she unfolded it, she found herself both smiling and feeling too warm in the face at once. It was the photograph that had been taken at the conference, with a short article beneath it. It was nothing special, just a little text about how many people had attended and which topics had been discussed, and thus Robin found herself looking at the moving photograph for a longer moment instead. Really, she’d known that she had somewhat stood out from the crowd, but the picture made it undeniably evident. About fifty much older people in thick and flowing robes and with the most serious faces, and Robin right in the middle with her short skirt, victorian style blouse and a small smile. Oh dear… she almost dreaded going back to Snape’s letter. He surely would be complaining about her choice of clothes, but she honestly hadn’t known better. Her attire would’ve been perfectly ordinary in the muggle world. Oh well… at least the photograph was a lovely reminder of the admittedly amazing day she’d had at the conference. Careful not to crease the picture any more than the folds it already had, she put it into her most recent journal and then finally went back to the letter.

Miss Mitchell.

You might find yourself wondering what led me to write to you in between terms, and you will find the answer to that in the envelope together with this letter. The picture was published in the Daily Prophet the day after the conference. This cutout was sent to me a few days later, by an acquaintance who you should have met at the event, Patrick Isaac. I assume you are not keeping up with the news, not with the Prophet at least, which is why I decided to forward the picture to you directly. Perhaps you would like to keep the cutout, you certainly have more use for it than I do.

Furthermore it might interest you to know that Mister Isaac, together with the picture, sent me a fairly long letter to gush over a certain young witch by the name of Robin Mitchell who attended the conference with him and who obviously was rumored to be a friend of mine. I will spare you the details of his disconcertingly detailed elaborations, but overall it appears that you have earned yourself quite a few admirers among the attendees, if the other six letters that I have received in your praise are any indicator of that. It seems that you have surprised me yet again, which indeed does not surprise me at all.

However I still would like to know more about the 'remarkable incident’ involving a certain new potion that was discussed. Multiple people reference it in the context of your astonishing intellect, yet without ever elaborating on the issue. What did you do this time that rendered competent professionals quite so speechless? I expect your timely reply, seeing as you do not have further plans for the summer anyway.

Snape

Robin frowned at the last few lines, then sighed to herself and dropped the letter on the counter to make another cup of coffee first. Well, at least writing a letter would give her something to do. And writing a letter to Snape would give her something enjoyable to do indeed. A smile spread on her lips as she set the kettle on the stove. He could’ve waited until after the holidays to give her the clipping, and even to ask her about the conference, but he had sent a letter instead and that made Robin smile even more. Maybe, in some reality, he actually enjoyed talking to her too. Seriously enjoyed it, that is, not just because she kept on talking to him first. Once the kettle whistled, she added the boiling water to her instant coffee and then balanced the letter, the envelope, her book, her journal AND the coffee mug up the stairs and towards the desk in her room. She had a letter to write after all.

… … …

Robin received the next letter three weeks after she had written to Snape about her experiences at the conference. She’d been careful in her explanations to always leave some things unsaid so she would have something to tell him in person, but she had elaborated on the conversations she’d had with people he might possibly know.

This time his letter was dropped off by an owl on a Sunday evening, which almost gave Robin’s dad a seizure when the poor animal landed on the windowsill next to his armchair. Somehow muggles just couldn’t get used to the post being delivered by owls… People have used pigeons to deliver messages for decades; what was so weird about owls now?!

“Oh look, it has the same illegible handwriting on it as the last one.” Her mom smiled as she picked up the envelope that again just had Robin’s name written on it. “How come your friend didn’t write to you in the last years?”

“We, uh… we’ve only been friends since rather recently.” Robin replied evasively and snatched the envelope out of her mother’s hand. “And his handwriting isn’t illegible! It’s just… kinda squiggly.”

“If you say so, sweetie.” Her mom shrugged, and turned back towards the living room. “You must have a lot of practice deciphering his handwriting if you find it legible.”

“We work together. A lot.” Robin mused and thumbed over the rough corners of the envelope. “On… essays.”

“Well, if I had to grade his essays, he surely wouldn’t come very far.” Her dad replied with a snarky expression while he didn’t even look up from his book. “I’m surprised that you write essays in that school in the first place. Not just bunnies in top hats then, huh?”

“You are who wouldn’t come very far.” Robin whispered to herself with a roll of her eyes as she made for her room with her letter still clasped tightly in hand, not even honoring her father’s remark with a reply. Honestly, her dad wouldn’t understand a single word about anything magical at all, seeing as he made every attempt not to, nor would he ever understand that she wasn’t attending a clown’s college but a serious magical academy. And… oh bloody hell, he would probably hate Snape with a passion. Well, good thing they never had to meet. Hopefully. Unfortunately. Ugh… that crush of hers wasn’t getting any better, rather on the opposite. But she usually could ignore it pretty well these days.

With a sigh she sat down on the carpeted floor, leaning against the post of her bed as she opened the envelope at last. This letter was a lot shorter than the first, but she didn’t mind. The sole fact that he had replied even though he didn’t have to was enough to make her skin crawl in excitement.

Miss Mitchell.

I cannot believe that you told off one of the best renowned potioneers in the country, and obviously were in the right to do so. What I would give to have been a witness of the incident indeed; I have always had a rather strong distaste for that man. You will need to tell me more on the specifics of the circumstances once term starts.

Furthermore I have come to the decision that I would like you to assist me in my practical work and studies from now, seeing as I deem any other mode of teaching you insufficient and thus pointless. Your knowledge is already on an acceptable level, as you have once more proven at the conference, and I believe it is time that your practical capabilities keep up with both my standards for your work and your own. You will assist me in my work, and in return I will do my best to teach you everything I possibly can. Seeing as you have run out of books of mine to read, I believe this addition to our already prevalent nightly meetings to be in your best interest as well. I am looking forward to the new term.

Snape

Seconds ticked by and Robin stared at the letter in her hands with a positive numbness, until at last her lips curled into a smile, then a grin, and at last she felt an overwhelming excitement at the opportunity that had just opened up in front of her. Well, and the fact that he had in all seriousness written 'already prevalent nightly meetings’ without any care in the world. It was amazing how absolutely serious and yet casual he was about it. A pleasant shudder ran up Robin’s spine, all the way into her neck. He couldn’t mind her presence all that much if he suggested her to spend even more time perched into the minimal space of the laboratory with him, could he?

She had been helping out in the lab on a few occasions since their endeavour with the restored page in her third year, but it by far hadn’t been a regular thing nor one that could be described as real practical experience. While she’d been desperately wanting and wishing to do this kind of practical work with Snape again, for a multitude of reasons, she had never actually believed that she might. And now she would. God, she couldn’t wait for the holidays to be over already.

______________________________

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justjeonday · 5 years ago

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Remedy | jeon jeongguk

After a disappointing call from his manager, Jeongguk opens up to you about his life as an idol for the first time. No longer the happy and energetic boy you’re so used to, he lets everything out - and his words make your heart heavy with sorrow.

— 𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤; jeon jeongguk x reader

— 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱; 1,808

— 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤; PG

— 𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢; angst, ᶠˡᵘᶠᶠ, idol!au, jeongguk and reader are friends for now

— 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰; none, just sad jeongguk to make your heart ache :(

— 𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰; this is a repost cause I accidentally deleted the original one -.- anyway, this fic is inspired by the meaning behind jeongguk’s solo my time. This was also meant to be a scene in a longer fic I’m planning so if you like this please let me know! I’m really proud of this piece so please enjoy <3

(gif above is not mine!)

Your eyes fall down to the reflection of the city in the black abyss of water beneath you, arms laying against the cool metal railing of the bridge as Jeongguk stands beside you with his shoulder brushing against yours.

The atmosphere had been light all night until just a few minutes ago, when he got a call from his manager. He had suggested for Jeongguk to discontinue with his midnight adventures he’d been having with you, preferably before someone notices it’s him hiding under the bucket hat and black oversized jacket. Jeongguk understands the reasoning of course, knowing it’s only to keep everyone including himself safe - but still he can’t help but to be disappointed.

“What’s on your mind?” You ask as your eyes land on his figure beside you, gaze falling down to study the way he fiddles with his hands.

He sighs, looking up at the sky. “I don’t know, I’m just a little gutted I guess.”

The two of you stand there in silence for a small while, then he speaks again - his voice breaking the silence in your shared bubble.

“Doing this,” he says, gesturing with his hand between the two of you. “It brings some sort of normality to my days in a way, and when we’re out like this I just forget how crazy my life actually is, and it feels so nice to just be with you like this. It feels like I’m just Jeongguk. Not anyone or anything else, not Jeongguk who’s on stage, not the guy who’s good at everything - just me.” He has a small smile on his lips as he finishes, eyes meeting yours.

“I’m happy to know you feel that way,” You smile back.

Yet again, the two of you fall into a comfortable silence - and despite the big city you’re in it actually feels silent, peaceful.

Seoul is never really silent. Behind you on the bridge, outside the walls of your bubble, there’s still plenty of cars driving by even though dawn is slowly approaching. Groups of friends still pass you by, loud from the exciting buzz a Friday night out brings. The city never sleeps and there’s constant sound filling the atmosphere.

However with Jeongguk next to you, every noise, every person fades into the night - and left is just the two of you and the stars.

You tune back in with reality as he speaks again, his tone suddenly a little different than before. “I just get lonely sometimes… living like this.”

Your look up at him, his smile now nowhere to be seen. You watch as he lets his gaze wander over the night sky, the lights of Seoul reflecting in his eyes. His dark orbs create galaxies of their own, stars shining in them just like the celestial bodies in the dark above you. And without realizing, you’ve come to prefer stargazing into them rather than the sky.

He exhales, his parted lips making way for a shaky breath before he continues speaking. “It almost feels like I exist in a different time and space than everyone around me.” He gathers the courage to meet your own gaze, voice weak as he talks.

A feeling of concern starts growing in your chest and your heart starts to ache as you see the sorrow in his eyes, a sight you’ve never seen before. The man in front of you, whom you’ve spent almost every day with for the past month, suddenly feels foreign to you. There’s no playfulness hidden in his features, no witty comments lingering on the tip of his tongue - waiting to be said just before the two of you break into laughter. His warm, dark irises almost seem sombre to you and the dimple you’re so used to seeing next to his bunny smile is now visible in a different emotion as his lips press together into a line.

It breaks you to see him like this.

“It all happened so fast, you know?” He says along with a sigh, looking out over Han River again as his fingers curl around the railing in front of him.

You turn towards him slightly, wanting him to know he has your full attention. You admire his features as he searches for words to say, deciding not to interrupt and just let him speak his mind.

“I started working to fulfill my dreams at such a young age I missed out on so much, and even though I’ve come so far - to a place I never even imagined I could reach - there’s still traces of losses, like something’s missing in here,” he lays a hand over his heart, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he fists the fabric of his hoodie. “It’s a strange feeling to miss something you’ve never known in the first place, something you might never know. I never had the chance to do all the things other guys my age have done, like dating or spending time with friends downtown at an ungodly hour and just messing around and being a normal teenager. Even just the simplest things, boring things, like studying for an exam along with other students and going to study groups.”

You feel your heart shatter into two as you notice his eyes becoming glossy, the stars in them shining brighter before they start fading - the fuel keeping them alive slowly disappearing.

You can’t even begin to imagine what he must feel like, not knowing mundane experiences that close to everyone his age has experience - things that most people experience daily. How lonely it must get when you can’t relate to anyone around you no matter how much you might want to, and the only one who’d really understand what you’re feeling being yourself. No one to turn to who’d be able to help or give advice.

You feel your eyes starting to sting as you stand beside him, but you’re quick to blink the tears away - wanting to stay strong for him when he’s weak. Knowing Jeongguk, if you’d let a tear fall he’d immediately put you first and do everything in his power to comfort you and make you feel okay. But he needs you now, more than he ever has before.

You reach out and take his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers with his. This makes him look down at them, a subtle smile tugging at his lips as he sniffles quietly.

“I don’t want to sound ungrateful because that’s so far from what I am, the life I’m living is more than I ever dreamed of and to have met the six people who now mean so much to me, and have raised me, makes me feel so lucky.” He smiles, eyes still glossy. “And the fact I have so many people supporting me in what I love to do means more than anything. It’s all just bittersweet in a way, but I’m sure my time will come someday.”

Your gaze moves from your interlocked hands to his eyes, and only then you realize he’s crying. Worry blooms in your chest and your hand leaves his to rub over his bicep as you search for his gaze.

“Hey,” you say softly, the volume of your voice barely above a whisper.

He looks down, wanting to hide his face from you but your hands come up to cup his jaw. This makes him look up and turn towards you, a pained expression painting his features. With eyebrows scrunched and his lips quivering he shakily inhales.

The stars sparkling in his eyes just minutes ago have turned liquid, swimming in his eyes before they spill down his cheeks - leaving his eyes dull and empty, like how you imagine space would look like without its galaxies.

“Sorry,” He chokes out, eyes closing to avoid meeting yours as more tears run down his face.

“Stop, just look at me,” you say. After a few seconds of no response you proceed to wipe the wet paths on his cheeks with your thumbs before whispering, “Jeongguk, please.”

At your soft pleading voice, his eyes flutter open.

“It’s okay not to be okay,” you tell him. “It’s okay to cry.”

He nods as you wipe his tears away, only for more to fall as he bites down hard on his bottom lip - his breath erratic as he inhales.

The pad of your thumb comes up to his lips and soothingly skims over the pink of them, making him release the sore skin caught between his teeth to let you caress it softly.

The sight of him like this breaks your heart a little more for every tear that escapes down his cheeks, and all you want to do is make him feel okay. You’ll do anything.

You’d put every single star up in his sky if he asked you to.

Removing your hands from his face, you put your arms around his neck and pull him into your embrace. Before long you feel his arms around your waist, your body ending up even closer to his as he hugs you tightly.

You softly run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and you feel him relax against you at the touch, his head falling to your shoulder as he inhales and exhales deeply to calm himself down and steady his breath.

“I wish I could take it away,” You say quietly, tears yet again stinging in your eyes as you think of his words.

In all your life, you’ve never met someone like the person in your embrace. Jeongguk, in spite of his success and achievements, is the most humble person you’ve ever known. No matter where you are, or what situation the two of you have stumbled into, he never fails to be kind and polite to those he meets.

