#part 1 of three

[bajablastflavoredsaxreed]

bari saxthur got lucky in that kayne didn’t write him a part in The Wager so he didn’t have to go to the world’s longest and ugliest rehearsals

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP Fanfic Idea: Not My Business

Danny Fenton develops a unique set of skills throughout his life. He knew how to disarm a bomb when he was seven, thanks to his Dad making minebombs in the front yard as a ghost defense. (They only covered humans in ecto-goo, but it was the same concept of not wanting to have it explode on him)

He knew how to fight with a bo-staff only because he had to fight off the meals his parents brought back to life with a broom. He knew how to balance a checkbook, file tax forms, and properly build credit by the time he was ten, thanks to the years his parents ran a business at the kitchen table.

His sister taught him how to charm rude customers with a smile, how to lie without flinching, and how to complete all his assignments on time, despite having only a few hours to do so. She spent a lot of time volunteering, often dragging him along, which allowed Danny to build up his resume with both soft and hard skills he likely would never have thought there was a name for.

Problem-solving, teamwork, communication, time management, adaptability, data analysis, cybersecurity, data entry, and copywriting were the skills that Jazz focused on the most. She all but beat them into his head.

Along with cooking, sewing, basic plumbing, basic mechanics, and budgeting. Jazz was the one who looked for practical abilities.

That left time for his mom and dad to teach him things like forging, combat training, reprogramming everyday objects into weaponry, defending his position before a board for grant money, turning everyday household liquids into knock-out gas, and how to talk his way out of traffic tickets.

Not to mention everything he learn as Phantom.

Danny knew how to verify jewels and gold due to the years spent in the ghost zone fighting off pirates and treasure hunters. Phantom's reputation made him a target for many ghosts who wanted to add his rarity to their collections.

How to command a room, then a town, and finally an army. Diplomatic missions increased in number as he began meeting with the leaders of various sectors within the Ghost Zones.

Really, Danny didn't make a whole lot of sense, if anyone bothered to ask him how he came to this set of skills. The thing was, unlike the rest of his family, Danny was far too reserved to show them off. He edged the line of shyness from a young age, which sometimes bled into reclusive tendencies.

He didn't get anxious from social interactions; he just didn't feel like seeking them out. Sam and Tucker felt a similar way, as they were always willing to talk to a stranger, but they tried to branch out of their safe little bubble to make friends rather than acquaintances. Then the summer between sophomore and junior year happened.

Sam, Danny, and Tucker left tenth grade as plain losers only to arrive in junior with a splash.

The trio noticed that people were staring at them more intensely than they had been before. That they were used to, what they weren't used to was that the stares were not mocking or dismissive.

It was odd, but it didn't click on why that was until winter break, and more specifically, Star's Holiday party.

Ever since the fourth grade, Star hosted the biggest party of their generation. Her parents owned the local fun center, which featured indoor kart racing, laser tag, arcade games, paintball, and virtual reality pods. Everyone tripped over themselves to be given an invitation as she offered a full day and night of free entertainment at the center.

It always ended with wild stories of teenage fun that Danny always wanted to see in person, rather than hearing about in the hallways the next day. Not that everyone in their grade went. The invitation list was super selective (Star's parents did lose a lot of profit for letting their daughter do that)

You either received an invitation from the party girl herself, or you were asked to be a plus one, which was just as much of an honor as it was a symbol of social status among the teenage population of Amity Park.

The trio was never invited, which is why they were already making their way to the student parking lot when Star stood in the courtyard, holding up the scarred envelopes. Inside them was the bracelet that one had to scan at the door of her center to let people in. It was how her father ensured only the agreed-upon guests stayed at that number.

In the middle of making plans for hot chocolate at Sam's favorite poetry slam cafe, Star had run at Tucker's car, practically falling over to knock on his window. Danny had never been so confused in his life as his friend rolled down his window to arch a brow at the girl.

She stuttered her way through a pathetic request for fashion advice that Tucker easily answered in two sentences. Sam snickered as Star seemed unsure what to do with Tucker's lack of interest in her or her popularity.

Ever since Tucker started focusing more on his self-confidence and joined the fashion community, he hadn't been so girl-crazy nor as desperate to get one's attention.

Just as Danny reminded Tucker that other cars were waiting for them to clear the road, Star had pushed three envelopes into the driver's hand and run off with a red face.

Tucker stared at the envelopes in his hands with a wild look that both Sam and Danny shared. They slowly kicked their brains back into gear when an angry honk from the car behind them sounded, and they ended up silently driving the cafe, still in a daze.

Jazz laughed herself silly when they rang her up to ask if she thought it was a trick (Sam was sure they were going to be Carrie-ed), a mistake (Danny insisted Star had gone to the wrong car, but due to the tinting, didn't realize until it was too late). Or a genuine invitation (Tcuker had always been the most optimistic of the three).

"Haven't you three ever wondered why Spectra used emotion-based ectoplasm for her appearance?" She giggled, "It makes people hot. And you guys literally spend all summer in the Ghost Zone during your internships, feeling human emotions while being exposed to natural ectoplasm. You three came back looking good."

That was a shock.

The summer apprenticeships had been a compromise between Sam and her parents. They were growing tired of her not growing out of her "phase" and were threatening to send her to a military camp to straighten her out.

Thankfully, Jazz had stepped in, brilliantly changing their minds into allowing the college student to match Sam up with a well-known friend as a mentor. She even threw Danny and Tucker into her "program" to further show that it was just what Sam needed to stop her from being a troubled teen.

Since only Maddie and Jack knew about Phantom, it took some effort among all of them to create fake websites and legitimate-looking summer programs before Sam, Tucker, and Danny arrived in the Ghost Zone in different vehicles to spend their summers. It helped that Ghostwriter owed them a favor, and he brought the programs to life.

Danny was learning medical practices of various species with Frostbite. Sam was with Princess Dorathea, learning how to govern and manage a large estate. Tucker had taken Wulf up on his offer to join him through the Ghost Zone's wildness, allowing Tucker to experience life off-screen and learn more about animals.

Jazz had said she placed them out of their comfort zones, but with trusted ghosts that could help them build well-rounded characters. At first, it wasn't for them, but the trio found themselves falling in love with their activities.

By the time they came back, they had many stories and exceptional skills to share with their parents. Sam's parents weren't happy she was still a goth, but they did appreciate her newfound determination to connect with them and her interest in running companies like the family business.

Tucker's parents were amazed by the muscles he gained and how he started to limit his screen time. He still loves his tech, but now he was branching out into fashion, helping out around the house, and appreciating animals and nature like never before.

Maddie and Jack watched as Danny grew more empathic while becoming more sure of what to do in stressful situations. Confidence that their son desperately needed had been gifted to him over the summer. He no longer lowered his eyes or slouched, even if his awkwardness lingered a bit.

That apparently made them hot? Yes, it did.

At Star's party, even though the three kept to themselves, laughing and hanging out as normal, people were constantly attempting to talk to them or simply flushing whenever they made eye contact. Danny, Sam, and Tucker all agreed that they no longer wanted to be popular.

They stay firmly behind unbreakable walls even as the party skyrocketed them to the same level of popularity as the A-listers (they refused to join the club). The three were more excited to return to their summer internships the following summer.

By the time graduation rolled around, Danny, Sam, and Tucker had been voted the most attractive and the most likely to succeed. They were a new type of untouchable royalty walking the halls of Casper High.

It came as no surprise that their resumes and internships got them offers from various colleges, not to mention their looks. Jazz, by that point, was still working on her degree at Gotham U, so the three chose to go there.

Danny was studying to become a doctor, Sam was in business, and Tucker chose computer sciences. They had moved into a house that Sam's parents bought for them, allowing Jazz to move out of the dorms into the spare room. Things were going great for a while, living in the big city and being adults on their own for the first time.

Then Danny applied for an internship at Martha Wayne Memorial Hospital in the administrative area- Sam convinced him it would be a good way to get a foot in the door when he applied to medical school. He needed someone to write him rec letters.- And one night, when he was working late on data entry, he happened to see Batman's maskless fall out of a portal produced by a trenchcoat man.

The trenchcoat man carried Batman to the abandoned operating room that had been left behind when they remodeled the place and converted it into offices, followed by the rest of the Bats. Their faces were covered entirely, but it did not hide their worry as they rushed to catch up with the pair.

A woman wearing scrubs pushed through the portal and the group of masked heroes, barking out orders to prepare the room.

There was a magic spell wrapped around the group that typically would have made them invisible, and erase their importance in the mind of whoever looked at them, as if they were from a forgotten dream. Still, Danny's ecto contamination made him immune to the spell, so he witnessed the whole thing.

Huh. Bruce Wayne was Batman. Neat.

Danny figured it wasn't his business and turned back to his two monitors to finish the Excel spreadsheet he was working on. He later left after saving his work, ignoring the fact that he now knew why the operating room had been left untouched, despite having all that technology on standby.

He would get home, mention it over a plate of reheated pizza, while Tucker would be working on an essay due at midnight. His best friend would shrug, claiming his own ectoplasim had made him immune to Poison Ivy's plants- they were shockingly similar to some of the plants Wulf and he encountered in the Ghost Zone- and had seen Red Robin's face after the man had been sprayed in the face and some of the powder lingered on his mask.

Apparently, Tucker's midnight essay writing had given him a familiar, dazed college look of exhaustion. Still, since he wasn't freaking out at the man eating plants, Red Robin had thought him too gone on whatever Posion Ivy how dosed the crowd of hostages with, to worry about his bare face. He had merely moved Tucker somewhere safe, stabbed him in the thigh with a needle, which had been rude according to Tucker, and run off to fight Ivy.