His heart is so big he apologizes for anything that might be an inconvenience to others when he hasn’t done anything wrong in the first place. Just like right now, how he felt the need to apologize for crying. You’re certain his heart is made of pure gold.

You feel him pause for a moment, trying to figure out what your words are referring to. “Take what away?” He asks, pulling away to look at you while keeping his arms around you still.

“The pain…, the loneliness.”

His eyes linger on you before he pulls you against him again, his cheek pressed against your temple.

“You being here with me is more than enough,” He says, and you sense the small smile on his lips.

You feel warmth spread through your body as you hear his words, hugging him tighter. You shiver as he leans down to rest his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath making goosebumps appear on your skin before he whispers;

“You’re my remedy.”

#ficswithluv #btsbookclub #btswriterscollective #btswritingcafe #bangtanfairygarden #jeon jungkook #jungkook drabble #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook fanfic #jeongguk #bangtan #bts fics #bts angst #bts #fic; remedy #kirawrites

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presumenothing · 5 years ago

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When Riza opens the front door of the Elrics’ flat in Central (which is nominally under their name but potentially occupied by any combination of a remarkable assortment of people at any given time, an alarming percentage of whom scorned mundane things like keys in favour of lock-picking and fifth-floor windows) it’s to find Edward sprawled facedown on the couch, golden hair loose in a veritable halo around him.

Sprawled so throughly, in fact, that he doesn’t even twitch at her entrance, lying still enough that a fainter-hearted person might’ve gone screaming for help.

Fortunately for all concerned, this doesn’t even rank in comparison to some of the histrionics Riza’s been front-line witness to over the years, so she merely closes the door behind her and returns the spare key to the hidden pocket in her purse. “Should I be concerned?”

The lump on the couch lets out a string of wholly intelligible noises.

Riza quirks an eyebrow. “I’m afraid only Alphonse speaks that particular dialect of couch.”

That gets Edward huffing something recognisable as laughter, before pushing himself up far enough so that he can flop over – backwards this time, glaring at the ceiling.

“Apparently I can’t just pull research all-nighters whenever I want anymore,” he says, in the same sullen groan that other people might’ve used for the doctor says no more drinking ever unless I’ve decided a liver is optional.

“Ah.” Riza doesn’t bother with outward sympathy like she might’ve done usually, because Edward’s never appreciated that, but the sentiment is genuine nonetheless.

As is her retroactive relief that she hadn’t badgered the General into coming along after all, since she can already imagine him ragging Edward about getting old, and. Well. She’s already suffered through more than her share of juvenile hair-pulling arguments after the demilitarisation council meetings today, thank you very much.

It’s why she’d decided to drop by and see the Elrics now instead of waiting for the weekend; at least when they descend into petty sniping at each other it’s entertaining to watch rather than a complete waste of time.

Though speaking of which – Riza’s just about to ask where Alphonse is when Edward’s low-level grumbling is interrupted by a meow.

He curses under his breath, and since it’s definitely not for Riza’s benefit (she had been present for the swear-off between him and Havoc and Breda, after all) she assumes it’s for the benefit of the smaller lump he’s now untangling from his hair, which resolves into a kitten-shaped bundle as Edward bellows. “AL!”

True to form, Alphonse chooses that moment to – for lack of a more dignified word – sail in through the front door with a paper bag of groceries in either arm. It lends further credence to the betting pool about the Elrics actually having telepathy; Riza’s not a betting person, so her concern is mostly about how many of Roy Mustang’s mannerisms Alphonse appears to have picked up on.

He smiles brightly as he makes a beeline past her to deposit the bags on the kitchen counter. “Hullo, Colonel Hawkeye.”

Riza nods cordially in return. Any reply she might have made would’ve been drowned out by Edward’s now-louder complaints about cats in his hair.

The feline in question looks fairly unperturbed despite being held like a beaker of flammable propellant (Riza supposes that’s what it’d take, anyway, to approach a sleeping Elric) and Alphonse seems to agree as he homes in on them like a magnet. “Aw, Brother, Cookies likes you! I think it’s the shiny hair.”

Edward holds it even further from his face – not very high, all told, since he’s not gotten up from the couch yet, but out of batting range from his hair. “It does not like me it just wants to make me bald why are you naming your cats after food now Al have you not been eating enough.”

“Not all food,” Alphonse says reproachfully, like this is a reasonable thing to be arguing about. “Some of them are condiments, and if there’s anyone here who’s not been eating properly it’s you. Have you been in the library this whole time since I went out?”

Riza decides to help put away the groceries. A good half of the cupboard labels are scrawled in Xingese, but after all the diplomatic missions she can manage that much.

Edward’s mulish scowl is practically audible anyway.

“I’m really not above persuading every librarian in this city to bar you from entering, y’know,” Alphonse threatens, though it loses much of the intimidation factor when he’s clearly cooing over the bundle of meow. “Don’t make me do it.”

“You wouldn’t have to if those imperial alkahestrists would stop using fucking Riemannian geometry in their arrays, including the extra dimensional variables into the calculations is a bloody pain.”

“Well, it’s far more intuitive if you can feel–”

“–yeah, the Dragon’s Pulse, I know, ugh. But that doesn’t exclude it from having to make sense mathematically, too, and mmmphf.”

Riza glances back into the living room to find that Edward has been derailed by virtue of his brother liberating Cookies to replace it with something actually edible instead, to which Edward’s response is as blessedly predictable as ever.

Alphonse must catch her looking, as well, or at least he realises that Riza’s not exactly free enough to drop by for a purely social call these days. “Was there something you wanted to discuss with us, Colonel?”

“Something we’d like you both to investigate, yes,” Riza confirms. “No one’s quite sure what’s happening, but it’s probably going to need alchemists to resolve – I’ll pass you the briefing later, but it’s probably easier if I explain first. Shall I make some tea?”

Alphonse nods, leaning over to set Cookie down on one of the cat highways transmuted into the walls of their flat. “Second cupboard from the right, bottom shelf.”

“But not any of the tins with Xingese on it,” Edward pauses in inhaling food to add. “That’s Al’s dead leaf juice collection, it’s vile.”

“Ginseng is good for you, and it’s not a leaf. I know you know this.” Alphonse unceremoniously clears Edward’s feet off the couch far enough for him to sit, earning him a hiss that’s not unlike a cat. “It’s the black tin with gold lettering, Colonel, you can bring some back with you to try if you’d like.”

“That’d be lovely, thank you.” Riza glances through the labels until she finds something low on caffeine; powering through today’s meetings required enough coffee that she might not be entirely imagining the hum in her bloodstream. “I’d also suggest working out actual prices for your consultation work, since bartering favours isn’t going to be sustainable, if you’re planning to go into this for the long term.”

Or rather if they plan on consulting with anyone besides the one person who can be counted on not to forget such favours when it’s convenient, but there’s no need to spell it out with the Elrics.

She unearths a clearly-neglected tin of white tea in time to see Edward flapping a hand carelessly as he pointedly relocates his feet onto Alphonse’s lap. “Take that up with Al.”

Alphonse sighs, but doesn’t otherwise move. “I’ll be happy to listen to any suggestions you might have, Colonel.”

“I can draw up some tables based on what others have charged for similar services in the past,” Riza agrees, like anyone could really offer anything close to what the Elrics have. “Also most tea is dead leaf juice.”

“Exactl– hey!” Edward’s head pops up from the couch like a betrayed prairie dog with a bad hair day. “Whose side are you on!?”

“The winning one,” Riza answers mildly, and sets the kettle to boil while they argue over whose side that is.

(Cookies pauses on the nearest piece of highway to eye her hair clip, and Alphonse must be right: it does seem to like shiny things. Riza resolves to find out where they keep the cat treats.)

(more fics here)

#2 separate bits of this have been sitting in my mishmash drafts for ages #here is me gluing them together with like. 1.3k words of context. why #fma #fmab #fanfiction #mine #yes this is two posts in a day because i got halfway through this one yesternight before giving up to sleep #one more for the 'ed is okay post-canon' pile

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tea-at-221 · 5 years ago

Text

The TJLC Debacle: 3 years out from S4 and counting; the copyright mini-theory; so much salt I’m bloated; but in the end, there is peace (I love you Johnlockers)

Ugh, don't even talk to me about Mary.

Don't even talk to me about the way Mofftiss have said they're sick of responding to fans on the subject of Johnlock. Of how they've said they're "not telling anyone else what to think or write about them" (as if they could stop us; as if they even own Sherlock themselves. Do keep reading, because this point becomes much more relevant and in-jokey later on). Don't even mention how they've bitched and whined incessantly because--god forbid--fans got *really really* into their show and emotionally invested.

They're so eager to discount all the beautiful little moments they wrote as accidents. And Arwel, who planted all those props, continually demonstrates that he's on their side (a not-very in-depth-analysis of his Instagram account and the way he interacted with fans towards the beginning of the pandemic showed as much, but I think maybe he’s grown a bit wiser and quieter since at least in terms of Johnlock and all things elephant-related. I don’t know for sure because I stopped looking.)

Anyway--they'd actually prefer for us to celebrate our own intelligence, is I suppose a charitable way of looking at it: our ability to make connections between things in the show; our metas on symbolism; our insightful fanfic; etc., and denounce them as the bad writers that they ultimately are.

More under the cut.

(This post may be of interest to you especially if you came to the fandom a bit later: multiple links to things of relevance/quotes/explanations appear both within and at the end of this entry.)

Because what makes a writer good?

Well, an ability to make people feel an emotional connection to their work, for one. I know this is just my own perspective, but if not for Johnlock, all my emotion about the show would evaporate. There wouldn't be much else there. Other people might get something, but I wouldn’t. Is some of the writing witty and entertaining regardless of any inferred/implied Johnlock? Yeah but, eh, a lot of shows have some good writing and I just don’t give a damn about them.

What makes a writer good?

Not making promises to the reader/viewer that they'll never keep. Plot holes, leading dialogue ("There’s stuff you wanted to say...but didn’t say it.” “Yeah”) never followed through on, puns that are apparently, I suppose, unintentional (e.g. "'Previous' commander?" "I meant 'ex'").

Uh, not writing continual gay jokes that aren't actually pointing toward the inference that people are making them because there's actually something going on there under the surface. (How about just don't make those jokes ever.)

Not being, apparently, oblivious (? questionable) to the queerbaiting they're engaging in *as they’re writing it.*

Acting like their LGBT audience is in the wrong/the bad guy, instead of choosing to remain respectful in the face of dissent. Instead it's just, "we never wrote it that way" / "We never played it that way."

A lot of those other mildly witty shows don’t actually blatantly drag their most passionate fans face-down through the mud the writers themselves created. Imagine that.

I'm not even a fan of Martin Freeman anymore, for the way he handled the whole thing (getting angry, the comments he made about how the fans made Sherlock “not fun anymore”...apparently Martin’s packing up his crayons and going home?)...no offense to anyone who is still a fan of his. I don’t make it a habit to drag him. I do to some degree understand his frustration with having the whole situation taken out on him--he’s just an actor in the show--but I simply wish he’d remained as cool and professional about it as Benedict Cumberbatch instead of pointing at the fans. You’re pointing in the wrong direction, mate.

What also irks me at the end of the day is this: the subsection of people who legitimately responded badly to the TJLC/S4 debacle and went above and beyond to harass the writers and actors/actresses on social media are *few and far between*, but we've been lumped in with them by what feels like...everyone, Martin included. TJLCers/Johnlockers (not the same group, but often treated as such) have been made to look like a bunch of rambunctious, immature, demanding children time and time and again in the wake of S4.

They'd rather, what, suggest John was so in love with Mary? THAT was the relationship they wanted to uphold in that show as so significant and...what, a demonstration of how honorable it is to respect your heterosexual relationship despite, you know...ANYTHING?

Yeah sorry, I don’t believe in that. John’s text-based affair, whether a disappointment for some as to his supposed character, was a very human reaction and I kinda sorta feel like I would have reacted MUCH more strongly than that had I been John. But nope. He stayed with Mary and was *ashamed* of his wandering eye. Ashamed that maybe he wanted to be admired by someone. I can’t think of a scene, off the top of my head, where Mary ever interacted with John without belittling him in some way--if not with words, then with consistently patronizing glances.

The message here is that heterosexuality is not just acceptable, but VALUABLE, however it manifests--but god forbid anyone see a queer subtext. (Why are lgbt+ writers some of the very WORST offenders where this is concerned? And they defend it! Is this childhood nostalgia/Stockholm Syndrome of the very fondest variety or what? Gay angst is all they got if they got anything at all, so it’s still good enough as far as “representation” goes?)

They really want to tell the story of John as so emotionally/mentally fucked up that he surrounds himself with unstable people time and again. They never give any reason *why* he might do that (which they could have done even soooo subtly), or delve into his past--just, apparently it's okay to assume that Sherlock's comment about "she's like that because you chose her" is exactly that.

No. Sherlock and Mary are NOT the same. Not...*remotely*!

Mary is underhanded and evil. She lies. She manipulates. She schemes. Her “love” is based on selfishness, and her assumption that John is a simpleton and hers to mold. She's in it for herself.

Sherlock hides. He prevaricates. He feels. He loves John. He does fucked up things in the name of love, but always for the benefit of those he loves. When he screws up, which he obviously does, it’s painful to us as the audience because we see that it is painful for him when he recognizes and regrets it.

I have never seen Mary regret anything. Those crocodile tears at Christmas? More manipulation. Inconsistent with anything else we were shown about her as a character.

To even think for a SECOND that people could ship Mary and John and mentally condemn John for cheating on Mary AFTER SHE SHOT HIS BEST FRIEND...as if marriage is the be-all-end-all free pass in which every sin must be forgiven until the end of time...as if John broke any covenant with his wife beyond those she broke from the very moment she walked into his life *with an entire fake past.* Is just. Well. It's asking us to accept gaslighting as healthy, loving, normal, *preferable* behavior, so...given the source that message is coming from, it's all a bit meta.

THAT. Is insanity. Maybe Mofftiss are the sociopaths.

How these men could write characters they themselves understand so little (or tell us they understand so little because their emotional maturity has yet to surpass that of the average three-year-old’s), I will never know. I can only imagine that they have absorbed, by osmosis over their lives, real and nuanced human behavior...then churned it back out again in their writing unaware, a bit like psychopaths who teach themselves what "normal" people do so that they can pass as psychologically sound in regular society.