Red Robin was Tim Drake. Neat.

The two changed the subject to a TV show, but eventually Tucker had to focus on his essay, and they fell silent.

The following morning, Sam reported that she, too, had figured out a Gotham Hero's identity by accident. Her ectoplasim contamination had made her an attractive goth, who was approached by a blushing Damian Wayne to ask her to model her alternative style for his art club.

At the offer of a bit of pocket change, Sam had agreed to follow the art club president to a park where a group of teenagers were setting up canvases and easels. They asked her to sit on the park fountain for a few hours while they tried to capture her likeness in charcoal.

During the session, she noticed a change in Damian's movement as he grew more relaxed and his old habits began to shine through. Princess Dorathea had taught her the dangers of the court and how to notice little changes in body language that could keep her safe.

She thought it was odd that Damian moved like an assassin, reaching for a small knife in the same way he wielded his charcoal. It made sense later when she was rescued by Robin on her walk home from a would-be mugging and noticed the same little habits.

Robin was Damian Wayne. Neat.

If three of the many Bats were Waynes or connected to the famous family, it only logically makes sense that the rest were all Waynes too. Double neat.

The only one who was sincerely shocked by this reveal was Jazz, who had not even a hint of suspicion that Bruce Wayne was Batman.

"This is huge!" Jazz gasps, "Don't you guys realize how crazy this is!?"

"I mean, sure," Tucker slowly responded, sharing a confused glance with Sam and Danny. "But it's not really our business, is it? It's not like Danny is in the hero scene anymore."

"Well, yes but come on it's Batman!"

"I don't think Batman even cares about us, much less his Bruce persona. As someone from the bottom of the first class, trust me, the top of the first class doesn't even notice us taking up space. " Sam laughs, shaking her head. Danny hesitates to mention that Bruce Wayne has stopped by his office multiple times to bring coffee for all his coworkers, but figures the man must do that for all his employees.

Miles and miles away in Wayne Manor, Bruce narrows his eyes at the three screens displaying three newly graduated teens covered in paranormal residue. It's possible that they were all haunted and just didn't know it, which was a common thing, according to the Justice League Dark.

After some digging into their background, he found that companies, summer camps, and internships had all been fabricated by an incredible hacker who provided an oddly convincing cover-up for the various skills the trio possessed. Again, the Justice League Dark also stated that it was common, as that was a tactic the Otherworlders frequently used on humans to leech onto them.

Like a gas station in the middle of nowhere that was there and then it wasn't a few days later.

The three weren't experiencing any negative emotions, which meant whatever was haunting them would soon pass, and it wasn't necessary to intervene. Zatanna promised Bruce that everything was fine.

He had some doubts.

So far, the three have been doing everyday things that first-year college students typically do, and yet, Bruce's children have reported seeing the three often in their civilian lives.

Foley worked out at the same gym Dick did and was often at the ramen shop Jason just helped one of his friends open. Manson began spending time at Cass's favorite café and attended Duke's poetry nights as an observer. Fenton, the male one, was literally working a few floors below Tim.

A coincidence?

Or was it something nefarious at play?

Bruce decided to wait and see what happens.

[the-meme-monarch]

capsei fans been real quiet since this one dropped (the joke is i am capsei fans)

but yeah i get the feeling they’re not gonna last. and it feels bad to me that one of them Doesn’t like him so i Hope they don’t last

👍if you ship scc together go away Please and Thank You

[teophan]

a fantastic commission from @themetalhiro of my Dungeons & Devil Fruits 5e Sniper Marksman, Vinsmoke “Starfall Gunner” Beretta!

it was an absolute treat to work with you, looking forward to the next opportunity to do so!

[mumblesplash]

part 2!!!! [read part one here]

transcript below the cut arranged into stanzas to help show where the rhymes are:

“that’s why they brought gem in? as a failsafe?” as a pawn. we were told to point her at whoever we need gone

“gem won’t hurt her allies. …yet.” the curse she carries will it’s had its eye on her since she lost the other eye she was specially selected for her hunting skill it’s quite the high honor. “wow. how generous.” we try

think about it: why does almost no one fight the curse? “given how fast scott killed skizz last season, i can guess.” [“any pain you spare your friends, you’ll have to suffer worse”?] it’s designed to shut down higher reasoning with stress

[figtreegif]

Wardrobe // Rose Tyler (Billie Piper) // Doctor Who Seasons 1-2 & 4 (2005-2006, 2008) + specials

[beaudesoleil]

stares at you with my huge bug eyes innocently

[confusedmothboy]

did someone ask about my yellowjackets oc

no one asked about him but here he is

his name is eddie taylor and he's jackie's brother and i've written 40k words just to put him in the story (and thats an incomplete season one there is SO much more to write) anyways this is the ao3 link to that if yall want: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64741555/chapters/166349272

im just. really normal about this guy and everyone around me is sick of hearing abt him

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One / Part Two (You are Here) / Part Three 

A03

Hopper had undersold Harrington's condition. 

Wayne hadn't expected anything pretty, but the face that turned to them as they walked through the door almost had him freezing in place. 

Black eye, bruised chin, split lip. 

More and more bruises, some faded and some very new, trailing down the kids neck. 

 The rest was hidden by his preppy little polo shirt, but Wayne didn't doubt that there were more.

Harrington tried to stand when they entered the room and the way he moved--entirely unbalanced, clearly in a lot of pain--made Wayne think the only thing the kid really needed was a hospital. 

Because Steve Harrington hadn't just been beaten. 

He'd been tortured--and very recently strangled. 

(Abruptly, Wayne realized that Hopper had implied the boy had been in the mall fire--just as much as he implied the mall fire was anything but. 

He also hadn't stated how Harrington had escaped the Suites trying to break into his house.) 

"Sit down." Hopper commanded, and Wayne expected Harrington to do anything but listen. 

Say something cocky, or act the part of a demanding little shit maybe, despite the condition he was in.

Instead the kid just sighed in relief and dropped like a stone, right back into the chair. 

Hopper came around his desk, talking all the while. "Steve, this is Wayne. Wayne, Steve."

"Hello Sir." Steve croaked politely. His voice was wrecked, no doubt from the necklace of finger shaped bruises around his neck.

"You're going to stay with him for a while, and you're gonna pay him for the privilege." Hopper informed him, as he began digging around his desk. "Money, chores, whatever Wayne wants." 

Wayne held his gaze as Steve turned to appraise him. 

Would Harrington pitch a fit? 

Would he look at Wayne's work clothes, streaked with dirt and sweat, with the name of the warehouse embroidered in the corner and crinkle up his nose, just like his daddy did? 

Hopper didn't lie, but a part of Wayne wanted to see just how different this Harrington was. If the respectful demeanor was an act done for Hopper. 

Or perhaps, Hopper had mentioned Steve's father for a reason, instead of his mother. Did he adopt her ice-like approach to life? 

Micro managing and long-held grudges were Stella Harrington’s game, and she excelled at it. 

Steve however, did nothing of the sort, instead settling with the situation in a way that reminded Wayne far too strongly of the men and women who'd come home from war.

"Okay." The kid said simply, after a long moment of consideration. He turned back to Hopper. "But we need to tell the rest of the Par--" 

Here he cut a look back to Wayne, correcting himself. "the kids. I don't want them showing up at my house trying to find me and freaking out." 

"They wouldn't--" Jim paused, fingers freezing from the rummaging they'd been doing. "they absolutely would, goddammit." He muttered darkly.  

"I'll tell the kids. The only thing I want you doing right now is laying low. I need to get a hold of Owens, but it's gonna take time to do that, and more time to fix this, so as of right now, Harrington? You're on vacation." He pointed sternly, as if Steve might argue.

The kid looked too tired and messed up to bother trying. 

"I mean it. You're out of the country, where is anybody's guess. No one's seen you and no one better be seeing you, got it?" His voice held firm, and Wayne had to blink because the tone here wasn't one of a police chief warning a teenager--but of a father talking to his son.

He knew, because his own voice did that now. Took on a worried tone that masqueraded as something more like annoyance and seriousness. 

"Yes, Sir." Harrington said, remaining weirdly compliant. "Consider me gone." 

A hand came up to briefly press above one eye, and Wayne wondered if the kid had been looked over, or if they had just crammed him into Hopper's office without offering so much as a tissue box. 

How many painkillers did they have back at the house? Wayne usually kept a good bottle around, but Steve was going to need more than that…

He found himself once again cataloging Steve's wounds, this time comparing them to the medicine cabinet he had at home. 

"I expect you to be a damn good house guest, you hear me?" Hopper continued, trying to cut a menacing figure. He finally found what he was looking for; pulling out a large, padded envelope. 

He handed it over to Harrington, who took it without looking, shoving it into the duffle bag he'd had sitting at his feet. 

There was a smudge of red on the handle of said bag, that matched perfectly up to a shittily done wrap on Steve's right hand. 

Wayne mentally added 'buy more bandages' to his list. 

Steve nodded at Hopper again. "Yes, Sir."

Jim’s eyes narrowed. "Quite that, you know I hate that." 

The briefest glimmer of mischief crossed Harrington's face. "Sorry, Sir. Won't happen again, Sir."

'Ahh.' Wayne thought. 'So there's a teenager in there after all.'

Jim rolled his eyes. "Get out of my office."

"Thanks Hop." Harrington said, finally dropping that odd obedience, a hint of a smile on his battered face. 

He stood, and Wayne had to stop himself from offering an arm out as Steve reached for his bag and limped towards him. 

He paused right before he left Hopper's office, hand on the doorframe.

 "You'll check up on Robin too, right?"  He asked, and for the first time his tone took on something more alive--and filled with worry. "And Dustin? Erica?" 

"Dustin and his mom are finally taking me up on my suggestion to see their family in Florida for a while, and the Sinclairs are taking a sabbatical from Hawkins. I'm working on the Buckley's." Hopper drummed his fingers on the desk. "So far, no one else besides you and El have been targeted, and we're going to keep it that way."

Steve let out a breath, and while Wayne could tell the worry hadn't left him, he could almost physically see Steve force himself to put it away.

Another act that was far beyond the kid's years. 

A different officer popped up as they walked down the hall towards the exit, waving his hand madly. "Harrington! Chief says you forgot this!" He barked.

(Or tried to anyway. Callahan wasn’t the most aggressive of officers and frankly, never would be.)

A slim sports bag was held in his hands, and Steve nearly tripped over his own feet when he tried to turn and claim it.

"I'll get it." Wayne said, knowing his tone sounded gruff.

No use for it. He could either sound gruff or sound sad, and Wayne knew better than to start off the relationship with yet another hurt young man by acting sad.

Pity wasn't gonna win him any favors here. 

He took the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, uncaring of the wince on Harrington's face until something sharp poked at his shoulder. 

Several somethings, in fact. 

"What the hell do you got in this thing?" He asked once they hit the parking lot, voice low as he escorted Steve to his truck. 

"Just a baseball bat, sir." Steve said, in the exact same tone Eddie used every time he thought he was bein’ slick. 

Considering the thing in the bag could have passed for a baseball bat if not for the sharp pokey bits, it wasn’t a bad attempt. Steve just hadn’t accounted for the fact that Wayne lived with Eddie. 

An unfair advantage, really. 

‘Least there can’t be any baby racoons in the damn bag.’ Wayne thought idly. 

Went on to gently put the bat in the backseat, watching as the kid struggled to lift himself into the truck.

"You can drop that, I take too being called Sir about as well as Hop does." He said, keeping his tone nice and calm, hoping to ease into calling Steve out on his lie. 

Fussed with a few dials on the stereo, giving Steve an excuse to take his time before starting the engine and taking the long way home.

Wayne wanted to talk a little-- without the chance of Ed’s interrupting. 

"Son,” He started off. “I was born in the morning, but not this morning. I'm hoping to make the next few weeks as easy as I can for both of us, and I can't do that if you're starting off with a lie." 

Steve blinked, turning to face him in a matter that was too fast for his injuries. He didn't bother hiding the hurt it caused him, but his voice stayed even as he spoke.

 "What do you mean Si--Wayne." 

"Nice catch.”  Wayne said. “We’ll get you there yet.” 

It was a trick he'd learned with Eddie--little tidbits of praise went a long way when it came to gaining trust.

Especially with kids who hadn't ever been given much. 

Harrington seemed smart to it, or perhaps was just hesitant to speak in general because he remained quiet, not offering up any info. No further lies, but nothing towards the truth, neither. 

Which was fine. Wayne didn’t think a little pushing would hurt.

"That bat of yours was digging into my shoulder like a bee swarm." Wayne continued, when it became clear Steve wasn't talking. "I'm more a fan of football than baseball, but last I checked they hadn't changed the design of a bat." 

"What teams?" Steve asked, perking up a touch. "Of football. Which ones are yours?"

Wayne could ignore it of course, or demand Steve give him an answer to the question he asked. 

He did neither. "I’m liking the Colts since they got moved here. You?" 

"Green Bay Packers, though I like the Colts too--that trade in 84’ was crazy." Steve said. After a second he proved that answering instead of pushing was the right move because he added; "What did Hopper tell you? About…" He trailed off, making a gesture Wayne didn't bother trying to interpret. 

"He said some things. I've guessed a few others." Wayne admitted. Cut a little look out of the corner of his eye as he came to a stop sign. "I know the feds are real interested in you after Starcourt." 

Steve took that in, hands tightening on the handle. 

"It really is a baseball bat." He said, a little fast and with the tiniest hint of that challenge Wayne had been looking for. "It just also has nails hammered into one end." 

Wayne took that in with one nice, slow blink. 

"A bat with nails in it." He said, and it made a hell of a lot of sense compared to the sensation he'd felt carrying the case. "You use it against anyone?" 

"Some of the feds." Steve admitted, and even with his eyes on the road Wayne could tell he was being stared at.

Judged.

Not in the way one expected a rich kid to judge, but in the way Eddie had, those first few months he'd lived here. The times when  he'd push, just a little, to see what Wayne's reaction would be. 

Eddie hadn't done it in a damn long time, but Wayne recognized the behavior nonetheless. 

"Anybody else?" He asked. 

"Nobody human." Steve replied. 

"Alright." Wayne said, and made a mental note to drop all questions related to that. 

He didn't need to know, definitely didn't want to know, and had a feeling if he did know he'd find himself being watched by the same spooks after Steve.

"I've got a few deck boxes that lock on my porch. Think you'd be agreeable to leaving the bat in one?" 

Steve paused, hand clenching tighter around the strap of his duffel bag. "If you gave me a key so I could get it in an emergency,  I'd be happy to." 

He tried to sound calm, even a little charming in that sort of upper-class businessman sort of way, but the fear bled through. 

The kid wasn't happy separating from the bat, and given it sounded like it might have saved his life recently, Wayne understood the hesitation. 

With an internal apology to Eddie, he promptly threw his nephew under the proverbial bus.  "I've got my nephew at home and he'd be far too interested in it, is all. Blades and weapons and such tend to attract him, and I don't need to be rushing anyone to the ER." 

All of which were very true facts (one Wayne learned the time he'd allowed Eddie to bring a sword  home, only for him to nearly cut his own nose off winging the thing around) but he figured it might make Steve more amenable to separating from it. 

Sure enough, some of the tenseness bled out of Steve's shoulders. "Yeah that's fair." 

The truck hit a few potholes as they finally turned into the trailer park, and the kid hissed, a quiet sound. 

Judging by the uncomfortable wince, and hands clenched into his jeans something painwise was giving him trouble. 

"When was the last time you took a pain pill?" Wayne asked, doing his best to weave around the other holes that dotted the gravel roads.

Steve blinked. "Uh…" 

"You take any today son?" 

Steve his head. 

"Didn't have time to grab it." He said, offering a sad look to his pack. 

Course he hadn't. 

"Let's get you inside then and get you some." Wayne said with a sigh. Thankfully Eddie's van wasn't here--Wayne was fairly certain he had band practice today but knowing him it could be a million other things.

Just meant he had to acclimate Steve as fast as he could, to try and get the poor guy settled before Ed’s came in. 

He just hoped life and lady luck would work with him, for once. 

[egophiliac]

swipes everything else off of the table to yell about diasomnia flower bookmarks

(I gave Silver one too :D)

[cubbihue]

Indeed, Why did Peri get assigned Dev as his first godchild?

Peri’s assignment was as correct as any other fairy’s assignment!

Which is to say that somewhere, out there, there is a fairy with great experience, a fairy so good at their task that they can handle even the most extreme cases.

And that fairy has been given an “Extreme Case” child whose biggest concern is “Quick Sand”.

As far as the system is concerned, Dev is classified as “Simple”. A perfect beginner’s child for a beginning godparent like Peri!!!

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

Peri's Assignment: [Start] > [Previous] > [END]

[dcxdpdabbles]

Hi, would it be possible for you to write something about stephxdanny where danny has an ice core and can only visit steph in the winter season, usually in the other seasons they talk through a laptop that danny made with the help of tucker? or something like that, have a nice day.

Steph has been counting down to the first day of winter. She had worked her ass off to make sure all cases she was assigned were completed.

She spoke to her teachers beforehand, asking for any classwork they would give her. Steph had even informed her mother that she would be on a trip so she would not have to worry about her (or listen to her lectures) for a while.

She had told Bruce she wanted to be benched for a couple of days. He seemed almost relieved by her request, letting her know they would only call upon her in an emergency.

Everything was all set for when Danny would arrive. She will be taking her boyfriend on a winter wonderland tour in Gotham. Each section of the city had little festivals, events, and fun holes in the walls.

Danny will arrive on time this year for the winter arts festival. Disregarding the few booths dedicated to Christmas decorations- as Danny hated that holiday with a burning passion due to years of resentment. He only associated bad members of his parents arguing around that time- there were many things she knows he adored.

Like those natural soaps from Mrs. Miller on Street Nine or the unique winter edition fudges from O'Malley's Bakery.

There is so much excitement coursing through her veins that she has to do the most push-ups until she's so tired she has to go to bed. Otherwise, Steph will never get a wink of sleep and will be too exhausted to enjoy seeing her boyfriend again.

In the morning, Danny will be going through the portal. The thought whispers in her mind and a large grin blooms. Not caring for the sweat pouring down her face or the slight shake in her arms, Steph thinks about it repeatedly.

Pumping her arms up and down, she giggles as butterflies flutter in her belly.

The following day, she gets up earlier than usual to shower, shave, and spend an hour on her hair. Usually, she doesn't bother that much, as her hair isn't too hard to manage. A good comb with a headband was her usual go-to style, but today, she wanted to curl it and braid some snowflakes into it.

Steph had taken ages picking out a good outfit. She usually dressed well, but this would be the first time she would see Danny in nearly a year. Who could blame her for wanting to look good?