Remember, we *are* talking about men who do these sorts of things:

Moffat says that Sherlock is celibate and that people who claim he's misogynistic when he does things like make Irene Adler imply she's attracted to the detective (even though she's a lesbian) are, ironically, "deeply offensive" (despite lines like "look at us both" in Battersea. We aren't your therapists, Moffat--we don't care what you meant, we care what you said, and what you *said* was clear. *Implying* it does not let you off the hook).

Gatiss has proclaimed that "I find flirting with the homoeroticism in Sherlock much more interesting" than the idea of ever making a show addressing LGBT issues. (That link is to a reddit forum, and I can't find the original interview anymore, but I assure you I had seen the actual article myself ages back and can't find it online again now along with some of the Martin quotes I wanted to link to. And nevermind what Gatiss has done with LGBT shows/issues since--my focus here is on what he has said, versus what he and Moffat have since claimed regarding their queerbaiting.)

Here’s a transcript of this screenshot:

"...many people come up and say they didn't realise." Despite this lack of public awareness, being part of the gay community is clearly important to Gatiss: "The older I get the more I want to give something back. I mean, I keep meaning to do something." When asked if he'd be interested in making a series about gay issues his response was enlightening:

"No, I don't think I'd make a kind of gay programme. It's much more interesting when it's not about a single issue. And equally, I find flirting with the homoeroticism in Sherlock much more interesting. Of course this reflects the grand picture of everyone's strange make-up; there are good gay people and bad gay people. I wouldn't like to make an issue film around the culture of being gay."

Instead Gatiss' interest seems to lie in making a drama where sexuality is, if not mundane, part of the wider framework: "I'd quite like to do something about a quite happy, ordinary gay person who's just incidentally gay. For example, a three-part thriller for ITV where the lead character just happens to be gay; when they finally go home, say 45 minutes in, and they had a same sex partner. That to me would be genuinely progressive. It wouldn't be a three-part gay thriller for ITV. It would be that this character just happened to be gay."

--End article quote.

And instead, who is canonically gay in the series? Well, Irene Adler. The innkeepers at the Cross Keys. And perhaps most notably, the *villains*, because that's a helpful trope: Moriarty and Eurus are, in S4, both implied to be at least bisexual.

Any character should be able to be any sexuality, this is true. But can we have some main characters, the good guys, give some good representation? Can't we start making that the standard, rather than the villains and the background characters? Because so far, that is the exception and not the rule.

Writers need to be aware of the damage they are perpetuating. We are not quite in a world yet where any character should be able to be any sexuality but isn't, yet we have no problem with saying the villain is LGBT+ or looks different/functions differently than much of the viewing audience.

"Male friendship is important and valid, not everything has to be gay"--this is a popular point with casual heterosexual viewers (and, to my chagrin, some of my LGBT+ friends) who don't fully grasp what "queerbaiting" is, often even when it's pointed out to them.

The lens of heterosexuality is real. My first time through watching BBC Sherlock, I didn't see the Johnlock at all. I had to look for it and read about it. When I saw it, the lens was lifted for me, and it changed my life and the way I view things forever (and for the best).

But back to my point about how little Mofftiss seem to understand their own story/most ardent fans, and then on to my other theory: in S4 it must be that they dropped their “psychopaths emulating empathy” act and indulged in their own "insane wish fulfillment" by doing away with all of the meaning, continuity, and sense. Right?

So, here’s the alternate theory. One which is not, please remember, in their defense.

Remember that S4 is what Mofftiss are *happy* to have us believe is what they'd do with these characters, given the chance to do whatever they wanted. I repeat, in Moffat’s own words: “Insane wish fulfillment.”

Okay I get it, this pasta has been over-salted.

Without further delay: MY COPYRIGHT RESEARCH THEORY THAT EVEN I DON'T PUT MUCH STOCK IN AND WHICH DOESN’T MAKE UP FOR THEIR CRUELTY EVEN IF TRUE

Part of me also raises an eyebrow at S4 as perhaps an example of the effect of the Conan Doyle estate on any modern production in the US. While it’s true that all of Sherlock is part of public domain in the UK and has been for quite a long time, Gatiss and Moffat still talk about it being partially under copyright. Specifically, the last 10 stories. I’m supposing that this means that because Sherlock airs internationally, or due to whatever contract the BBC has with the Doyle estate, they are still limited by the copyright as to what they can “publish”.

The Doyle estate is known for being a pain in the ass when it comes to abiding by copyright law as everyone else knows and practices it. They’ve tried to argue, for example (in 2013 and, much more recently, with the advent of Enola Holmes), that because Holmes and Watson were not fully developed as their final selves until the conclusion of all 10 stories still under copyright, then perhaps the characters themselves should still be protected, basically, in full.

It’s true that certain elements of the remaining stories are still under copyright here in the US (Watson had more than one wife--uh huh, we have that to look forward to, Johnlockers; the Garridebs moment is still under copyright--yeah, I’m getting to that too; and Sherlock didn’t care much for dogs til later so that’s not allowed either, fuck off Redbeard), but the estate’s problem in 2013 seemed to be based around a fear that *gasp* some day--if not right now!--anyone could write a Sherlock Holmes story in any way they pleased, changing the characters however they wished to and giving those characters “multiple personalities.”

See the following excerpt from the Estate’s case:

“...at any given point in their fictional lives, the two men's characters depend on the Ten Stories. It is impossible to split the characters into public domain versions and complete versions.”

(Click for full transcript.)

Obviously, by this point, that’s been done in multiple iterations. So I dunno. Their argument was *more* than muddy to begin with--they just grasp at straws to stay in control, it seems.

But okay. Backing up: wasn’t there sort-of a Garridebs moment in S4?!?? you cry. Yep. But imagine this: the Conan Doyle estate taking Mofftiss to court to argue that they depicted the Garridebs moment--a moment still under copyright--in The Final Problem.

Did they, though? Did they really?

The fandom cried out about the ridiculousness--the utter disappointment--of that moment when it was shown. It was not what we would have expected/wanted. We didn’t see John injured, Sherlock reacting with tender outrage to the good doctor’s attacker.

Instead we saw some ludicrous BS that was as bad as the clown with the sword-gun-umbrella. More of that.

I think Martin probably found that it was easy to produce real tears when he thought about how fucking terrible the S4 scripts were.

Ahem. Yet, this all seems very Mofftiss-flavored in terms of humor.

I can all-too-easily imagine them saying, “HA. We’re going to show some of these supposedly copyrighted things--and if they take us to court, they’ll be laughed out of the room.” Could that explain some of the overall S4 fuckery?

Sherlock wasn’t supposed to like dogs til later stories, as previously mentioned-- is that why Redbeard pulled a “Cinderella’s carriage” and transformed into a pumpkin (Victor Trevor)? Hmm. Sigh.

It...doesn’t actually appear that the estate has any qualms about taking laughable stuff to court, I mean...*shrug.* They have the money to do it, and money is the name of the game, because you’ve got to pay for rights (cha-ching sounds).

Yep, it does seem that the estate is open to the copyrighted materials being made reality, but who knows for what price or with what caveats. The BBC isn’t, so far as I’ve ever heard, known for throwing money around. Early Doctor Who would be so much less entertaining if they’d had any sort of budget. (And in fact, more of the older episodes would exist, but apparently the BBC--in part to cut costs--reused some of their tapes.)

My bottom-line bitter is this: Mofftiss do like to amuse themselves. To please themselves and no one else, as they’ve shown time and again. Sure, they could do whatever they wanted with S4...and they did...but they were also cruel about it, and that’s what I’ll never forgive them--OR the BBC--for.

A lot of fans gave up after series 4. I was very nearly one of them. I was angry, like just about every other Johnlocker and/or TJLCer, but I was really truly heartbroken. I couldn’t look at fanfiction. My days were full of bitterness and I keenly felt the lack of the fandom outlet that had become so essential to my mental well-being. I didn't know how to overcome the disparity between TJLC and what the show actually was. I didn't know how to separate the things I loved so much from the shitty writers and the way the BBC handled things with their whole response letter (that atrocious, childish blanket response they sent to everyone who complained about S4, not just the Johnlockers/TJLCers. Related to your complaint or not, if you filed one post-S4, this was the response you got). I still boycott BBC shows/merchandise, just by the way.

I tried to link to the blanket response letter but the link didn’t want to work (it’s an old reddit post; I had difficulty finding a copy of the letter elsewhere though at one point it wasn’t so hard...Google is weird these days y’all...tell me it’s not just me) so here’s a screenshot:

Transcript:

“Thank you for contacting us about “Sherlock”.

The BBC and Hartswood Films have received feedback from some viewers who were disappointed there was not a romantic resolution to the relationship between Sherlcok and John in the finale of the latest season of “Sherlock”.

We are aware that the majority of this feedback uses the same text posted on websites and circulated on social media.

Through four series and thirteen episodes, Sherlock and John have never shown any romantic or sexual interest in each other. Furthermore, whenever the creators of “Sherlock” have been asked by fans if the relationship might develop in that direction, they have always made it clear that it would not.

Sherlock’s writers, cast and producers have long been firm and vocal supporters of LGBT rights.

The BBC does not accept the allegations leveled at “Sherlock” or its writers, and we wholeheartedly support the creative freedom of the writers to develop the story as they see fit.

We will of course register your disappointment.

Thank you for contacting us.

Kind Regards,

BBC Complaints Team

So how about that? *Did* they “register our disappointment”? We can actually check that. The BBC’s website has a monthly summary of complaints received. So what did they receive in January 2017, the month S4 aired?

Huh, what do you know. Sounds like that blanket response was exactly the “fuck you” it came across as.

But the show--the FANDOM--had filled a need in my life, and so I had to own that and make it mine, or just...let something in me die: something that felt like an actual vital organ. I had to decide that these characters mean something to me beyond what anyone else tells me they should. I had to accept my own perceptions as truth, as I do with everything else in my life. I had to overcome the idea of canon as law (BBC Sherlock isn't canon anyway; ACD is canon. BBC Sherlock is, in the end, badly written fanfiction--or--worse?--decent pre-slash fanfiction distorted by consistent lies and the hazing of the LGBT audience, topped with the dumpster fire of S4′s incoherent nonsense).

I had to take the good and throw away the bad, just like anyone else who chose to stay. The good bits of the show...dialogue, yes. Plot points, yes. These awful writers did write some good stuff sometimes.

They just broke all the unspoken rules of what not to do to your audience. And then did and said everything they could not to apologize, and to justify their own failings. Which, in the years since I began shipping queer ships beyond any others, I have unfortunately experienced more than once.

So, my vulnerability has been yeeted into the vacuum of broke-my-trustdom: no one can tell me what things should mean to me. I will decide.

I decide that all of the FUCKING AMAZING writing in the Sherlock fandom is a staple in my life that makes it worth living. And that that's okay. And takes precedence over anything the writers or anyone else associated with the show could ever say or do.

Johnlock can not be taken away. It doesn't belong to them. It never did, even if they brought us to it. It belongs to us. To the group of amazingly creative, brainy, empathetic, resourceful, vibrant, resilient people who make up this fandom.

So thank YOU, all of YOU, for giving me Sherlock, Johnlock, and TJLC.

I am SO SAD for those who never found a way to make peace with this fandom again. Let me just say that I understand that inability entirely.

I am fortunate that I found the ability in myself to cling to the joy (something it has taken my whole life to be able to do). I hope others will who haven’t yet but wish they could.

Let Mofftiss and whoever sides with them stay angry and bitter and vicious, always looking over their shoulders for anyone who dares to whisper about subtext.

I’m proud to be part of what they’re whispering so angrily about.

Thanks for sticking it out if you made it this far. I know this was very self-indulgent and rambly.

Articles of interest:

A Study in Queerbaiting (Or How Sherlock Got it All Wrong) by Marty Greyson

“We never played it like that.” - Martin on Johnlock

Henry Cavill on the Enola Holmes lawsuit

More on that--and by the way Sherlock isn’t allowed to like dogs

The way Sherlock creators told fans Sherlock & John aren’t gay is so rude

Especially for those new to the fandom who may not know the distinction between TJLC and Johnlockers and want to know more about TJLC's evolution/what it is/meta through the years

Moffat's view on asexuality, offensive to me in particular *as* an asexual person (same article where he claims he isn't misogynistic): "If he was asexual, there would be no tension in that, no fun in that – it's someone who abstains who's interesting."

Yet he says Sherlock isn't gay or straight and that he's trying to keep his brain pure which is a "very Victorian attitude"

(Nice historical research there, Moff--actually the Victorians were sex-positive).

Sherlock fans were robbed of the gay ending they deserved

Benedict Cumberbatch has lashed out at his Sherlock co-star Martin Freeman over his negative attitude towards fans

BBC complaints January 2017

Martin Freeman: 'Sherlock is gayest story ever'

From 2016: UNPOPULAR OPINION: "Sherlock" Isn't Sexist or Queerbaiting; It's Actually Trying to Stage a Revolution

Queer-baiting on the BBC's Sherlock: Addressing the Invalidation of Queer Identities through Online Fan Fiction Communities by Cassidy Sheehan

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whenihaveyouromione · 5 years ago

Text

When Have You - Chapter 5

Read on Fanfiction.net or ao3 if you prefer.

Follow (without spaces) ‘whenihaveyou . romione’ for extra content with this story.

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Chapter 5

The week following Fred's funeral brought with it a tumultuous wave of emotions that Ron couldn't quite get a handle on. The pain of losing his brother was still raw, unhelped by the tears from his mother, the complete listless mood from George, and the way everyone walked around on eggshells out of fear of upsetting someone. It was the quietest the Burrow had ever been, and it unnerved Ron.

Along with the feelings of hopelessness and sadness was the confusing — yet joyous — feelings of love he felt for Hermione. His feelings for her were growing every day, reaching a point where sometimes it became overwhelming for him and he had to be on his own for an hour or two. He realised this had left Hermione feeling confused, and perhaps slightly hurt, yet he had no idea how he was supposed to explain to her that the reason he couldn't be around her at times was because he loved her so damn much.

After Remus and Tonks' funeral, something resembling relief had overcome him, and Ron found his relationship with Hermione taking on a whole new level of intensity. As the worst parts in the aftermath of the war were now over, and they became more confident with one another, things became more passionate, more physical, the two of them realising they had many years of unresolved tension that had been ignored and left unaddressed.

Ron knew that not every relationship felt like this, for he had not felt even a portion of these feelings for Lavender. But with Hermione, he hoped that these high feelings of intensity were the start of something that could last forever.

And then, along with his growing love for Hermione, was his guilt over Harry. His best friend. Despite showing up for the funerals, and seemingly letting Ginny back into his life, he still hadn't come back to the Burrow. Both Ron and Hermione had been to Grimmauld Place twice to see him, but he'd barely acknowledged their presence. The first time had been calm, but uncomfortable. The second he had been moody, and there had been lots of yelling. They never knew what they were going to get with him, and so — as frustrating as it was — they chose to keep their distance. Harry would come to them when he wanted to, so they would just have to wait.

Summer was very, very close, and to escape the mood of the house, Ron had taken Hermione to the very edge of the Burrow's boundaries to one of his favorite trees. It was near where he and his siblings used to play Quidditch, and it overlooked the Muggle village below.

They sat together under the tree, Hermione with a book in her lap, Ron deciding that watching her was more interesting than anything else. Overcome — like he always was lately — by those big feelings he couldn't quite grasp, he leaned over and kissed her cheek, startling her from her book.

She closed it immediately and looked at him, smiling. He had found the one thing that worked in getting her nose out of a book: himself, apparently, and it had easily become one of Ron’s favourite tactics that he used every chance he got.

And then began the deep kisses, the laughing, the smiling, the best moments of their time together. This alone time, this love, was the reason he got up every morning.

They stayed like that for some time, until, most unexpectedly, she broke away and looked at him as if she wanted to say something, but couldn’t quite find the words.

“What?” Ron asked.

“Oh… nothing,” Hermione said, and she looked very uncomfortable all of a sudden. “I was just wondering… you’ve been a bit distant from me at times, but then other times — like this — you’ve been rather… affectionate. I thought… well, I thought you might have been getting sick of always being around me.”

“What?” Ron fought back a laugh. “Sick of you? Merlin, no. Absolutely not sick of you…” He watched her for a moment, her face anxious as she awaited a response. “This is going to sound really dumb, so don’t laugh, alright... it’s just that sometimes I love you so much that I can’t be around you in fear of doing something stupid like… I dunno, some crazy dance or something ridiculous like that.”

He could tell that this amused her, and that she wanted to laugh, but she did a good job at containing it. “Oh… I see…”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Ron assured her. “But that’s why I sometimes, um, can’t be around you. Quite the opposite of being sick of you.”

“So… you like doing this, then?” and she leaned forward to kiss him once more, their interruption moments earlier completely forgotten as they resumed where they’d left off.

"We'll have to come up with some boundaries if we’re going to stay friends. When I'm around, it's limited to hand-holding only."

Hermione pulled away from Ron immediately, and before Ron could even register who had spoken, she had flung herself into Harry's arms. He hugged her back. Ron climbed to his feet, noticing the big smile on Harry’s face.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione cried, "you came."

"At the wrong time, it seems," Harry said, and Hermione went faintly pink, looking back at Ron with an embarrassed smile.

"It's good to see you, mate," Ron said, also embracing his friend. "We were wondering when you'd —"

"Wake up and stop feeling sorry for myself?" Harry said. "Stop acting like a jerk?"

"No," Hermione said, her voice soft. "When you'd start to feel like you needed your friends again."

Harry gave another smile, and it seemed genuine. He even looked better, like he'd actually slept some. Though, there was still a sadness in his expression, a hollowness that Ron wondered if it would ever completely go away. Harry had been consumed with a lot of guilt, and Ron knew he blamed himself for the deaths that had occurred. Those feelings weren’t going to resolve themselves in a matter of weeks.

“It’s good to see you,” Ron said again.

“Harry, everyone will be so pleased you’re back,” Hermione said. “Why don’t we go to the house? George is here now, and Ron’s mum and dad will be delighted to see you.”

Harry nodded, another smile reflecting in his still-hollow eyes, and without another word, the three of them set off across the field in the direction of the Burrow.

As Hermione had predicted, everyone was thrilled to see Harry. Ginny, who had been drifting between Grimmauld Place and the Burrow over the past week, had given him a huge hug, and much to Ron’s disgust, kissed him, while Molly had sat him down and placed food in front of him, claiming he was far too skinny.

For the first time in three weeks, the mood at the Burrow lifted. It felt as if everyone was finally home — well, everyone except Fred.

By the time midday came, Bill and Fleur returned to their own home, Percy disappeared up the stairs to his bedroom, and despite Ginny trying to steal Harry for a few moments, Harry told her that he’d be with her after he caught up with Ron and Hermione.

So after lunch, the three of them set out for the tree again. The moment they reached it, Hermione let out a gasp, turned and headed back towards the Burrow. She shouted something behind her about being back in a moment.

Settled with their backs against the tree, eyes following Hermione’s receding figure, Harry gave a wry chuckle. “I didn’t mean what I said before,” he said. “I like seeing the two of you happy together. We need some kind of happiness in these times.”

Ron went slightly red, his eyes still fixed on where Hermione had just been. “Yeah…” He turned back to Harry, who was watching him, as if waiting for him to say more. About Hermione? Talking about feelings wasn’t exactly how their friendship functioned, but a lot of things had changed over the past weeks. Ron was one of them.

“You love her, don’t you?” Harry said.

“Yeah, I do.” Ron hesitated, and then added, “It’s not going to be weird, is it?” The last thing he wanted was for their friendship to be affected by this new-found relationship.

“No.” Harry shook his head. “I think I’d resigned myself to this happening eventually a long time ago.”

Ron smiled. “You want to know what the weirdest thing is?”

“Not really, but go ahead,” Harry said, perhaps sensing where the conversation was heading.

“That it isn’t weird at all. I thought… well, I was a little worried it was going to be weird — you know, the physical stuff — because we’ve been friends for so long, but it wasn’t. Not at all. It felt right, you know?”

To Ron’s surprise, Harry smiled. “I’m glad for the two of you,” he said. “Really, I am. But for the record, that’s the only time I’m allowing you to share with me the intimate details of your relationship. From here on in, I don’t want to know.”

Ron flushed, then nodded. “Yeah, alright. I just don’t know who else to talk about it to.”

“To Hermione, I suppose,” Harry said.

“Yeah, I guess…”

The conversation drifted on to other things after that; things that they hadn’t been able to talk about since the war. Mundane things.

Diagon Alley would be reopening soon. Shops had already started to open their doors for several hours a few days a week. Harry suggested if they wanted to escape the confinements of the Burrow, they should go one day — the three of them, and Ginny if she wanted to as well.

Ron was just filling Harry in on how the cleanup at Hogwarts was going when Hermione returned, carrying a large book. For a moment, Ron thought she was going to read to them, but then she passed it to Harry.

“Hermione…” Harry said, staring down at its cover. “Where… where did you find it?”

Hermione, her cheeks slightly pink, said, “I packed it with us… in the bag. I thought… I thought you might have needed it at times, but you didn’t. I’ve kept it safe, Harry, I swear. It’s in perfect condition.”

Ron shuffled closer to Harry to see just what Hermione had brought back. It was a photo album; Harry’s photo album, which contained pictures of his parents, Sirius, Remus, everyone.

Harry looked up at Hermione, awed. “Thank you,” he said.

“I thought you might need it now,” Hermione said, sitting on the grass opposite them. “Just as a reminder that this has all happened for a reason. That they started the fight, and we finished it. All of us.”

Harry flipped through the pages of the book, pausing at ones that were of his parents and of others who had since been lost. Looking at the photos gave Ron an idea.

“It would be great if we could get something together like that,” he said. “You know, for everyone who died fighting both wars.”

Both Hermione and Harry stared at him.

“I know they’re getting the monument at Hogwarts, and in the Ministry, which is great. Their names will be remembered, but over time, their faces will be forgotten. I’m thinking portraits, or something. Something the next generation can remember. A book, even, detailing their lives.”

“That’s a great idea, Ron,” Hermione said. “A book would be fantastic. A history book of some kind so new students at Hogwarts can learn about the war, learn about all those who died fighting for what was right.” She looked at Harry. “Your parents, too. Anyone who fought Voldemort, anyone who died.”

“You’d know how to get that going, wouldn’t you?” Ron asked Hermione. “I’ve got no clue, but I’d really like my brother’s face to be remembered, not just his name.”

Hermione was thoughtful for a moment. “I… suppose I could look into it, but I think we’d have to go to someone like the Minister to get it going. I can’t see Kingsley objecting, though. I bet he’ll think it’s a great idea!”

They spent another hour discussing more details of this supposed history book. Who was going to write it — they decided the families of the lost — and how they’d go about producing such a thing. How could they make it accurate and educational (Hermione said she could help with that). By late afternoon, they left the tree and made their way slowly back to the Burrow, where the others were already preparing dinner.

“Oh, how kind of the three of you to join us,” Ginny said, her voice harsh. It seemed that she was unhappy over having been left out of their catch-up.

“Come off it, Ginny,” Ron said. “You’ve practically spent the last week with Harry.”

Ginny opened her mouth to say something insulting, but Bill, apparently sensing a potential argument, said, “Hermione, a letter arrived for you not so long ago.”

“A letter?” Hermione said, looking confused. “From who?”

“The Ministry,” Bill told her.

Hermione’s face paled, and she asked where it was. Bill passed her the official Ministry envelope that had been sitting on the table, and Hermione left the room.

When she didn’t return thirty minutes later, Ron went in search of her, finding her sitting on his bed, the open letter in her hand and tears running down her cheeks.

Worried, he sat down beside her, an arm around her shoulders, as she turned to cry into him. He held her, not speaking, mimicking the way she’d held him a week ago at Fred’s funeral.

Running his hand up and down her back, feeling her tears wet his shirt, he took the letter from her hand and read it.

Dear Miss Granger,

Thank you for your inquiry into locating your parents. Due to the state of current affairs, we were unable to get back to you any sooner. However, because of your active involvement in the war, we hurried through your request and sent a team to Australia with the information you provided in the hope of locating your parents.

This letter is to inform you that we have located them, and they are now under the watch of the Ministry of Magic until you are able to travel there yourself. As per your request, no one has made an attempt to restore their memories, but we will have you know that they seem to be safe, well and happy.

Enclosed are the details of their location. Once you are ready to travel, please reply via owl, and we will arrange your travel and expenses for you immediately.

Your support in the war is much appreciated, and we will endeavour to ensure you have as much support as needed throughout this journey.

Sincerely,

Magda Finch, Newly Appointed Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Ron flipped to the second page of the letter, reading over the details the Ministry had provided of Hermione’s parents’ whereabouts. It seemed that they’d made quite a life for themselves in the year they’d been there.

Hermione continued to cry into his shoulder, and Ron held her. After a moment, he said, “I bet you’re relieved.”

Wiping her puffy red eyes, Hermione pulled away and looked at him. “I thought it was bad news when Bill told me,” she sniffed. “I thought… they were going to tell me the worst.”

“I didn’t even know you asked them to help,” Ron said.

“I did it the day after we got here,” Hermione told him. “I didn’t know whether to say something. You were dealing with everything, and I didn’t want to worry about it until I knew one way or another what was going to happen. I also thought it would take them longer to locate them.”

Ron brushed away a stray hair sticking to her face and smiled. “I’m guessing you’ll be going as soon as possible?” A pang of guilt suddenly hit him, and he looked down at the letter in his hand. He’d not even thought to ask how she might have been feeling about her parents; in fact, he’d all but forgotten that she’d sent them away with no memories of her. He’d been so caught up in his own grief and being with her, that he’d failed to think of her pain. He gave her hand a squeeze.

Hermione was silent for a moment, thoughtful. Then she said, “Please come with me.”

“What?”

“Come with me, Ron. Please. I… I don’t think I can go alone. What if I can’t… can’t...” Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks, and Ron once again drew her towards him. Her whole body shook against his.

“If anyone can reverse such a spell, it’s you,” he said quietly. He thought about her request for but a second before answering. “But of course I’ll go with you if that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Hermione whispered, pulling away once again. “Please.”

Ron dropped the letter onto his bed and grabbed her face with both hands. He kissed her gently, unlike the rough, passionate kisses he’d become so accustomed to over the last week.

“I’ll go wherever you want me to go,” he promised.

She smiled. “Thank you. It means a lot. It’s just so hard to think about them so far away...”

“You’ll have them back soon,” Ron assured her. “Exactly as you remember them.”

“I hope so,” Hermione said. “I did it because it was the only way to keep them safe, but now that it’s all over, I keep thinking, what if it was the wrong thing to do? What if —”

Ron silenced her by another kiss. “You,” he said, “are amazing. You can do anything. I have complete faith in you to fix it. And I’ll be with you the whole time, for every step of the way. I promise.”

She smiled again. “Thank you.”

“I love you,” Ron said. “I don’t actually think I could let you go without me, even if you wanted to. I’d miss you too much.”

Hermione wrapped her arms around him in a warm embrace. Her chin rested on his shoulder as she whispered, “I love you, too.”

Ron hugged her even tighter. Even though it wasn’t the right moment, he couldn’t help but laugh. “So, is this our first holiday together?”

He felt Hermione shake against him, telling him she was laughing too. “I guess it is,” she said. “Some adventure it’ll be.”

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chwrpg · 4 years ago

Photo

COHEN JAMES. college sophomore; nineteen. charlie gillespie. TAKEN.

and, as cameron james once said:

“Just 'cause you're beautiful, that doesn't mean that you can treat people like they don't matter.”

BEFORE THE PARTY;

Cohen James’ had been yet to be sold on his recent move to Rosewood, Illinois. Why is that? You might be asking yourself. The answer being that he just wasn’t really to be tied down. That was what Rosewood represented to him. Being chained down, given that his return to Rosewood came with a whole lot of responsibility that he wasn’t too sure he was ready for.