She skipped out of her house, going to the oldest cemetery in Gotham. The place where she first met Danny all those years ago, ignoring the stun looks she received on the street. It wasn't often that she did her make-up that wasn't stubble or that she forgo casual wear, but when she did well, she knew she was a knockout.

It's something the Waynes always played up at the galas. There was a danger to being this pretty; she knew that better than most in places like Crime Alley, but Steph knew that if she thought she looked good, why not show it off if she felt good?

There was nothing vain in being comfortable and happy in your own skin. Steph would kick the ass of anyone who said otherwise.

Her strike was long and confident as she slowly entered Old Gotham. The buildings started to look less metal and glass, turning into red bricks and wooden beams. She takes a moment to appreciate the buildings, breathe in the lovely winter air, and take in the sounds of the city slowly coming to life.

There wasn't a lot of foot traffic in Old Gotham, seeing as most of the stuff here was protected for historical tours, some courtrooms, and the occasional little shops and restaurants.

It could have been a good tourist place, but when people came to Gotham, they tended to go further into the city where all the chain stores, newer buildings, and shopping malls were. It was why Steph had run away to her when she was fourteen. She knew that most people who visited Old Gotham were either retired or locals.

Half the time, the streets only had a few people walking them, looking into windows of small businesses or taking pictures of the old buildings. She had figured none of them would care if she ran away from home after her shitty dad got too drunk once.

Steph had been young then, too small to start her Spoiler crusade on her Da, and had chosen life on the streets as better than that hateful place. She had wandered into the cemetery, climbing into a mausoleum to escape the snowstorm that passed through the city, and sitting with he back against the coffin, feeling small and miserable.

She had never been one to fear the cemetery or the dead. She knew that living men were much worse, but even she had screamed when the coffin's lid had suddenly slid off, revealing a bright green light.

The portal inside the coffin would open at winter's first noon, then close on winter's last noon.

She remembers stumbling backward, too frightened to think correctly and run, when a head slowly reached out of the portal, gripping the side of the coffin, and a boy her age heaving himself out of the coffin with a grunt. His snow-white heart sparkled in the portal's glow, his slightly tan skin blemish-free, and his glowing green eyes pinned her to her place.

He was the definition of beauty. If it had been a movie scene, she knew the musical theme for him would have been flutes, harps and singing angles harmonizing as he slowly smiled at her.

She threw the brick she picked up in the alley as hard as she could at his face. Danny's head snapped back, nose breaking, and a gush of green blood oozed from his face as he cried out, "Why!?"

Steph pulled out the gun she had stolen from her father, aiming it at the boy who swearing and cursing up a storm from his little portal. He froze when he saw it aimed at him, the sound of her releasing the safety loud in the small stone room.

Neither mentions the slight shake in her fingers- before Bruce trained the fear out of her- as she glared at him. "Dead things should stay dead."

Then Danny had done what made her fall for him. He made two finer guns at her while narrowing his eyes. "You pull that trigger, and I'll pull mine."

"What? I have a gun!" She snapped only to watch him smirk with enough mischievous glee in his eyes that it felt like a slap. How was something dead able to seem more alive than she was?

"So does most of America. You ain't special." The boy taunted, and for some reason, that made her laugh so hard that she ended up on the floor wheezing. The conversation had been much smoother when she wasn't aiming a weapon at him.

She discovered that he was a being that could only visit her world during winter through the means of an ancient society that long ago vanished from history. He went by the name Danny. He could snap his fingers and shift into a human-looking boy, and the most surprising fact about him was that he genuinely seemed to love how different humans lived in Gotham.

She had gotten so used to how her city was terrible that she had forgotten what was good about it. The sights she saw in everyday mundane life were something Danny had waited a whole year, saving up every penny, to see.

She also found out he had the money and the smarts to get them a nice warm hotel room- separated by a door- and a love for peppermint lattes. He offered her cash to help him explore the city, and the rest, as they say, was history.

Now, three years later, every winter, Steph compiles a list of places to go, things to do, and people to meet, rekindling the love for her city burning brightly in her chest.

She protected this city by stopping her dad and breaking his plans. Her spite and hate for him was the reason.

But Danny had turned into the motivation. Into her heart. That kept her going because he saw this place- and her- as something worth crossing the realms to.

She places the two letters and a warm pastry bag on the ground. She sits down, crosses her legs, and checks her watch again. There are only five more minutes till the clock strikes noon.

Steph leans back, eyes on the lid of the coffin, waiting for a movement that will alert her that her heart has returned for another incredible three months.

Danny can't stay once winter ends; just like the snow-white of his hair, he will melt in the spring. He warned her long ago that if she really wanted to give her heart to him, then it would suffer bruises of their distance. He would care for her and her heart as much as he could, but there were rules to this world that did not allow him to truly become a part of it.

She had told him that no matter how long it would be, she would love him through each season, year, and moment she drew breath. No matter how long it's been, she will always be sitting in this exact spot again and again, every year, for this moment.

The moment winter returned him to her.

The coffin shakes a little as a familiar glow shines through the small cracks.

[rabotimagines]

"Party Dice"

oh- oh this is def gonna need a continuation or another character's scenario. This hit different

"Party dice" pt 2 GN BOT Reader x Rumble [Smut]

Summary: Summary: You get paired with Rumble during a cross faction game of "interface dice". Or giving the cassette a good ol' handy.

Genre/Theme: Smut scenario 🔞 MDNI

Warnings: Voyeurism, Technically Public Hand job, Rumble calls reader a whore, mild brat taming on Rumble. (As result of the former)

Pronouns: You, Your, Yours, they

Notes: Written with flirty Older Autobot Reader, Reader is a bigger bot than Rumble, not said how much but just mentioned that you're a bigger bot than him. Part one with Skyfire is right here!, Randomly selected happens for the other mechs here, (aka Astrotrain is mentioned taking a servo up his valve, etc,)

Rumble was stuck staring till Skywarp nearly fell on top of him after Starscream smacked him for his smart aft comment. It took a while for things to pretend to settle down for everyone after the show you put on servicing Skyfire's spike. You'd done more work than just for Skyfire with that slagging show you put on.

When they got back to the game, Bumblebee got the dice next and had to make out with Starscream. And neither of 'em even objected to the draw! Sure, Bumblebee sighed, but he just got up and met Starscream halfway- and they just started going at it! Starscream basically yanked Bumblebee against him to kiss him harder. And Rumble wishes he was either of 'em in all honesty. He was pent up and ready for just some kind of action.

But the roll chances of array stuff were still low, so after the make out, It went back to the usual slag. Though the next highlight of the game of definitely Astrotrain's lucky roll.

Astrotrain on his knees and servos with all four of that dune buggy's digits stuffed up his valve. Muttering "I think I can fit my servo in here-" all before he was halfway gauntlet deep in Astrotrain. Skywarp laughed loud over the sound Astrotrain had made suddenly getting stuffed full. Astrotrain glared and told Skywarp he was going to fragging make him regret his function if he didn't shut up. And Skywarp only kept laughing like a loon.

And it just so happened two rolls after that Skywarp rolled a real lucky. "Get valve spiked by Astrotrain."

Skywarp used his chicken as soon as Astrotrain's helm snapped in his direction. Rumble laughed over the sorry expression on Skywarp's faceplate. Shame, though, cause Rumble would have loved to watch Skywarp get his valve pounded by Astrotrain of all mechs. Especially when he was this slagged off at him. Rumble bets Astrotrain could've made Skywarp cry. Real shame.

Then it was the usual slag for a while again- which Yeah funny, but Rumble wanted some heated action! Somethin' good. It's been a while since your performance, but Rumbles' frame was still humming hot just thinking about it.

But the dice finally make their way back to Rumble again. And he could get something good-! Rumble rolled the dice together against his servos. "C'mon, Rumble needs a good- roll!" He tossed the dice out onto the floor.

The glyphs projected up into the air.

"Get spike job from-

Rumble couldn't stop himself from jumping up with a shout of victory when he saw the other dice projecting your designation. "Yeah! That's what I'm talking about!"

"Oh, C'mon-!" Skywarp cursed under his vents.

"Stuff it, Skywarp! It's my turn!" And then he realized everyone was looking right at you- Right, you might bail on him! Slag! Rumble paused and waited for what'd you'd say.

"Eh, it's just a- what's the human term? A handie? Yeah, just a handie." You shrugged unbothered by any of it. Your optics found Rumble's visor. "Well, what are you waiting for? C'mhere. " You patted your own thigh. A grin split his faceplate again, and Rumble was not about to wait.

With one more smug look towards Skywarp (sour slagger!), Rumble dashed over to your spot on the floor. Rumble practically threw himself down in your lap, enjoying the huff outta you when he sat with a thunk. Your servos flew onto his waist to steady him, and Rumble leaned his back against your frame. Your em field brushed lightly against him, and he paused at the touch of it. His array already reacting in interest. One of your servos tapped directly above his modesty panel "Open up."

Rumble did, and his spike pressurized, and he huffed, crossing his arms over his chassis. "Well, get to it." Rumble grinned.

"Bossy, ain't you?" Your tone was a touch clipped, but you obeyed. Your servo casually wrapped around his spike and slowly started serving him. The slow slide of your palm dragging another fit of charge up Rumble's spinal strut every time you stroked. "What? You void of manners or something?" Rumble could feel your chassis lightly hum with energon when your vocalizor activated.