You see, before Cohen found himself in Rosewood— he’d been enjoying his best life. He’d decided to take a leap year from college, promising his family members that once the year was over he’d settle down. He’d be the perfect little pencil pusher they’d wanted him to be. But the second he landed in his destination of choice, he threw his phone into the nearest garbage can. He just wanted to be free. From that moment on, he relegated himself to doing good out in the real world. He joined a number of non profit organizations over seas, helping those who actually needed help. He built homes, he cooked meals, he taught. He found all of that to be actually fulfilling, whilst also allowing him to see the world and actually see it.

Now, Cohen knew he was lucky to have been born into the James’ family. He’d essentially won the silver spoon lottery, his family being one with old money. Like old-old money. But with all that money, came so many responsibilities. Yes, he often flew to these amazing countries with his parents but he never really got to enjoy these trips because they were solely for business. So he saw the world through hotel rooms, car rides and plane flights. It all became rather mundane. That entire world, from the people who simply lived to flaunt off their excess to the pressures of fitting in— it’d terrified him so for that reason, he’d taken off.

But he’d find himself pulled back into the fold, at the request of his grandfather. Given his cousin, Calvin’s bypassing of his duties as the future head of their family’s printing empire— those duties fell upon him. And solely him, as they were the sole grandchildren. A part of him wanted to do like his cousin, turn down the offer but he knew that’d simply break his grandfather’s heart. This was something he wanted in their family and in their family alone, so Cohen made a choice to honor that and found himself on the next flight to Rosewood.

So that’s how he’d found himself in Rosewood, stuck in stuffy business suits and all. At least he’d gotten to keep his longer locks, at his grandfathers insistence. Sure, the man might have meant business but he was also a pretty dope old man if he had to say so himself.

And if he had to be honest, Rosewood hadn’t been all that terrible. He’d heard pretty great things about the town, from his older cousin and now, his cousin’s best friend— Penn Orville. The guy had become his unofficial but official guide to all things, Rosewood. Under his tutelage, he’d learned all about the social factions that the town had to offer. From the Greasers to the Elite, he’d been given the breakdown.

But he hadn’t said anything about one, Birdie Stratford.

It’d just taken one look at the woman and he’d found himself enthralled by her immediately. The words ‘I pine, I burn, I perish’ having had left his lips in his drunken stupor when describing his feelings towards her to Penn.

Although getting a date with the woman wasn’t going to be as easy as flashing that notoriously adorable grin of his, no. Apparently her father was well-known for being a bit overbearing on his daughters, to the point that it was a well known fact that Birdie wasn’t allowed to date. Well, that was unless her older sister, Kenya dated. A little tidbit Birdie had dropped on him during one of their study sessions.

Cohen thought that’d be easy to do. If she was Birdie’s sister, there was no way someone wouldn’t want to date her. That was until he got to meet said sister for himself. He was sure Kenya was a lovely person, but she wasn’t exactly the most friendly person he’d encountered in Rosewood. He liked to think that there were some people that wouldn’t mind dating a difficult woman though. People jumped off of planes and skied off of cliffs all of the time, this could have been like that for someone. But when Penn and himself attempted to find some potential candidates, most of the guys simply laughed and in the case of one guy, screamed at the thought.

Out of options, he was beginning to accept that perhaps Birdie and himself just weren’t meant to be. That was until Penn suggested him, Pete Verona. The two turned their attention onto the guy, who was literally playing with fire at the moment. A part of him thought that the guy might have been a bit too off-putting but that almost applied to Kenya, so perhaps they’d be a match made in off-putting heaven. So Cohen garnered the courage to approach the guy, who was quick to turn down whatever he had to say. But that didn’t stop Cohen from trying to get the guy to warm up to him, which happened when they realized they had a mutual love for comic books.

Sure, the two were pretty different from each other but they actually got along pretty well from that moment on.

Pete eventually found himself receptive to the idea, so long as Cohen paid for the expenses that came with dating Kenya. He happily obliged if that meant that he had a chance to woo that Stratford sister that made his heart race. Not only that but Cohen found himself slipping Pete a bit more money, not that he’d asked for it... but Cohen knew that things were rough on his side of things and he wanted to help out his friend however he could.

Now with all his bases covered, Cohen shot his shot. He invited Birdie to some party happening that weekend and rather than turning him down as she had often, she’d agreed. Again, she’d agreed and it’d felt like a dream. So much so, he had to pinch himself to assure that it hadn’t been one but no, he was very much awake.

He was in the game, baby !

DURING THE PARTY;

Cohen felt as perhaps he was blowing it. This was his chance with Birdie, the chance he’d been working for and it just wasn’t anything like he’d pictured it to be. He sort of thought that he’d have Birdie laughing at his jokes and that maybe she’d want to just hang out with him for the remainder of the night. But that wasn’t how the night was going.

They’d spent the last hour wandering the party, greeting a ton of different people. Now, he didn’t have a problem with meeting people, he loved meeting new people but for some reason... it felt more like Birdie was flaunting him. Weird, right? A part of him was flattered, he’d like to think that this was a sign that she liked him. You don’t go around introducing your date to everyone unless you liked them. And sure, the conversations often turned to that of his new job and where he liked to spend his summers— which was a bit too shallow for him but it was small talk.

The two eventually seemed to have come to a stop, Cohen making a light joke about having met just about everyone in Rosewood thanks to her. It wasn’t all that well received, but at least she smiled. He couldn’t stop thinking if he was doing something wrong. He had to be? Maybe he should ask her? But before he could, everyone’s attention turned to what was happening on a table not so far from them.

Birdie’s sister was dancing on a table. And not just dancing but like breaking it down. He was beyond impressed by her moves, despite the fact that Birdie looked like she’d rather die in that moment. He didn’t see what there was to be embarrassed about, as he let Birdie know. Actually, he thought it was cool that she could let loose.

But as soon as it appeared like he’d managed to get Birdie to drop whatever guard she’d had up towards him, he’d heard some pretty disparaging words towards Kenya. Things that someone should never say about anyone, yet alone, a lady. So Cohen couldn’t help but react and that led to him being punch in the eye by who he’d come to find out was a major fashion model. What a great icebreaker that was gonna be, but the best part of it all to him was that Birdie— yeah, the same Birdie that he’d been pining over... well, she punched that jerk right back.

alternate faceclaims and prompts.

#cohen james #10 things i hate about you #charlie gillespie #takenm

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anonniemousefics · 5 years ago

Text

My Dearest Inej | Chapter Four

Chapter Masterlist

Originally posted on AO3

Rating: Teen And Up

Synopsis: A series of letters kept among the personal belongings of Captain Inej Ghafa.

Chapter Four: The Hot Air Balloon Ride

My dearest Inej,

These new treats you’ve sent us from Shu Han are interesting. Wylan and I have been trying to figure out how to open them. Jesper thought he had it figured out (I tried to warn him) and ended up eating wax. Don’t tell me. I’m going to work this out.

Speaking of the wax-eater, Jesper’s birthday is fast approaching, and, given the amount of painfully obvious hints that Wylan has been dropping, I can tell I’m expected to purchase gift. I could use your advice. This is the one thing about being disgustingly rich that I had not taken into account before the Van Eck affair: buying gifts for rich people is impossible. And why should I even? Jesper can buy himself whatever he wants whenever he wants it. That was literally the entire point of the Ice Court and the Van Eck affair. Why am I buying him a birthday gift again? I should be exempt.

This is truly amazing. I am still penning this letter, and I can already tell you’re glaring at me as you read this. Remarkable. How are you doing that? I have to know. I would also like to be able to project my rage and disgust through time and space.

I’ve been hesitant to ask when you’ll be returning to Ketterdam next. I imagine there’s some sort of deficit now, after you spent the extra travel helping after the fire. But I’m bracing myself now. Go on, I can take it. What’s it to be? Five months? Six months? As long as the answer isn’t never, I’ll be at Fifth Harbor whenever you want me.

Yours,

K. Brekker

P.S. – You’re sure you didn’t accidentally send us just a fancy box of wax, right?

P.P.S. – Never mind. Got it. Toffees are better.

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

My surprising, delightful Inej,

You probably couldn’t tell, since I don’t possess your otherworldly command of projecting human emotion through dimensions of time and space, but I was actually smiling when I read your letter. I had no idea you were planning on stopping back for Jesper’s birthday. This is great news. That’s, what, three weeks from now? You spoil us.

I have to be honest, though, I really hate your idea. An experience as a birthday gift? This sounds like work. This sounds like the exact opposite of why we all nearly died trying to get rich. Inej, love. Please. Don’t do this to me.

Ugh, you’re doing it again. The inter-dimensional glaring. If this is what having a conscience feels like, I’d like to have it surgically removed as soon as possible. So, make a note: that’s the experience I want for my birthday.

Very well. An experience for Jesper. I’ll talk to Wylan for some ideas.

I just had this sinking feeling in my gut – I don’t actually know when your birthday is. And that is something I should probably know. Don’t kill me. Just let me know in enough time to craft a proper experience. Since apparently this is what we do now.

Could I just let Jesper shoot me? That would be experience he’d like. And then I don’t have to do anything.

Despite my trepidation, I remain,

Faithfully yours,

Kaz

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

Inej, I have to make this quick. Jesper’s getting nosy. These are the ideas Wylan and I have. Pick one so we don’t have to.

Tickets to the Komedie Brute

Canal cruise with kvas tasting

Hot air balloon ride

Private dining experience in The Lid

Hiring a magician for an exclusive show

Shooting Kaz in a non-vital extremity so he can go home

The last one can be done in combination with any of the aforementioned. Just circle one (or two) and send back posthaste.

Yours,

Kaz

(Hot air balloon ride has been circled and the final suggestion aggressively crossed out multiple times.)

(The letter has been resent with a final note in Kaz’s handwriting)

This is literally my least favorite option, Inej.

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

(in an unaddressed envelope marked only “Inej – Please use discretion when reading”)

Inej,

I’m just going to hand you this letter tomorrow when you arrive, because I know I can’t say this, especially since I’m not sure we’ll have a chance to be alone before this evening. Gods, Inej, I am spiraling out about this. Just read this and help me think straight.

It’s this hot air balloon ride. I am genuinely not trying to be an ass right now. Let me just paint a picture for you:

What Wylan has described to me after he made the reservation is quite the close-knit, possibly romantic scenario. There’s wine and chocolate-dipped fruit and starlight, and I can tell he’s thrilled about all of it. Jesper will be, too. You picked a great option for him. But this ride is for all four of us. They’re going to be as they are – comfortable, close, enjoying each other as they do. And you and I. Well. We’re you and I. I can’t do this yet. I want to but I can’t, especially not in a tiny basket in the sky. Inej, I am freaking out. I do not want to vomit in a wicker basket hundreds of feet over unsuspecting tourists. Or worse, faint and fall out of said tiny basket to my inevitable death. Although, in the latter scenario, at least I won't have to concern myself with how the rest of the Dregs will react to my very public disgrace. While all of this would definitely make for an experience, I don’t think it’s what Wylan has in mind. This is exactly why I don’t do celebrations.

You’re going to be disappointed. I can already picture your face. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I am sorry I keep saying sorry when what you want to know is that this will have no echo. I can’t promise that yet. I suppose the word I’m looking for is regret. I am full of regret. I am so full of regret and disgust with myself that I might explode. Remember this is not you. This is not a reflection of how much I want you. How do I do this? How do I not turn this birthday into an absolute shitshow?

He really can’t just shoot me in the leg? It’s just a leg. It’s not like it was a fully-functioning leg to start with.

Help.

(addition in Inej’s handwriting)

Just wear your gloves. Do whatever you need to do. If you’d rather, I’ll stand on the complete opposite end of the basket and make faces at you all night. I’m honestly happy you’ve told me all this first, even if you did have to write it. This is far more preferable than you not saying anything at all and making yourself uncomfortable and angry all night. Now we can make a plan, and no one has to faint. This does not have to be a shitshow.

Here is the plan: no one touches your skin tonight. I’ll cut anyone who even tries. Take all the personal space you require.

But no one’s going to shoot you, no matter how much you beg for it. Might as well let that one go.

Does this help?

(addition in Kaz’s handwriting)

You are an actual Saint, did you know that?

Don’t stand on the opposite end of the basket, though, if you don’t mind. If you don’t find the gloves particularly offensive, I’d like to keep you nearby and at least attempt to be a little normal.

Thank you for this, Inej. I owe you one.

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To the one, the only, the indispensible Inej –

I don’t even know where to begin thanking you for a truly spectacular birthday. I expected nothing at all, and I have been completely blown away. Wylan said the hot air balloon ride was your idea – or rather, one of his ideas but you gave your stamp of approval. Easily the best moment of the night. You know me well. And your magic trick? We need to know the secret. You know what I’m talking about. How the hell did you convince Kaz to come along? He didn’t even seem particularly miserable, from what I could tell. I’ll confess to being a little preoccupied. Wylan really outdid himself. Hopefully, you both really did enjoy yourselves and you weren’t just lying for my sake.

Thank you for coming. Thank you for caring. Thank you for planning. Just a thousand thank yous for being Inej and being around with all of your Inej-ness for my birthday. It was the cherry on top of a perfect night.

I’m going to get you back. Prepare yourself for the best birthday of your life.

All my love,

Jesper

P.S. – And thank you for the toffees. I’m not sure how you knew the exact moment we were all finally starting to crave them again. I don’t know whether to be impressed or afraid of how well you predict us. But I’m not going to think about it because there are toffees here again and all is well with the world.

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

Inej.

If I live to be a hundred, I won’t forget this night. I want to always remember the way you look in starlight. I’m going to bed remembering the look of your elated smile in the glow of the balloon. The way that laugh of yours echoed over the city. Forget inter-dimensional glaring. I want to know how you are able to take these seemingly mundane moments and turn them into cherished, joyous occasions. That’s not a trick. That’s actual magic that you do. I don’t know if I’ll ever be bored of it.

And in case you’re worried, I’m not writing intoxicated this time. I didn’t even taste the wine. If I’m drunk on anything, it’s remembering how it felt to hold you close while we floated over Ketterdam. The way you smiled up at me when I did. The way you held me back, and I felt miles away from the water in a way I’ve never felt before.

An experience as a gift. I get it now. No amount of kruge could have bought that moment. You are the devastation, Inej. You devastate my expectations in the best possible way.

Now focus on your task at hand. However long this next journey of yours takes, know that I am contented as I wait. I feel now as if I’m richer than I’ve ever been.

With all of my heart and without a shred of armor,

I’m yours,

Kaz

(found written on the back, translated from Suli)

Sankta Elizabeta.

Help me with this man and his dueling personalities.

When asked what he thought of the balloon ride that night, his single response in its entirety, and I quote:

“It was nice.”

What do I do with this?

#six of crows #soc #crooked kingdom #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #nina zenik #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #kaz x inej #kaz brekker x inej ghafa #dregs #fanfic #fanfiction #kanej fanfic

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vikingpoteto · 4 years ago

Text

we don’t have to dance (to the beat of their songs)

Chapter 6 on AO3

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Relationships: (Gen) Tim Drake & Jason Todd

Tags: Battle for the Cowl, Alternate Canon, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Mental Health Issues, Past Child Neglect, Domestic Fluff, Canon is not valid I am, and I want them to be friends goddamnit

Summary: In the middle of their battle, Jason asks Tim to leave the nest and be his Robin. Tim decides it's not a bad idea, after all.

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Normalcy.

Tim doesn’t quite know what that concept entails. Once, it meant taking care of himself in a big house, making sure no one knew how much time he actually spent alone. Another time, it meant solving problems, training hard and answering questions, juggling a double life. Then, leading a team of people who trusted him and whom he failed time and time again. Finally, for a brief period of time, normalcy was running against time to solve an impossible puzzle and being a triple agent.

And now… now he isn’t sure anymore.

It’s a sunny Saturday morning when he wakes up and squints at the window. He wonders how beaten he must’ve been to forget to close the blinds. He scratches his belly and sniffles because less than a few hours ago Ivy freaking bombed a warehouse with allergenic pollen, which was really uncool of her. She didn’t even bother to give them a heads up. She did apologize and gave them an antidote before they parted ways, but… still. Tim wonders if it was less effective on him because… you know.

He lifts his shirt enough to check on the scar. It’s healing well, in spite of everything. He doesn’t bother changing out of his sleeping clothes before going upstairs. Judging by the sun outside, it can’t be later than 11 am, which means…

Ah, yes. Just like he expected: normalcy now means getting out of bed late in the weekend and being greeted by the strong scent of tea, because Jason is a heathen. When Tim stumbles his way to the kitchen, he finds the now familiar sight of Jason in his favorite green hoodie, a mug of tea in his hand, and his nose buried in a heavy looking novel.

“Morning,” Tim mumbles, already searching the cabinets for coffee.

“Food,” Jason orders in lieu of a greeting.

Tim mouths the word food while pulling a face, but obediently grabs a piece of toast from the table. Bickering with Jason over mundane things is part of his routine now, but there are certain things the older boy is absolutely inflexible about. Part of normalcy now means knowing Jason will leave food for Tim and fighting him on whether he wants to eat is pointless. Tim bites into the toast as he prepares his coffee.

“Ivy’s thing worked for you?” Jason asks without raising his gaze from his book.

“Hm-hum,” Tim nods. He’s still sniffling, but it’s true that he felt instantaneous relief when he swallowed the antidote last night. “You good too?”

“Yeah. Still, I can’t believe you just took it when she handed it to you,” Jason puts down his book and glares at Tim.

Tim sits on the counter and shrugs. “If she wanted to kill us, she could’ve left us coughing our lungs out like the rest of the guys in the warehouse.”

“You have trust issues in the most fucked up way, kid.”

“Hey, I happen to trust people who deserve trust,” Tim protests. “It’s not like I would take something from the Penguin. Ivy is pretty chill if you’re not littering or dumping waste in rivers.”

“You have a crush on her or something?” Jason teases.

Tim rolls his eyes but focuses on chewing his toast rather than giving him an answer. Jason takes that as he wants, and snickers, like the idiot he is.

This is normalcy now. Having breakfast in the old kitchen and talking about mundane crap - or at least mundane for them - and it feels… Odd. Tim can’t quite explain it. It isn’t like eating alone in Drake manor. It isn’t like making a mess in Titans Tower - the closest place he ever had to a home - because even there he felt like he had to set an example somehow, to keep everyone in check. It isn’t like awkwardly joining Alfred in the morning, still feeling like Bruce only thought he had to adopt him considering the circumstances.

All in all, this new normalcy doesn’t feel like any Tim had felt before. He doesn’t dislike it.

“I’m probably going to finish the adjustments to your computer system today,” Tim informs him. “I can’t believe we’re finally leaving the stone age.”

“Shut up,” Jason tosses another piece of toast at him. “Also you can stop calling it mine. I hate it and I don’t know how to use it after everything you did to it. The computer is all yours.”

Tim catches the toast and grins around his first bite. “Ooh, look at me, I’m Red Hood, I’m tough and scary, but technology is cursed, Alan Turing was a witch-”

Jason stands. Tim is sure he’s about to either mess up his hair or put Tim in a headlock until he begs for forgiveness, even though he can see the hint of a smile twisting Jason’s lips upwards. Before a wrestling match starts, however, Jason freezes.

“Do you hear that?” he whispers.

Tim listens. He can hear nothing other than distant sirens. Burnley isn’t one of the worst districts in Gotham, but they’re too close to Crime Alley. These streets don’t get a lot of traffic. Not this early in the day, anyway.

Rather than explaining himself, Jason visibly shifts into Red Hood: his shoulders square up and he sets his jaw in a challenging scowl.

“Someone just parked on our driveway.”

Tim’s eyes widen. Could it be that they’ve been found out already? He made sure that the henchmen they got were too distracted by Ivy to notice them, but perhaps he had missed something. Part of him wants to go upstairs and grab his staff - even if that would be a stupid thing to do because he can’t exactly fight Dick into forgetting he lied to him.

Tim follows Jason to the entrance as he is, in his stupid oversized Superboy sweater and with toast crumbles all over his pants. He hadn’t even had his coffee. He peeks through the boards on the window and his stomach drops.

“It isn’t Dick,” he says. “It’s worse.”

Jason reads the worry in Tim’s eyes and lets out a curse. Technically, all the doors to the house are sealed. The only entrance is a block away and it leads to the basement/Red Hood bunker. Jason, however, seems to forget that and grabs the door handle angrily. Tim cringes when he hears the sound of frail wood being ripped because it means Jason’s strength is out of control - which means he’s getting near pit rage.

“How the fuck did you find us?” he barks from the porch.

Barbara Gordon is still adjusting herself in her wheelchair. The icy glare she gives Jason shows that she isn’t impressed by his fury.

Foreseeing disaster, Tim rushes out to put himself between Jason and Barbara. “It’s fine, let me talk to her!”

Jason glares at him. Although there’s a prominent vein pulsing on his brow and there’s definitely a hint of green in his eyes, he grits his teeth and stops. Tim sighs in relief before turning to Babs:

“Damian saw us, didn’t he?” he asks.

“What the hell does the brat have to do with this?” Jason hisses.

“Logic,” Tim shrugs. “I’ve been taking care of our digital trail. If Babs knows about us, it means one of the heroes under her watch saw us. Cass is in Hong Kong. Steph and Dick would’ve confronted us right away. The only option left is Damian.”

Jason groans and his eyes have mostly returned to their usual shade of brown. Tim had somehow annoyed him into calming down, which is a skill he’s getting better at every day. Tim smiles a little.

“Well,” Barbara says, her voice sharp. “You thought no one was going to notice two extra vigilantes running around?”

“Not forever, no,” Tim admits, trying to sound apologetic. "We wanted to be left on our own for as long as we could, though. We don’t need external interference.”

At that, Barbara looks scandalized. “Absolutely wrong. Get me a freaking ramp or get down here, Timothy, I’m going to beat the crap out of you.”

Jason lets out an annoyed huff, to which Tim glares at him. He has no business getting mad at Barbara for threatening them when he promises to beat Tim up at least three times a day. Five, if it’s not a school day.

“Why don’t we postpone the violence,” Tim suggests, his eyes not leaving Jason’s, “and just… have a chat? Inside? Jason just made tea.”

An annoyed grunt is all the response Jason gives him before making his way back inside. He doesn’t slam the door behind him, which is as good as a yes. Tim rolls his eyes before climbing down the steps to help Barbara up the porch.

“By the way, how did you find our address?” he asks.

“Tim, please,” she huffs. “After I saw the footage from Damian’s bodycam, all I had to do was track your online footprint. You think I couldn’t notice the upgrades you’ve been making?”

That’s fair, and Tim should’ve predicted that possibility. Granted, if no one had seen them, Barbara wouldn’t know there was something to track.

He pushes her wheelchair to the living room where Jason is waiting for them. The older boy is sitting on their crappy couch with his knees spread out and his fingers steepled. It would’ve been an impressive crime lord pose to welcome someone if his green hoodie wasn’t sprinkled with toast crumbs.

Not that Barbara is that easy to intimidate.

“So what the hell happened?” She demands. “You left that night and went to meet the guy that almost killed you and two of your brothers?”

That stings. Barbara wasn’t there that night. Tim wonders if things would’ve been any different if she had been. Would she have listened to his theory or just called him crazy as Dick and Cassie had?

Well. All in all, he knew Barbara would always be there for Dick first. He never blamed her for that, because her partnership with Dick was far deeper than any impact Tim could’ve made in her life. He takes a seat by Jason’s side, farther from her.

“Damian also tried to kill me,” Tim reminds her. “And Dick fired me right after Jason offered me a job. Between the attempted murder and no job, and the same but with a gig...”

She takes off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“That freaking idiot,” she mutters to herself. Then, raising her gaze to meet Tim’s: “He didn’t mean to fire you.”

Tim clenches his teeth. “It sure seemed like it when I woke up and saw Damian wearing my old costume,” he snaps.

He feels Jason whipping his head towards him, and he curses himself. He had never revealed the gritty details of his dismissal for a reason. He reminds himself that Dick gave him Robin and it was his right to take it away, he has no reason to be this angry. That only serves to make him more bitter, though.

“I’m not saying Dick wasn’t stupid,” Barbara continues, her brow furrowing. “I already had some words with him about it. It doesn’t mean it was okay for you to just vanish for months, Tim. And then you’re back and you don’t talk to anyone. Not even Steph? Me?”

“Oh, fuck right off,” Jason snaps.

Barbara goes stiff. Tim groans, because now he has to push his anger further away to be able to stop the two of them. Before he can say anything, Jason continues:

“You’re talking as if I fucking kidnapped him. You know damn well how capable he is,” he barks. “The kid made a choice. I swear to fuck, everyone‘s a critic…”

Barbara opens her mouth but closes it again without saying anything. She presses her lips into a tight line. It isn’t often you see Oracle at a loss for words. For the first time, she looks at Jason without any animosity, her thoughts bare in her eyes. Unlike the boys, Barbara doesn’t play games. She doesn’t hide her emotions on purpose. The longing in her eyes is almost palpable, as though she’s seeing a dear relative she lost a long time ago, and she can’t reach them.

“What are you two thinking?” She asks. “What are you doing?”

“What we do best,” Tim says simply. “Vigilante work.”

“You told Dick you retired,” Barbara points out. “Then you ghosted him. He keeps waiting for you to come back.”

“He likes to do that,” Jason says. Now his voice is barely a whisper. “He says he’ll be there if you need him. Who says we need him, though?”

Barbara hesitates. “I told… Never mind. Just… I’m glad you’re back, Tim. And I’m glad you’re not dead again, Jason.”

Tim smiles. Jason looks like he wants to glance around to make sure she’s not talking to someone else. When it becomes clear she isn’t, he somehow looks even more uncomfortable.

“So,” he starts. “What now?”

“We fight for Tim’s custody, obviously,” Barbara smiles.

The peaceful moment ends when Tim and Jason start protesting out loud over one another. Barbara giggles at the cacophony of half-words, something along the lines of fuck off, not a child get your own damn kid responsible for myself-

“I’m joking!” She shouts to be heard over their complaints. “Jesus, you boys get riled up so easily.”

“I’m not a boy,” Tim and Jason say at the same time.

They glare at each other. Barbara rolls her eyes.

“Now,” she continues as though they didn’t interrupt her, “let me see your work, Tim. I’m going to give you guys a free upgrade.”

“Like hell you are,” Jason says. “How do we know you’re not spying on us for Dick?”

She arches an eyebrow. “Funny. I thought you two were fighting rogues, not Batman. Why would Dick want to spy on you?”

“Because he’s a meddler and he doesn’t trust me,” Jason states as though it’s a fact.

“To be fair, you did try to kill Tim. And Damian. And Dick,” she retorts. Before Jason can say anything back, she raises a hand to ask for patience. “It doesn’t matter to me, though. Barbara Gordon is Dick Grayson’s best friend and partner. Oracle, however, is an ally to anyone trying to protect Gotham. I’ll help you two like I help Batman, the Birds of Prey, and even Batgirl.”

Jason frowns. “I thought Cassandra was in Hong Kong.”

“Well,” Tim scratches his own nape, feeling suddenly guilty. “Actually… there might be a new Batgirl in town.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it!” Tim says. “I swear it just slipped my mind with everything else I had to report!”

Jason looks like he wants to grab a cushion and smother Tim to death. Before he can do as much, Barbara clears her throat loudly and says:

“Anyway… Support. I don’t talk about the vigilantes under my watch. Not to Batgirl. Not to Batman.”

Jason crosses his arms and leans back against the couch, his brow furrowed. Tim fights the urge to pat away the crumbs from his hoodie and waits patiently. Technically, this is Jason’s operation and he’s the one calling the shots. Tim has his own opinions, but in the end, a sidekick is supposed to follow orders.

Then Jason turns to Tim. “Replacement?”

He… does he want Tim’s opinion?

“I trust Barbara,” Tim says without hesitation. “And having Oracle’s help is going to be a game-changer.”

Jason considers that for a moment. It’s clear that he isn’t happy about the conclusions he’s drawing but, in the end, he sighs in defeat.

“Fine,” Jason says. “But if you tattle about what we’re doing, you’re gonna regret it.”

“Why, gee, Jason, how kind of you to allow me to help you guys,” Barbara snaps.

The two of them start bickering, but Tim tunes them out for a moment. It isn’t like Bruce and Dick never asked him for his opinion. They did. A lot. He simply hadn’t expected Jason to do the same. And so openly too. Bruce liked to pretend Tim’s input was but a piece to a puzzle he was assembling by himself. It seems like Jason isn’t above taking Tim’s words at face value and explicitly showing that he was part of the decision making.