Rumbled scoffed. "What? Like, I gotta say 'please' or some slag like that? I ain't no fragging good for nothing Autobot. I'm just the Con who got lucky and gets to use you this turn." Your em field pulled back immediately, and the warmth that was coaxing along Rumble's plating went cold when it left. Rumble's plating that started loosening on its own flattened back out. Your servo pumped, and on your next trip to his spike head, your thumb smeared his pre lubricant over his tip.

You hummed the sound rather loud when his back was almost flat against your frame. "Oh, really now? And what do you mean by 'use'?"

Rumble scoffed. What like it wasn't obvious? You're joking, right? "What? You think it's not obvious you're the Autobot's whore?"

"Hey! That's not-!"

"Bumblebee." You started, and the scout shut up just like that. "Oh, am I now?" Your servo slowly kept stroking his spike- and yeah, you knew exactly what you were doing. Rumble would bet shanix you'd done this more times than you could count. "And that means- you can just... demand what you want from me?"

Well, at least you understood that part. "Yeah, cause you're easy." You hummed again your em field ghosted along the edge of his plating and Rumble couldn't even make out what emotion you were putting out- whatever it was, was hot so he assumed you were getting off on just this.

Your pace only stayed at the same slow aft rate, and Rumble could feel his hips wanna buck up. "Cmon, pick up the pace already-!" Rumble gripped your arm and your thigh.

"Okay, brat." You bite out and Rumbles plating ruffles. Did you just call him a brat? Rumble knows he can hear Skywarp and Starscream laugh. He even hears a fragging sound from one of the Autobots-! Rumble only feels himself getting actually slagged off. If there was one fragging thing he hated the most, it was being treated like some unprogramed new build just cause he was small.

"I ain't no slagging youngling!" Rumble bites out, his em field turning sharper at the edges "What? You need your optics checked or something? You old bag of bolt-!" You shifted your entire body weight, and Rumble almost falls sideways right off your lap. "Hey, what the-!" Your servos fully mech handle Rumble, so he's laying back in your lap now. Sprawled out on top of your thighs.

"Bite your glossia before I bite it for you, brat." Your servo catching the back of his helm is the only reason Rumble doesn't fall outta your lap. Rumble is stuck staring up at your faceplate for half a nanoklick before you lock him into a kiss-! Rumble hums in shock, his own sound of surprise getting caught in your mouth.

"Hey-!" Rumble can hear Skywarp shout, and Rumble doesn't even wanna laugh about it. That's the second time you'd called him a brat, and you were actually fragging getting him mad-! Doesn't matter if you were servicing him or not! You call him that again, and he's gonna- Rumble makes a noise of surprise when your glossia laps against his derma. Your other servo wraps back around his spike, and Rumble gasps when you start pumping his spike again. And you just use the opportunity to slip your glossia into Rumbles' mouth.

Frag- Rumbles is a bit aware of your size difference when he's trying and failing to match your glossia. Glossia pressing against his own and on the flat of his own denta. But Rumble wouldn't just- lay down and let you mech handle him like this or nothin'! He may be small, but that doesn't mean he's easy to beat! Rumble latches a servo on your arm and squeezes. You don't make a sound, but your plating twitches under his hold. Rumble pushes back against you, doing his sparkdamnest to try and win some control over this stupid kiss you locked him into.

But Rumble groans into your mouth when your servo pauses to squeeze the base of his spike. You just tilt his helm back more, and Rumble almost chokes on the amount of oral lubricant that starts spilling down his intake. You just take the opportunity to take his glossia and swallow around it. His glossia stings lightly, and-

Rumble grunts when you pull back a bit from the kiss, taking his glossia along with your mouth. You've got his glossia trapped between your denta, and you're holding him there. Rumble can feel one of your fangs nipping against the top of his glossia. And you're staring down at Rumble- gaze narrow and optics sharp-! There's a hissing vent outta someone, and Rumble almost thought it was his own. But the quiet cursing definitely told him it was someone else. Your em field is dragging along the dips of his spinal strut. Your servo slowly squeezes the base of his spike firm, and Rumble can't help failing to bite back a whine. Your derma only quirked up at the sound.

You closed the distance again and let Rumble's glossia fall back into his mouth, followed by your own glossia-! Rumble groans against you when you pump his spike faster. Yeah, just like that-! Rumble's hips jumped on your next stroke upwards, and you laughed against his derma.

Rumble should be mad-! He should be fragging furious you were playing with him like this in front of everybody. But the way you were kissing him was like you were kissing his thoughts away-!

You moaned against him, and Rumble's thoughts go sliding down his intake along with your oral lubricant. Oh, you were slagging dangerous!

"Rumble you're losing!" Skywarp called out- and you know what?! What the frag ever! Rumble didn't care if you lead! Especially if it slagged off Skywarp-! Especially when you made him feel like this when you did it! Rumble just lets go of your arm to flash Skywarp his middle digit. Rumble can't help his 'em field flexing in amusement when he can hear Skywarp's seething from over here. Jealous fragger-!

"I don't think he cares, mech. Losing never looked so good." The dune buggy drones. And he's slagging right! Rumble would lose a hundred sparkdamn times to the Autobots if it meant he could have this happen every time-! Rumble can feel you hum against him the sound tingling on his glossia. Rumble can't miss the amusement in your em field when it practically wraps back around him. Rumble's whole frame warms and your servo speeds up even more and-!

Rumble's hips jump again, and he's overloading in your servo with a muffled groan. You just swallow the sound down and keep working his spike- and you're still kissing him-! Your derma pressing against his own and your glossia is tracing over his own denta! You just nipped down on Rumble's bottom derma when he tries to break the kiss. His bottom derma stings, and he can't pull back when you're biting him, so he pushes forward where you just use the chance to kiss him again-!

Rumble's hips are twitching and bucking against your servo that's now unforgiving on his spike. Frag-! Frag-! Rumble can hear himself getting louder against you, but frankly, he can't give a single sparkdamn. Especially not when you were making him forget why he needed to worry about that in the first place. Who cares-!? Not Rumble! Rumble gasps against you, and you just keep on chasing him when he tries to break the kiss again. Rumbles fragging light helmed, and stuck stupidly swallowing around your glossia by the end of it.

Rumble's frame slacks and tenses all over again in your lap when his overload ends, and you finally slowly pull your servo off his overworked spike. You pull away from him when your glossia was in the back of his mouth. A string of oral lubricant lately realizes it can't stay on either of your glossias and falls down onto his own chassis. Making a bigger sparkdamn mess on his front along with his own transfluid.

"Oh slag-!"

"Oh yeah."

Rumble doesn't even care the rest are gawking right at you both now- Rumble doesn't give a single frag. Rumble huffed in rapid vents, trying real hard to get his processor working the way it was supposed to be. Rumble eventually registers the feeling of oral lubricant spilling down his fragging throat from the side of his mouth.

Rumble tenses all over with a grunt when your servo suddenly dipped lower to just start touching his valve. "Frag-!" Rumble can't stop his vocalizor from pitching higher than it usually would when your digits start rubbing over his soaked valve. Rumble's mouth falls open with a huffy vent when two of your digits slip between his valve mesh and nudge against his own entrance. Rumble grits his jaw when his valve instinctively tries to clench down on your digits even when you aren't inside him yet.

But instead of pushing your digits in the rest of the way inside, you pull away. Your servo rises and a string of his own valve lubricant sticks to your digits. Making a shiny, barely but still very obvious connection of his own slick.

Your other servo cups the side of his face, and Rumbles helm gets titled. Rumble can feel something soft against his temple- it's your derma. "Good boy." You praise and your 'em field brushes down his frame warm and makes his post overload haze somehow even more addicting. Rumble can't even get his vents half under control before someone's engine revs loud and uncontrolled, and then everyone starts yapping at once.

A loud cough was followed by an aggressive resetting of a vocalizor "Sorry-!" Bumblebee apologized.

"Sparkdamn."

"It should have been me-!"

"Well-" followed by nervous sounding laugher "That was um-"

"Slag-" Rumble curses and swallows the ridiculous amount of both your oral lubricants in his mouth. He forces his very heavy servo to raise and wipe away the messy trail down his own jaw. "That was-"

Your optics find his visor, and you smile at him like a cybercat. Smug.

It makes Rumble's plating fluff. And Rumble wants to be mad about it- he wants to be so mad about it. But he can't right now, especially not right after that overload you gave him.

And that somehow makes him feel- he didn't know-!

"Back to your spot, Darling." You say and pull him back into sitting position in your lap. Rumble sways a little at the tug, your servos gliding over both the dips of his hips. (He's not thinking about that still! No, he's fragging not!). But Rumble just follows what you'd said and pulls himself back up.

Rumble didn't need his optics functioning to know everyone was watching him when he walked back over to his spot on the floor and sat down. Rumble could feel Skywarp glaring at him from his right, and he couldn't help smirking a bit. Oh, Rumble's gonna be able to brag about this to Skywarp for fragging cycles. It didn't matter you used him like that when it felt so fragging good in the first place. Skywarp's jealous em field was promising some string of violence when you started talking again.

"Okay. Who's next?" You scooped the dice up and made everyone stop gawking at Rumble to turn towards you instead.

And Rumble was real glad he didn't have an engine so he just grunted when you raised your other servo- the one you had on his array, and casually popped your two digits into your mouth. The ones he knows were almost in his valve- You pulled your now cleaned digits out of your mouth, your glossia swiping over your derma. You started shaking the dice in your one closed servo. "Anybody feeling lucky?" You smiled.

Rumble sat up straighter, realizing he might get extra lucky tonight.

Probably not, but he could still fragging hope so!

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part thirty-three: in another life

word count: 5.8k

warnings: this chapter contains themes of grief, neglect, and abandonment. reader discretion is advised.

thirty-two | thirty-three | thirty-four

Lando sat at his desk in silence, pen still in hand though the ink had long since dried. The funeral arrangements were half-finished, a list of names and numbers blurring beneath his gaze. His hand hovered over Daniel’s name more than once, but he couldn’t bring himself to write it down again. It was already there in the headline of every regret in his chest.

Daniel Ricciardo, deceased.

His throat burned.

His eyes stared at the paperwork, at the arrangements, at the tasks that had to be done, but his mind was elsewhere. He could barely focus on the numbers, the calls to make, the words to speak.

The office was too quiet. The hum of the city outside felt like a distant echo, unimportant in comparison to the loss that had shredded through his world like a blade. 

Lando sat there, still in last night’s shirt, the sleeves rolled up and collar wrinkled. The clock ticked, the pen in his hand trembled over a page even he couldn’t bring himself to sign.

Daniel Ricciardo — Funeral Coordination.

It wasn’t just a line item on a checklist. It was a sentence.

A verdict.

And Lando couldn’t read it without his throat closing.

Daniel was dead, and Lando had been too late. 

The papers in front of him blurred at the edges, paragraphs bleeding into one another, unread. Funeral arrangements. Security procedures. Transfer of assets. Unsent messages, unspoken apologies.

The pen hung uselessly in his hand.

He was just trying to work. Work was supposed to be safe, detached, obedient. Work wasn’t supposed to look at him the way he could feel his men look at him now — with eyes full of questions they weren’t brave enough to voice. 

How did this happen? How did you let it?

He should have seen it. He should have done something, for fuck’s sake. 

Daniel’s name had been printed five times in this document alone. It still didn’t feel real. It felt wrong, as if a name so vibrant, so alive, had no business existing inside an administrative file.

The rest of the house was quiet. Not still—there were voices somewhere deep in the walls, movement in the shadows, but it all felt hushed. Muted, like even the house was grieving. He could hardly blame it.

The Reaper wasn’t a sentimental man. He’d made it this far by pushing feelings down, by compartmentalizing everything, keeping the emotional weight locked away, safe from ever pulling him under. But Lando Norris could feel the light that had dimmed around the mansion, the hollow space where the warmth used to live. It wasn’t just the loss of Daniel. It was everything. Everything was colder now.

Lando had always thought of himself as someone who could carry weight. Who could look death in the face and not flinch. Who could be ruthless enough. But when Daniel’s body dropped, when the blood pooled, and when Max collapsed to his knees screaming like something had torn from his chest—Lando hadn't felt ruthless. He'd felt helpless

He couldn’t bring himself to face Max since.

Like a fucking coward.

Verstappen hadn’t said a word since that night—not one word beyond accepting orders or routine updates. Lando hadn’t looked Max Verstappen in the eye since because if he did, he knew what he’d see: Daniel’s ghost.

The house was quiet too. A stillness had settled across the estate, not just of sound but of spirit — a dimming of something once bright. There was no laughter in the halls, no music or footsteps. Only muted conversations and doors that weren’t closed all the way.

The warmth that had once flickered through the mansion in small, unexpected ways – an unguarded laugh from Logan, the smell of Carlos’s shitty microwave popcorn, the sound of Daniel’s boots scuffing the floorboards as he came in too loud, too late, always grinning – was gone, the very air seemingly hollowed out and echoing.

He buried his face in his hands and sat there for a long while. It wasn’t the kind of grief that bled out in sobs. It was quieter, meaner – like a slow rot behind the ribs.

When Max Fewtrell stepped into his boss’s office, he didn’t knock. He was entering as a friend. Even if Lando may never refer to him by that title, today he entered this office as he had done many times before – as someone who noticed the dark circles under Lando's eyes, the rapid emptying of his decanter.

“You’re not eating,” Max said softly.

Lando didn’t lift his head. “Not hungry.”

“You need to eat. You’re no good to anyone like this.”

He still didn’t respond.

There was a pause. Then a chair creaked as Max sat across from him. “You did the best you could.”

But what was the best when your man still bled out on a warehouse floor? When you heard him choke on his own blood over comms and couldn’t get there fast enough?

Lando’s voice was low when it came. “Did I?”

Max didn’t answer that. Just looked at him, tired in the eyes, like he hadn’t slept either. They’d all taken the hit—some closer to the blast than others — but Lando had been at the center. He always was. That was the weight of command, of consequence.

Heavy lies the head that wears the crown.

The service was short.

Just the Reapers’ Circle, and a few of the old boys from the Renault garage who still wore grease under their fingernails – the ones who had known Daniel from the very beginning, back when everything had felt like a dream on the tarmac. 

There were no pretend speeches, no too-holy choir, no annoyingly large floral displays.

Daniel would've hated all that.

The lot of them gathered under gray skies, cold wind skimming off the water. No one said much. A few passed a flask around, a few muttered goodbyes. 

Max had stayed silent, the usual fire in his eyes dulled by something deeper, more painful. He stood still the whole time, hand resting absently on the back of Penelope’s tiny head where she sat bundled on Kelly’s hip, too young to know what was being buried.

Too young to know what she’d lost.

How the hell was he going to explain to her that Uncle Danny wasn’t coming over to play anymore?

Lando had stayed in the background, giving everyone space, but the ache of it all was still there, the weight of it pressing on his chest like a stone that wouldn’t budge. 

He couldn’t be the leader they wanted him to be today. 

He didn’t deserve to.

Not after losing one of their own.

It was hours later, back in his room, when Max Verstappen finally got a moment to himself to breathe, nothing more than a hollow exhale. He’d changed out of his dark coat and was sitting in just a t-shirt now, elbows on his knees, the day’s weight still knotted in his shoulders. Kelly had taken Penelope home early—“She doesn’t need to see you this sad,” she’d said gently.

And maybe she was right.

Max didn’t know how to tell a toddler that Uncle Danny wasn’t coming back. That there wouldn’t be another Sunday where he rolled in with doughnuts and those god-awful glitter stickers she loved so much. That the belly-laughs were over now.

He was still staring at the floor when he heard the soft knock.

It isn’t Logan – his steps are quieter. Carlos’ gait is slower, steadier, more heavy-footed. This is someone different, more uncertain, a little–

Before he could place the sound of the footsteps, the door opened and Lando’s voice came through, tentative and low. “Max?”

The Dutchman blinked, surprised.

What was Lando doing here?

Lando never came to their rooms. He summoned people, made them come to him. It wasn't a rule so much as it was a fact, a simple truth of the way this familiar ecosystem of theirs had always functioned.

Max didn’t say anything at first, just blinked at the door like he wasn’t sure if he wanted company or not. He could hear Lando nudge the door open a little wider, just enough for Lando to step in.

“Shouldn’t you be with the others?” Max muttered, his voice hoarse from the tension he was holding in.

“I came to find you,” Lando replied, his voice quieter than usual, like he wasn’t sure if Max even wanted to see him. But it was too late now; he was here.

“What are you—” Max began, but Lando was already moving.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there in that solemn, self-contained way of his, like he wasn’t sure if this was a mistake. He hesitated for a moment, and then, almost awkwardly, he handed Max a small box. It was simple, unassuming. Just a plain cardboard box, the kind anyone would put their stuff in when it needed to be kept together.

Max frowned, staring at it for a moment. “What’s this?” he asked, but his voice lacked the usual sharpness it had. Instead, there was a soft kind of confusion there, as if he already knew.

Lando shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I thought you'd want this... Daniel’s things. Some of ‘em. S’not much. Just, like, things from his locker n’ his drawer in my office. He, uh… left things everywhere, really.”

He held out the small box.

Max stared down at the box, at the way Lando was holding it out like it was fragile, like it could break if Max didn’t take it carefully. And for a moment, there was silence. The kind of heavy silence that had followed Daniel’s death, as if the world had paused, unsure of what to do next.

“He would’a wanted you t’have it.”

Max reached for it slowly, like it might shatter in his hands. He opened it on his lap, careful.

Inside were a few photos. There was a cassette tape labeled Take Names, Kick Ass.Max spotted Daniel’s old aviators too, and his lighter with Fuck ‘Em All engraved into the side. And tucked beneath them was a folded note in Daniel’s handwriting, slanted and looping.

Max’s chest tightened.

Lando watched him wince, like the mere act of opening the small slip of paper that once belonged to the friend he’d once sat beside was enough to wind this grown man, like it would physically punch him in the gut.

The paper was soft and flimsy, preserved with each crease still perfectly folded like Daniel had probably kept it in his wallet.

Max dared to open it with shaking hands.

Enjoy the butterflies. Enjoy being naïve. Enjoy the nerves, the pressure, people not knowing your name. Enjoy the process of making a name for yourself, getting faster and faster with each run and meeting some great people along the way. Bring friends along. Bring family along. Don't assume they'll be a distraction. Don't be afraid to surround yourself with people you care about and love.

Max let out a wet laugh, but none of them commented on the fact that it came out more like a choked sob. But his smile was wide even if his eyes were a bit shiny, his heart warm with fondness for his oldest friend.

He smiled, a bittersweet smile, even though he could feel the burn of tears stinging his eyes. He wouldn’t let them fall. Not in front of Lando. Not like this. He wasn’t going to break.

Then, at the very bottom of the box, Max found something else. Something that made his heart clench.