It’s… nice. Not quite like being a sidekick, but not like having a whole team depending on him alone. Tim decides he likes this.

“Alright, alright, enough,” he says, standing up. “Come on, Babs, let me show you our office. Do you want some tea?”

“Anything but Earl Grey,” she says, allowing Tim to push her wheelchair towards the kitchen. “Don’t tell Alfred.”

“Wha… Does that make me the cook?” Jason complains.

Tim gives him a pointed look. “Do you wanna help her with the computer instead?”

Jason starts grumbling and cursing under his breath, but he still starts looking for something in the cupboards.

Unlike the Batcave, the secret entrance to the basement isn’t very fancy: just a couple of tiles that can be removed and a ladder. Tim helps Barbara out of her chair and she climbs down on her own. He has to admire her core strength. A little juggling with the folded chair later, he joins her and helps her to the seat again.

As soon as she’s comfortable, rather than rolling straight to the computer, she wraps her arms around Tim a little tighter. Surprised, but not much, he hugs her back.

“I missed you,” she whispers. “I’m so, so glad you’re back.”

Tim squeezes her. He always loved Barbara’s hugs. He doesn’t say anything, though, because he doesn’t think he can. There’s a knot in his throat stopping any sound from coming out. He tightens the embrace a little more and hopes she knows what he means without him needing to say anything.

Barbara pulls back first, her expression somber. “Jason looks better.”

“He is,” Tim assures.

“Still… I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I do,” Tim says and there’s not a hint of doubt in his voice. “I… I guess I understand why he did what he did. And Jason is a hero too, Babs. I didn’t forget that, even if some of you did.”

She presses her lips into a tight line and at first, Tim thinks it’s due to the implied accusation. Then something clicks, and he thinks it must’ve been because he referred to the Batfamily as ‘some of you’. For a while, he refused to think of himself as an outsider - he was Timothy Wayne after all - but, at some point, it seems like he started accepting he might not be one of them anymore. It still stings.

However, he also realizes he can live with that. Maybe it’s because of how easy it’d been to get used to Jason, to this new normalcy that feels truly normal after so little time. Tim may have left, but it isn’t Red Robin and them. It’s us and them. And, if everything goes according to his plans, they’re soon going to be at least on the same side.

For now, it’s enough.

There was a time in Tim’s life when he didn’t mind making small talk. His mother drilled into his head that he was supposed to be pleasant and polite and that there’d be consequences if he embarrassed his father in front of his associates. Timothy could lose a whole week of his allowance for chewing with his mouth open during a business dinner. It was more about the inconvenience of being scolded than the punishment, really, but Tim learned pretty fast that being sociable and polite was easier.

It’s been a long time, though. Tim’s lost his touch. Or so it feels when he’s unable to shake off one of his annoying classmates.

“...and then you could totally join us this weekend for the tennis tournament,” she says.

Tim refrains from sighing. He thought all of his classmates had been warned not to mingle with that Drake kid. Even if he was Bruce Wayne’s newest charity case, he slept through most of the classes and talked back to the teachers. Unfortunately, Laney Gonzalez didn’t get the memo.

“I don’t think I should,” Tim says tiredly. “I’m not great at any sports, really.”

“Pff, like I’d believe you!” Laney chuckles and latches onto his arm, squeezing his biceps. “You think we can’t tell how muscular you are under this hideous uniform?”

For fuck’s sake. “No, really,” he tries again, gently prying his arm away with an awkward chuckle. “I’m not good at that sort of thing.”

Go to school, Tim, Jason said. You need an education, Tim. Why doesn’t Jason get an education? Then he could hang back after class, even though there are better things to do because Laney freaking Gonzalez decided it was a good idea to make friends with the weird kid. Tim’s attempts to reach the gates seem to go unnoticed by the girl.

“Come on, Tim,” she insists. “You never join us when we do class stuff. It’ll be fun. You don’t have to play or anything, just… hang out a bit?”

What is a polite way to say I’d rather get into a fistfight with Killer Croc , Tim wonders?

He’s about to make up a family emergency - is she going to notice that his phone didn’t buzz at all? - when he notices a small commotion near the exit. A group of students is eyeing the street curiously, and even the ones leaving are taking another glance at… something. Worried, he lets Laney’s speech about friendships in high school fly over his head, and he moves a bit faster. If something big happened while he was in history class, he’s going to freaking kill…

Jason.

Tim stops dead on his tracks because the thing his fellow schoolmates keep glancing at is none other than Jason Todd himself in all of his glory. He’s leaning against the biggest motorcycle Tim had ever seen and wearing his favorite black leather jacket. Tim is already considering the fastest way to kill himself even before Jason’s face splits into a wicked grin and he opens his arms.

“Timbers! Fancy seeing you here!” He says, no , shouts.

Kids in and out of the schoolyard follow Jason’s gaze and find Tim burying his face in his hands.

“Uh…” Laney is now keeping her distance for once. “You know him?”

Tim is already stomping towards Jason.

“What are you doing here?” He hisses.

Still smiling, Jason hands him a yellow helmet. “Picking you up. Not happy to see me?”

“What if Dick sees you?” Tim protests.

Behind him, someone gasps. Tim turns around and curses when he realizes Laney followed him and thought it was okay to listen to a private conversation.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I should’ve noticed it! For the record, I wasn’t hitting on you, if that’s why you kept refusing. I really just want to be friends.”

Jason looks vaguely amused.

Tim frowns. “What?”

“That’s your boyfriend, I assume?”

“No!” Tim hears himself shouting. “He’s my brother!”

Laney has dark skin, but Tim still notices the way her cheeks go a shade darker. “Oh gosh, is that right? I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you had any brothers other than Dick and Damian!”

Tim wants to die so bad.

“Actually,” Jason says, voice soft, dropping an arm around Tim’s shoulders, “I’m a bit of a family secret, so don’t go tweeting Vicki Vale about it, will you? We’ll know if you babble.”

Scratch that. He doesn’t want to die. He wants to kill Jason.

Laney nods hurriedly and makes a hushed promise to keep the secret. She mumbles something about texting Tim later - Tim is sure that she doesn’t have his number - and half-jogs away from them, her ponytail bobbing behind her. Well, that takes care of that. Laney Gonzalez is probably never going to speak to him again.

He turns around and punches Jason’s arm. “What the fuck was that?”

“I have a lead on that case from last night,” Jason hops on the bike. “Get on, loser, we’re going crime fighting.”

“We had a plan. You think Dick won’t notice you’re picking me up from school?” Tim complains. He’s already climbing the bike behind Jason, though.

“Tim, what did I tell you about plans again?”

Tim sighs as he puts the helmet on. He rests his forehead against Jason’s back as though he doesn’t even have the strength to sit up straight anymore. Make a plan. The plan goes wrong. Throw it away.

“Besides, Barbara knows. The Gremlin knows. It’s just a matter of time before we have Bitchard and Brat Girl on our asses.”

He starts the bike before Tim is ready, but Tim makes a point of looping his arms around his waist and swallowing a startled yelp when they go from zero to very fast.

It isn’t until they’re several blocks away from Gotham Academy that Tim fully understands what he’d just done. He told a random classmate he had an extra brother. He told her Jason was his brother. He briefly considers letting go of Jason’s waist and letting himself fall into the asphalt.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself. “I’m sorry.”

Jason eyes back briefly before turning his attention back to the street. Between the helmet and the speed, Tim didn’t catch even a glance of his expression, but he can picture it just fine. It’s been barely three weeks since they started living together, but this is normal for him now. He knows Jason’s mildly intrigued face just as well as his own.

“For what?” Jason asks.

“For saying you’re my brother. I panicked.”

Again, he remembers the early days at Wayne manor. Bruce had sworn off adoptions and Tim could only stay after he promised that wouldn’t be an issue. Hell, Tim tried to keep his word even after his dad died, and yet…

Jason mumbles something that gets lost over the wind.

“What?”

“I said whatever, man!” Jason snaps. “I don’t think adoption expires after death. Technically we are brothers.”

Tim doesn’t say anything. He should know better than to keep making the same mistake.

But isn’t going after Jason a recurrent mistake in itself anyway?

“It’s better like this, to be honest,” Jason says. “It’d be weird to be living with a random minor, I guess.”

It’s basically an automatic response at this point: “You’re two years older than me.”

“I’m legally an adult. You’re not,” Jason reminds him.

“You’re legally dead, actually,” Tim points.

Jason barks out a burst of laughter. “Look at you, Timmy, saying such mean things. Am I a bad influence on you?”

“Now, that tone is creepy. Drop it or I’ll make us crash. You know I have no regard for my own safety.”

Tim is definitely doing that talking without thinking thing again.

“Ugh, don’t I know it,” Jason groans. “Should’ve considered that before taking a fucking kamikaze as my partner.”

Tim perks up. “Hey…!”

“You’re not allowed to name yourself Kamikaze,” Jason cuts him off. “First, that would probably be racist, and second, because you’re not naming yourself after suicidal pilots. You chose Red Robin. No takesie backsies.”

“Fine, mom,” Tim pouts.

Jason speeds up and Tim takes that as his cue to pretend the purr of the engine is too loud for them to talk.

For once in his life, Tim decides to really throw the plan away and see where this goes. This is just his new routine and Tim is nothing if not adaptable.

The case should be simple enough: someone had destroyed an underground casino and killed the bosses responsible for keeping the place running. All of the workers had been spared. They would consider it an everyday case if the same thing hadn’t happened again somewhere near the Narrows. The two places didn’t have anything in common other than the business they ran - gambling, prostitution… the works.

Tim spent hours thinking of a personal motive and so far he had discarded personal vendetta and random coincidence. The methods didn’t match one of the rogues they knew and, although he didn’t say it out loud, Tim feared they had another Red Hood like vigilante in their hands.

When Red Hood and Red Robin come out that night, they’re following one of Hood’s hunches.

“I still think I could’ve done this alone,” Red mumbles.

“I still think I could’ve done this alone,” Hood mocks in a high-pitched voice.

Red Robin glares at him and, even in the dirty dark alley, Hood doesn’t miss it. He sighs.

“Do you trust Oracle or not?” He sighs.

“Of course I do,” the boy mumbles. “Still, it would be more efficient…”

“To split up and have each of us cover a place. We’ve been over this. Oracle said she’d make sure the other place is closed for the night. If I’m right - and I usually am - our guy is gonna attack here.”

Red rolls his eyes but decides not to argue any further. He’s pretty sure this is punishment for forcing Hood to accept Oracle’s help, by keeping him close and refusing to let him do part of the job alone. Alas. Let Hood be petty for now. He’ll learn soon enough that having Oracle backing you up is too good of an opportunity to pass up.

However, now that he thinks about it, Red Robin hasn’t done anything big alone since his debut. Patrolling and stopping random muggins is one thing, but the attack on Black Mask’s warehouses? The bust of the big drug traffic operation at the harbor? This odd murder case? In all of these high profile cases, Hood demanded that he and Red Robin attacked together.

He makes a mental note to think about the possible meaning of that later. Right now he has to focus on finding suspicious activity, which is surprisingly hard. Once they’re at the strategic point Red Robin picked and getting set for the stakeout, Hood seems to have similar thoughts, because he comments:

“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, huh?”

Red sighs. “We’re not breaking into their office. We can’t risk spooking the murderer.”

The older boy shrugs and they settle down to wait.

This is a part of the job Red Robin was oddly fond of. There’s something about just sitting on a roof and waiting that is calming to him. He loved the adventure and solving mysteries and fighting bad guys and the thrill. That being said, there was something satisfying about taking your time and waiting to act. Just them too high up to be seen, the only witnesses being the cold night air and the certainty that they’re doing something good and saving innocents.

Tim wondered if it was fucked up of him to love this so much. He’s been in contact with the ugliest parts of humanity since he was a little boy, after all. After Cissie retired, he thought about it a lot. Like Cissie, he didn’t have special powers. He was just another boy that got himself into a crazy situation. Why couldn’t he be just another civilian, unaware of Gotham’s nightlife? Enjoy school, as Jason wanted him to? Live a long life, maybe die of old age?

Tim likes to think that the fact that he loves this so much means that he was made for this life.

“What do you think we’re facing tonight?” He asks.

Red Hood starts talking and Red Robin listens to him. Unlike Tim, Jason is all about instinct and passion. Whereas Tim collects clues and puts together theories, Jason understands the reasoning behind them and comes up with hunches that Tim couldn’t dream of. Red Robin loves to hear his hypothesis because it’s almost like having a book read out loud to you, and an enjoyable one at that.

He’s almost satisfied, all things considered.

Hood suddenly stops talking. As fast as lightning, he reaches into his holster and, before Red Robin even thinks of stopping him, Red Hood stands and points his gun at something - no, someone - right behind them. He pulls the trigger.

Red Robin opens his mouth in horror, but, rather than a lifeless body dropping to the ground he watches the invader dodge the bullet as though it’s nothing, almost gracefully. He reaches for his staff, but the invader is already running towards them again and Hood is getting about to take another shot. The invader’s cape flies behind them, dropping from their head and revealing... a familiar face.

Hood’s finger is already on the trigger and Red realizes this time she’ll have no time to dodge. Without thinking twice, he jumps between Red Hood and the woman.

“ TIMOTHY !” Hood barks, pointing the gun upwards.

“I know her!” Red Robin shouts at one of them. Maybe at both of them. “I know her! She’s my friend!”

The woman’s stopped as well. She’s looking at them with her head tilted to the side. Without minding Hood behind him, Red Robin faces her and takes in her appearance. She’s still bald. Still rocking all the scars - maybe she even has new ones? - and she’s still dressed like a grunge-rock singer from the late 90’s. He’d recognize her anywhere.

“Pru?” He confirms. “Prudence Wood?”

Her shoulders relax when she hears his voice. She reaches for something in her pocket - Hood gets tense again behind him - but all she grabs is a piece of paper. It’s crumpled and a bit dirty, as though she’s been walking around with it in her pocket for a while.

Without hesitation, Red takes it from her unresisting fingers and reads the words someone - presumably Pru herself - had hurriedly scribbled:

I knew this would get your attention, the paper says, I’m here to warn you. The Head of the Demon is coming after you.

And, just like that, Tim’s frail normalcy is gone.