It was Daniel’s watch. The one he’d always worn, the one that had been a staple of Daniel’s character. The one Daniel wore on every trip, every stupid mission, every late-night planning session where he’d point at the glowing numbers and say, “We’ve got exactly this much time to change the world, boys.”

The one Max had joked about stealing, but Daniel had always laughed off, claiming it was ‘priceless.’ But now, holding it in his hands, it felt... different.

Max closed his fingers around it, staring at it for a long moment before, without a word, he slipped it onto his wrist with shaking hands. 

The leather was cracked but familiar, like muscle memory, like time never passed. The fit was perfect, as if it had been made for him all along.

He glanced up at Lando then, wordless, a quiet question in his eyes. Is this okay? Is this... how we carry him now? Am I allowed to carry this much of him?

Lando didn’t speak. Instead, he stepped forward, lifted a hand, rested it on Max’s shoulder with a quiet kind of gravity, offering a reassuring squeeze.

There was a beat, and then, softly, a nod.

Max exhaled.

“Yeah,” Lando muttered, his voice soft. He gave him a sad, almost apologetic smile. “We’ll make sure he’s remembered, Max. Don’t worry.”

Max’s lips quivered, a single tear slipping down his cheek despite his best efforts to hold it back. But it was there —fleeting, soft— and he let it fall, not trying to wipe it away.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice tight.

Lando gave him the best smile he could muster as he turned to leave. He’d only taken a single step in the direction of door, when–

“You kept them,” Lando breathed.

They were photos, taped haphazardly to the wall, overlapping, some curling at the edges from age or wear. They were moments of Max’s life, captured in still moments, frozen on the faded paper.

Before he could even stop and think, Lando’s steps led him closer, his gaze lingering on the photographs, and his chest tightened.

The room was mostly dark, the curtains drawn. But one corner glowed—lit by the soft flicker of a desk lamp and the dull shimmer of taped-up memories.

The photographs covered the wall like old postcards half-forgotten. Some were crooked others curling at the corners from the heat, taped up without symmetry without much care for looks or aesthetic — just need. 

A need to remember. A need to not forget.

The first was of a mountaintop in Hungary, all of them windswept and sun-flushed. Next was a polaroid of Daniel in Austin, smiling beneath a dumb brown cowboy hat that made him look like a drunk tourist, grin wide as ever. There was another too, this one of Kelly and Penelope at a carnival, her daughter mid-laugh, cotton candy stuck to her fingers and Penelope’s tiny hands squishing her mother’s cheeks.

Another one caught his eye. This one was of a beach in Miami, Logan half-buried in the sand. They’d only gone because Logan had been homesick and they were young and high off the thrill of new money and so they had decided there was nothing else to do. 

Going to the beach had never even been part of the original plan – their private jet had flaked after taking the money, and they’d been stranded without a plan or a care. Then, for those two days, there was just laughter. Just bad margaritas and a half-functioning grill and the sound of the tide rolling in like a promise.

Lando stared at the photo.

He could almost smell the salt in the air. Feel the heat beneath his bare feet. He remembered laughter— 

Daniel’s, maybe. Or was it Penelope’s? 

He remembered Logan teasing Oscar until he finally cracked a smile.

He remembered the warmth of the sand. Even standing here, he could still smell the sunscreen Carlos had obnoxiously insisted they all wear.

But just barely.

Now, it felt like a story someone else had told him. Something that belonged to another man, another lifetime. One where he still remembered what it meant to feel full.

He stared at the photographs, something burning behind his ribs. Because even now—even now—his men had warmth in them. Even Verstappen, who wore sharpness like armor. Even Oscar, who barely trusted anyone. Even Daniel, who was gone now.

It was all so human—so alive—in a way that Lando couldn’t remember ever feeling. And then there was the plane ride home, their flight being delayed, stranded at the airport after the money was taken. The photos all held stories, all of them steeped in memories, and they didn’t feel distant. They didn’t feel like past lives. They felt like a life that was still going, that could’ve still been going, if only it hadn’t been stolen.

Lando looked at the picture. He remembered that sand.

Or at least… he tried to.

Back when the water had been warm and Max had been happier and Daniel had still been alive.

He stood there, staring, until the ache in his chest pressed sharp against his ribs. He didn’t think Max noticed him until he shifted.

“You put them up,” Lando said, voice rough.

Max didn’t look at him. “I couldn’t throw them away.”

Lando nodded. Something in his throat pulsed.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that one,” he said quietly, pointing to a photo where Daniel had Penelope on his shoulders, both of them laughing so hard they were blurry.

Max looked at it. “He was the one who taught her to eat ice cream backwards. Cone first, like shotgunning a beer,” the Dutch smiled fondly.

That pulled a breath from Lando — a laugh that felt broken on its way out. “F’course he did.”

They both let themselves breath in the memory of the ocean air again, before silence fell again.

He had to look away before the ache could settle too deep.

He wondered, as he walked the halls of his own empire, if he was the only one incapable of holding warmth. If it had been beaten out of him, starved out of him, cauterized into nothing.

Even his men—Max, Logan, Daniel—had managed to keep some of it. The good bits. The light.

His fingers twitched at his sides. There were no photos like that in his own room. None he could conjure of himself laughing like that, relaxed like that. At best, he remembered watching. Always from the outside.

He stared at Daniel’s face in one of the prints, smile wide and eyes crinkled at the corners. It didn’t seem right. That someone who could make a place feel warmer just by walking into it was gone. That someone who could make even Max love out loud wasn’t coming back.

Lando felt cold.

And for a moment—just a moment—he wondered what might’ve changed if someone like Daniel had been in his life sooner. If someone like that had taught him that gentleness didn’t mean weakness. That he could be safe and soft and still survive.

His mind betrayed him then.

Brought back the image of her—Y/N—with her steady hands and gentle voice. The girl who had patched him up and made him toast. The girl who had given him sanctuary not because she had to, but because she wanted to. The girl who had touched him like he wasn’t just a blade in human form.

He didn’t deserve it. Not any of it.

But god help him—he wanted her smile again.

Wanted to go back to that morning with her, burnt coffee and all, and press his forehead to hers just to feel something other than the static in his veins.

Unwillingly, he thought of her.

Of the girl who’d bandaged his knuckles without flinching. Of the way her hands had been steady even when her voice trembled. 

He thought of her hair still damp from a shower, curling against her jaw as she’d made him toast. Of her fingers brushing over his cheek like he was something delicate. Of the way she’d touched him—not out of pity, not out of fear, but with something gentler. Something he didn’t have a name for.

But for the first time, he wondered.

Would Daniel still be alive if he’d been the kind of man who knew how to feel things before they were ripped away?

Would he have believed in warmth?

He wasn’t sure.

He stared at the photographs, something burning behind his ribs. Because even now—even now—his men had warmth in them. Even Max, who wore sharpness like armor. Even Logan, who barely trusted anyone. Even Daniel, who was gone now.

They still had something to lose, something they let themselves hold close.

And Lando?

He wasn’t sure what he had anymore.

Except a girl with edified hands and a tired smile who looked at him like he could be something more. Someone whose touch hadn’t recoiled when she saw the blood. Someone who stitched him back together with trembling fingers and whispered reassurances he didn’t know how to believe.

He wondered, not for the first time, if maybe —maybe— if he’d had someone like her when he was younger, someone steady and kind and unrelenting in their softness, if he might’ve turned out different. If he would’ve known how to love people before learning how to protect them. Or how to protect people without ruining them in the process.

He looked at Daniel’s smile in the photograph again, and then turned away.

“I should’ve been better –quicker, or smarter – somethin’. I should’ve done more.” he whispered, his voice low. It was all he could do to keep it from cracking. “He trusted me.”

Max exhaled sharply, his face softening. “We all trusted you, Lando.”

Lando could feel the air sucked out of him.

Fuck. I let all of them down, didn’t I?

“And we still trust you. Do not be stupid, Lando.”

Lando looked at him with some mixture of confusion and shock. It reminded Max how young he was, how human behind the infallible mask. 

“It’s always ‘if, if, if’,” Max sighed, sounding almost defensive. “But Daniel knew.” 

“Knew what?”

“He knew why he trusted you, of course. You are family.”

Family.

Lando didn’t know what to do with that word, how to make it mean something that wasn’t fleeting. He couldn’t even bring himself to feel grief properly, to mourn Daniel as he should. But the more he stood there, staring at the photographs, the more he realized he was mourning. Not just Daniel, but the life he could’ve had. The connection he could’ve allowed himself.

He pulled his eyes away from Max’s desk, his gaze lingering on the photos one last time before he turned to leave, voice barely a whisper. “I won’t forget him.”

Max didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

He only smiled.

There’d been a shift in him, small, almost imperceptible. 

Like the way summer ends—not in one clear moment, but slowly. A little less light each day. A little more chill in the breeze.

Even she could tell he’d gone quieter.

Not just the exhausted kind of quiet, the I-haven’t-slept-in-a-week kind. No—this was deeper. A marrow-deep silence that clung to him in the pauses between sentences, in the way he’d drift off mid-thought and forget to finish what he was saying. Instead, it was a sort of hollowness beneath the surface, like he was keeping something down just to make it through the day.

He’d told her, one evening when he was sat on her couch, elbows on his knees, looking more like a boy than he ever had. He’d told her, eventually, about Daniel – about how one of his roommates —one of his brothers, really— died in a sudden car crash.

He’d shown her the photos without her asking, scrolling through his phone with a flat kind of reverence. The boys he’d once called his brothers. Smiling in the sunlight, arms slung around each other like the world hadn’t burned yet.