#poteto writing #jason todd #red hood #tim drake #red robin #red bros #batfam #ay yo i'm back on my bullshit

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alexiethymia · 5 years ago

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not goodbye

title: not goodbye

erina hates when people leave

ooo Hisako has been with Erina-sama long enough to understand that beneath her anger at Yukihira leaving with nary but a note hides a lot of hurt.

What Erina-sama is really angry about is not the responsibilities he left behind (well that might indeed be a part of it), but that he left without saying good-bye.

It almost makes her want to reevaluate her good opinion of the first seat, even if he brought back Erina-sama’s true smile. He was there though it all - Azami-sama, Mana-sama - he must know that Erina-sama gets left behind far too often.

So how could he do this?

Stagiare or no stagiare, her loyalty is first and foremost to Erina-sama, her liege and her best friend. When he comes back (because he has to come back), she’ll be right there by Erina-sama’s side to tell him, ‘you’re not who I thought you were Yukihira Souma.’ How then, could she ever entrust Erina-sama with him?

She’s just about to suggest a card game to cheer up a morose headmistress staying strong and appearing to be unbothered even as they’re both safely in the sanctuary of her room, when a loud ringtone cuts through the gloom.

Hisako doesn’t see the screen to be able to tell who it is, but from the light that suddenly enters her master’s eyes, she could garner a guess.

As expected, the first thing to come out of Erina-sama’s mouth are rebukes, but her mouth is upturned as if she can’t help herself. It makes for a slightly comical sight if it was anyone else less dignified.

Also smiling, Hisako silently leaves the room, leaving her to her conversation in peace.

Perhaps she can withhold judgment for now.

ooo

For the first time in their history, they are silent with each other. They are awkward in a way they have never been, even when they had first met and what they had traded was insults and barbs, along with their challenges.

Erina is no stranger to airports. With the responsibilities that come with being a Nakiri, flying all over was a given, so much so that it’s become mundane.

Recently though, she finds she can no longer remain indifferent in airports.

Yukihira-kun looks like he’s waiting. For what, exactly? For her to speak? But then, he never has before. He’s only ever dragged her at his pace, making her so busy with his shenanigans that she’s forgotten what it was like to be alone.

Despite all that she’s grateful for now, perhaps she really is just a spoiled brat, because it feels painful to be reminded.

She thinks back to that first phone-call, in what seems like eons ago.

‘How could you leave without saying good-bye to...everyone?’

to me

He had the audacity to laugh! ‘Why would I say good-bye, when I’m coming back Nakiri?’

Erina of course had to have her way, and though she has no right to demand anything of him, for some reason, he complies. And so, she can no longer count how many times she’s been here, but now she’s on the other side, entrusted with the duty of seeing him off. If anyone asks, and even when they don’t, to herself she says she’s just doing her duty as headmistress.

Erina has always been talented at numerous things. That includes lying to herself.

A Nakiri doesn’t fidget nor twiddle her thumbs, yet even when she doesn’t do so, the fact that the urge is there somehow seems like defeat.

In front of her, Yukihihira-kun runs his hand through his hair distractedly. Distantly, Erina thinks it needs a trim. Somehow, he seems unsure in her presence. Another first.

Perhaps this should’ve been easier because it’s not the first time she’s done this (the pain is distant now, but still there), but it is the first time that everyone mysteriously had something to do that they couldn’t accompany her. Even Hisako. Even Tadokoro-san.

Despite being in a building full of people, there’s no one else but the two of them. Nakiri Erina and Yukihira Souma.

It is unbecoming for her to be so timid, and so she prepares to bid him farewell, when Yukihira-kun suddenly starts to speak. (he’s never been a coward)

“Listen Nakiri,” he looks straight at her, and Erina isn’t a coward either so she stares at him right back, like they’ve done this countless times before, which they have. “I think it might’ve been unfair for me to leave like that so suddenly back then, even if it was necessary, and even if I won’t apologize for it.” Not that Erina expected that he would, and he didn’t have to. As she’s said, she can’t and won’t demand anything of him (to stay).

“But when it was you who I thought was leaving...” And this Yukihira Souma who thinks before he delivers his words to her, as if wanting to be so careful with them (with her), makes her heart pound so loud in her ears that she almost doesn’t hear what he says next. “I didn’t know it then, but I was worried - no, I was scared as hell.”

Her heart no longer pounds. She thinks it might have stopped for a moment actually, cliche as it may be, worthy of any shojou manga.

“If I hated the thought of you leaving me, then - and I know I’m assuming so you can yell at me for being improper or whatever - it’s unfair to put you through it too. But I can’t promise when I’ll be back for good. Sorry for taking so long, but I haven’t achieved my goal yet.” He smirks at her in challenge.

This is familiar ground she can navigate. “I’d think less of you Yukihira-kun if you gave up now, but I know you’re not that kind of person.”

He swings his precious knife case to his other hand and suddenly a pinky finger is right in her face. “I know I have no right to ask you anything, but couldja promise me something? Would you welcome me when I’m back home?”

“How presumptuous,” she sniffs, but she can’t keep it up for long. She links hers to his, laughing.

That laughter is soon wiped from her face when he gently, but firmly pulls her to him. She doesn’t see, since her steaming face is against his chest, but rather feel the soft pressure of his lips on her hair.

“See ya Nakiri.” He grins, teeth showing. He waves at her, back turned, eyes straight forward, as she splutters, “Yukihira-kun!”

See you again soon.

part 4 of snapshots in the life of an ice-queen and a demon king

next; nii-sama

here we go again. souma thinks, this can only end in tears.

#sorina #soueri #shokugeki no soma #sns #yukihira souma #nakiri erina #fanfiction #my fanfic #ramblings about sns

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oreoambitions · 5 years ago

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In Which Boobs Get Kara Into Trouble

There will come a time later, when Kara is standing on the roof of Spherical Industries with a gun to her head, when she will wonder how she ever got herself into such a mess. The rain will pour and the city will roar, oblivious, far below while Kara tries to piece it all together. And it will end as it began: with a pair of brilliant green eyes and a sad smile.

Kara spies her at the hotel bar and, if she's being honest, the first thing she notices are the boobs. I mean, can you blame her? The cut of that dress is scandalous at best and the woman wearing it is a vision, truly. Kara, lingering in the doorway in her slacks and buttondown, tired and a little unkempt from a long day on her first field assignment as a junior reporter, almost forgets for a moment that she's shy and awkward and Definitely Straight Thank You Very Much. She flashes her brightest smile almost before she realizes it and, to her surprise, the woman with the boobs looks up and smiles back.

The second thing Kara notices is the older gentleman leaning in across the bar, his hand lingering on that dress somewhere just north of inappropriate as he reasserts his position at the center of the boob woman's attention. The journalist in Kara says: I wonder what their relationship to one another is. The Definitely Straight Thank You Very Much side of Kara says: I should go rescue her.

There will come a time when Kara curses the fact that she's somehow inherited that trademark Danvers penchant for heroism and trouble, but this is not that time. This is the time when Kara strolls up, one hand in her pocket, heart pounding in her ears, to flash that million dollar smile one more time and adjust her glasses. She glances dismissively at Just North of Inappropriate as she inserts herself into the situation with all the grace of a bull in a china shop.

"Sorry I'm late," she says brightly. "Just a little bit of traffic on the bridge. Shall we get a table?"

The plan, if you can really call it that, has just about formed in Kara's mind by the time she finishes speaking. There are, she assumes, roughly two possible outcomes. Either the boob woman doesn't need rescuing after all and Kara is about to suffer an incredibly humiliating encounter, or she does need rescuing and they can head to the hotel restaurant together where Kara can see her delivered safely to wherever it is she'd like to be. What actually happens is neither of those things.

"Darling," the boob woman says, a sad smile on her lips. "I was just about to call. This is Jack, the gentleman I was telling you about. Jack, this is my wife..."

It is to Kara's credit that she only hesitates for a moment. She did take an improv class for half a semester in undergrad; she's about as well prepared for a curveball like this as anyone could reasonably expect. She extends her hand and says, "Kara. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Likewise," Jack replies, his eyebrows high. "Forgive me; Lena didn't mention you were coming."

Lena slides an arm around Kara's waist so casually that for one insane instant Kara wonders whether this woman has confused her for someone else. "You know how it is," Lena is saying. "Work doesn't always allow for travel; I didn't want to get anyone's hopes up."

Travel. So Kara, Wife of the Woman with the Boobs, is not supposed to be from here.

Jack fixes Kara with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. "I hope the flight wasn't too difficult."

"Somehow it always feels shorter than I expect," Kara says, mind scrambling. Where is she supposed to have flown in from? Is this a test? Is there something she should know to say?

Jack chuckes. "Well, Metropolis to National City is a short trip compared to what you're used to, I'm sure. If you'll excuse me, I'll just let them know we'll be needing an extra place at the table."

Lena is hissing as soon as he's out of earshot. "It took you long enough, goddamnit. I called for backup an hour ago! I think he has the asset here, at the hotel. If we're lucky we can- shit. Hope!"

And just like that Lena is all smiles and warmth but for her white knuckled grip on Kara's hip. She waves to a woman lingering in the doorway and Kara finds herself tangled in pleasantries and small talk, playing the part as best she can.

Now the plan is: get out of this as soon as possible.

It becomes clear that 'as soon as possible' might be a while coming when Jack returns and the four of them are escorted not, as Kara had assumed, to the hotel restaurant, but into the elevator. Oh. They are dining at the private club on the top floor, and all at once Kara is conscious of the fact that her entire outfit is likely worth less than the average glass of wine here, that her hair is coming a little undone in the back, that she didn't put makeup on this morning because she was hoping that seeming a little more like 'one of the guys' might earn her a more favorable quote at the conference she was working this afternoon. This is trouble, and if Kara's gut is right, it's dangerous trouble at that.

The menu doesn't list prices but Kara navigates the social waters by ordering just about whatever Lena does - although she kips the salad appetizer in favor of egg rolls - and fumbles through conversation by saying as little as possible until the conversation drifts to the Kaznian refugee crisis and Kara begins to shift uncomfortably in her seat.

"Well, you know as they say in Kaznia," Jack is saying, "Without work, there is no desert."

He says the phrase in Kaznian so smoothly that it would have passed by perhaps anyone but an actual Kaznian refugee without comment. But Kara has never been the best when it comes to holding her tongue and so she corrects him almost without thinking about it. "Bez prace nejsou kolace. Without work there is no cake."

Jack raises his eyebrows, but it's Hope who comments, "Are you from Kaznia too? Is that how you two met?"

Kara is frozen, processing the implication that Lena may also be a Kaznian refugee, but Lena is already answering. "Our fathers knew one another, yes, but we actually met at a bar. It's a terribly mundane story. There I was, enduring the cumbersome attentions of some ape, and she simply swooped in for the rescue. The rest is history."

Kara almost laughs. "Really, it was love at first sight," she says. "Coming to the rescue was the least I could do. Even if I did turn out to get rather more than I'd bargained for."

Lena's smile is sugar sweet as she leans over to press a warm kiss to Kara's cheek. "I'm worth it," she promises and, mercifully, she changes the subject.

They make it most of the way through dessert before the conversation finally turns to business.

"How long are you in town?" Jack asks. "Not just for the conference, I hope."

Lena hums, noncommittal. "Maybe a few days longer. There are a few business meetings I'd like to take care of while we're here."

"Well I hope you'll save one of those meetings for me. Spherical Industries has made a breakthrough, I'm sure you've heard, and while I've obligations to the board to hear a few proposals the real prize would be a partnership with L-Corp. We could do great things together, you and I."

A number of thoughts cross Kara's mind in quick succession.

The first: Jack's tone is so overtly predatory, so intensely suggestive, that Kara is absolutely shocked that he would speak to Lena in such a way in front of her (supposed) wife or in front of his own spouse.

The second: If Lena works for L-Corp, Kara has gotten herself into the middle of something very complicated indeed.

The third: Jack is, as Kara has suspected for the better part of an hour now, not just some rando putting his hands on a woman in a bar. He is, in fact, none other than Jack Speer, as in Spherical Industries, as in the man responsible for the conference where Kara has been working. The conference where she was hoping to hear something that might confirm a rumored breakthrough to which Jack just openly admitted. And, if Kara's sources are to be believed, Spherical Industries has gone to great length to keep the details of that breakthrough out of the hands of the authorities. Kara would give just about anything to find out why.

"You know I always have time for a few drinks with an old friend; I'm sure something can be arranged," Lena says. "It really is lovely to catch up with you both. And isn't your anniversary coming up soon?"

"One year on Sunday," Hope replies.

“Well then an early congratulations to you both.”

When dessert has been consumed, coffee sipped, and the check paid (by Spherical Industries, at Jack's insistence), it's time for the long walk to the elevator and down the hall to what is presumably Lena's room. Jack and Hope walk them all the way, and the small talk lasts another excruciating handful of minutes while Lena fiddles with her key until, at last, Hope suggests that everyone must be tired.

Kara's mind is reeling. Jack and Hope aren't walking away and so, in order to keep up appearances, she follows Lena into the hotel room.

It's almost - almost - not a surprise when, as soon as the door shuts, Lena pulls a gun on Kara. There is still something a little inherently startling about finding herself on the wrong end of a firearm but, well, that's been looking like the almost inevitable end result of this evening for a little while here and Kara figures the best thing she can do is handle it as calmly as possible.

"Who the fuck are you," Lena demands, "and who the fuck do you work for?"

"I can ex-"

"You are definitely not the backup I called for. Are you with Edge? How did you find me?"

Kara raises her hands in the universal symbol for surrender. "I don't work for anyone," she explains. "Well, I work for CatCo, actually, but the point is, I think we might be on the same side."

Slowly, her eyes never leaving Kara's face, Lena lowers the gun and engages the safety. Kara's gaze drops to the boobs. If there has ever been a time not to be distracted by boobs it’s this moment but, well. Kara may be Definitely Straight Thank You Very Much but even she can appreciate the absolute goddess standing in front of her in a sinful dress with a loaded weapon in hand. She swallows and forces her attention back to Lena's face and to the knowing smirk that says her distraction has not gone unnoticed.

"I'm listening," Lena says.

#1 of 3 #ficlet #supercorp #kara danvers #lena luthor #supergirl #supergirl fic #supercorp fic #idk #fake marriage

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