“This one’s Danny,” he said, swiping through his phone until he found the photo. She looked over to see a photo of a group of boys — grinning, chaotic, arms slung around each other like they believed in forever. He pointed them out by name.

“That’s Oscar. This one’s Max,” he’d murmured. “And this idiot—this was Daniel.”

She hadn’t known what to say. She only looked at the grinning man Liam was pointing to on the screen — eyes warm, arms slung around the shoulders of people he clearly loved — and nodded softly.

“Smiled like an idiot, never shut up. Drove everyone mad.”

She leaned closer. Took in the crinkle of laughter lines around Daniel’s eyes, the way his arm was slung over Max’s shoulder and how Liam himself—surprisingly—was actually laughing in the picture.

Not smirking, not just smiling, but actually laughing.

She’d looked at the face, with a grin so wide it reached his eyes, and felt something in her chest twist. A ghost of a man she never met but already mourned because of what he’d left behind in the man she loved.

The glare of the photo still open on his phone screen reflected back in his irises, but she had a feeling that wasn’t what was causing his eyes to glisten.y

The next thing he knew, Lando felt a small weight come to rest on his shoulder. He turned to find her head resting gently against him, her body curling closer as if to help warm his. “I’m so sorry, Li.”

“Yeah.” His voice barely stirred the air. “Me too.”

And since then, he’d been around more. Not that he explained it. He never asked if he could stay longer, or why her floor was comfier than his own bed, or why his jacket kept finding its way over the back of her chair. He just… stayed.

She let him.

She let him talk when he wanted to and go quiet when he didn’t. Let him sit close in silence, or disappear into his phone, or steal the last of her coffee without asking. Let him fill the space however he needed.

She let him sit on her rug and help her fold laundry without saying much. Let him watch whatever nonsense she had playing on the TV. Let him brush past her in the kitchen, casually stealing the snacks she swore she was saving.

She let him be quiet.

Of course, she worried anyway.

But one day, out of nowhere, he looked up from his phone while she was slicing fruit at the counter and asked her, uncharacteristically. “I was thinkin’ of going out. Can you… Will you let me take you somewhere?”

“What?” she asked carefully, not sure if she stood but also too afraid of having him close himself again. He’d already been so quiet today, but even on his worst day, she’d happily 

“Just… Come with me?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Now?”

“Now.”

And why would she ever tell him no?

She didn’t ask questions. Y/N just smiled and wiped down her damp hands with a kitchen cloth before she grabbed her coat and followed him out.

They didn’t speak much on the drive.

The streets were quiet, the city slowly exhaling under the weight of dusk. His hand rested on the gear shift. Her hand didn’t reach for it like it sometimes did.

They pulled into a cemetery just outside the city, where the trees grew tall and weeping and the air smelled like rain, even though it hadn’t rained in days.

He didn’t say anything as he led her down a narrow path, past headstones with gold lettering, some freshly cut flowers, others forgotten. When he stopped walking, it was near a pair of small, unremarkable markers.

She glanced at him, unsure. “Whose—”

“My parents,” he said simply.

Her breath hitched. “I… I’m so sorry to hear that.”

His mouth curled slightly. Not into a smile. Not really. “S’alright. They were a bunch of bastards anyway.”

“Oh,” she whispered. “Li, I didn’t know—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. Not sharp. Just firm.

“I’m sorry,” she said instead, softer.

He nodded once. Then crouched, like it was instinct, and picked a stray weed off the base of one of the stones. His fingers brushed the stone, just barely. No reverence, no tears.

“It’s been a while since I last came here,” he said after a moment.

Her eyes flicked to his face. His jaw was tight.

“You don’t have to—”

“No,” he muttered. “It’s fine. It’s just…”

He stood again, looked down at the markers like they might talk back if he stared long enough.

“They weren’t, like, bad in the way people think. Just, like… selfish. Greedy. Left me behind when they had the chance to help. Guess they figured I’d die off and save them the trouble.”

She blinked, the ache in her chest blooming.

“But you were just a kid. What happened?”

He shrugged like it didn’t matter anymore.

“Nothing. They just didn’t want me anymore.”

She looked over at him, brows drawn, something tender pooling in her chest.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Nah, s’fine. You should know.” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, gaze fixed on the stone like it owed him something. “They were the kind of people who liked the idea of children more than actual ones. As soon as it got hard, they bailed. Left me to rot in Monte Carlo with nothing but my name.”

Her heart twisted, but she didn’t interrupt.

“Yeah, not your typical orphan sob story, huh?” he muttered, hands in his coat pockets, eyes on the names. “They weren’t good people. They weren’t even bad people trying. Just… the kind that think kids are accessories. Until they get too loud. Or hungry. Or start asking why the electricity’s off.”

She stayed quiet.

“Left me to figure it out myself. an off one night, locked the door behind them. I had to learn how to pick it just to get water.”

His voice was calm. Clinical, but there was a hollowness behind it, like he was reciting a file, not a memory.

“I lived on scraps for years. Slept under a train bridge with a knife in my sock and a backpack I’d kill for. Stole from people who didn’t miss it, and then from people who did.” A pause. “Guess that makes me a bastard, too.”

“You were a kid,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” he said, with a humorless smile. “But even then, I was learnin’ not to need people.”

He glanced at her then. Something sharp in his eyes, something searching. “It’s easier that way, isn’t it? No one to disappoint. No one to lose.”

They stood in silence for a beat.

“They truth s’just that they didn’t want me,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Never did. Simple ‘s that. Gave up the second it got hard. Threw me to the streets when I was still small enough to sleep inside cardboard boxes. So I did. And then I got good at it. Got good at making people fear me. Good at surviving.”

She stepped a little closer.

“I don’t really talk about it,” he added. “Not ‘cause it hurts or anythin’. I just… figured there wasn’t anything to say.”

She watched him, the way he stood so still in the silence, the wind tugging at his jacket.

“You were so brave, Li. But I’m sorry that you even had to be.”

“I thought I was gonna die, that first winter. Some nights, I was ready for it. But then I met some people. Not good ones, but better than what I had.”

He looked at her then, not all the way – just a glance.

“They don’t make it worth it. Losing him. Losing parts of myself. But I wouldn’t change it either.”

She blinked back the sting in her eyes. “You don’t have to explain that to me.”

“I know.” He nudged a toe against the grass. “That’s probably why I brought you.”

There was silence.

“I’ve been thinking about the people I do have,” he continued, quieter now. “The ones who stuck. Max. Oscar. Danny… you.”

Her breath caught.

“And I’ve been wondering,” he said, “if it’s enough. If that’s all life really is—just making sure you have a few people who’d come looking if you went missing.”

She looked at him carefully. “And?”

“And how maybe they don’t make it worth it,” he said, voice flat. “But they make it… less shit.”

“I still think the world’s a shit place,” he said plainly. “And I still think you have to claw for every bit of light you get. But if you asked me if I’d change it… if I’d trade the people I’ve got now for a cleaner start…”

He scoffed once, under his breath, beginning to smile.

“Nah.”

She tilted her head. “Because it made you who you are?”

“No.” He cracked a faint grin. “Because if things had gone different, I might not have ended up at your café that night.”

That startled a smile out of her. “Liam—”

He shrugged, still too cool for his own good. “Don’t make it a thing.”

It was definitely a thing.

“I’m not good at this,” he said, low and clipped. “Feelings. Grave visits. Any of it.”

“I noticed,” she said, with a gentle kind of tease that earned her a rare smirk.

“But…” He hesitated. “You’re the only person I wanted to bring here.”

Her chest ached.

He reached into his coat then, pulled out a small folded piece of paper. No name. No writing. Just something he laid on the base of the grave like it was meant to rot.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Just a list of things they don’t get to take credit for,” he said simply. “Me. The boys. You.”

She looked at him— really looked. Not the man hollowed by loss. Not the kid who had to claw his way to the top. But the man between those things – scarred, hard-edged. But trying – trying to live, to feel.

He noticed her watching and, true to form, scoffed lightly, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Don’t start crying on me or some shit,” he muttered. “You know I’ll trip you if you do.”

She huffed a laugh, soft. “I’m not.”

“Good,” he said, but his voice was gentler now. Like he didn’t quite mean it.

They stood there a while longer after that.

She didn’t say anything, just stood there with him, in the wind and quiet. But then she stepped closer and let her hand gently graze Liam’s, her curled fingers carefully tangling themselves with his.

He didn’t pull away.

When an indeterminate amount of time had passed and the late autumn wind had sufficiently chilled their faces till their noses were tinged matching shades of pink, Lando finally turned back to his girl with fondness hidden in his smile.

“Come on,” he said after a long moment. “There’s a bakery nearby. You can judge their hot chocolate and ruin someone’s day with your opinions. Probably mine.”

She huffed a soft laugh, swatting his jacket before following as he turned away from the graves. “You love my reviews! In fact, I was thinking we should start a vlog. We’ve been to so many cool places, it’d be so fun! A cute little thing, y’know.”

“Yeah,” he hummed. “Just for us.”

a/n: sorry if the scenes are too long. and if there's any errors, please let me know! i juat wanted to get a chapter out atp lol

as always, i'd love to hear what you think!

[respocked]

Thank you so much Voyager for continuing the sacred TOS tradition of an away mission including putting a Vulcan officar in an extremely cunty outfit that involves a little hat

[savesavva]

There was a time when Heart didn't wear a blindfold.

PART 1 (you're here!)

PART 2

PART 3