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dustyrkives · 2 months ago

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Inheritance? Taken Care Of

PAIRING: Ada Wong x fem reader

WARNINGS: RE4r Ada, post-Spain, parentified daughter r, researcher r, morally gray r, mommy issues, psychological drama, oldest daughter core r and because this piece speaks to me since I'm the eldest daughter of the Asian household–this is self-indulgent oops, emotional neglect, workaholic, unhealthy coping, power play, unethical sciences oops, soft dom Ada, emotional manipulation, possessive Ada, unprotected sex, soft to rough sex, raw sex, biting, marking, marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation and that's about it, I think.

SYNOPSIS: Your mother shaped you into the perfect scientist–brilliant, disciplined, and drowning in her legacy. Even in death, her voice haunts you. Then came Ada Wong. A deal. A distraction. A mistake. Now, she watches you unravel, unwilling to let you go. After all, everything must be taken care of.

MEN, MINORS DNI

"Everything must be taken care of, before you have any respite."

Heavy are the words of your mother–a renowned biomedical scientist in her time before she met her unfortunate end in Raccoon City.

Your mother took you to work with her at a young age, showing you the ins and outs of the lab, her research, her progress, and her data the moment you were finally capable of comprehension. She made you take STEM as a pre-med course, specifically biochemical engineering. With her name known across the world, you were given a full ride to a scholarship at the most prestigious universities in the city.

It didn't take long for your peers and mentors to realize you have the same talent and intelligence as your mother.

It felt empowering, of course.

You were saving lives, just like your mother, and the talent too!

Indeed, saving lives at the expense of ruining your own.

What a passionate way to die.

The world suddenly fell on your shoulders when the news of your mother not making it during the infamous Raccoon City incident made it to you–just days after you finished your internship with one of her trusted colleagues as your mentor–and her attorney informed you that she had left all of her assets in your care.

That includes her unfinished research manuscript, her lab notes, medical journals, and unorganized data.

Oh, what do you do?

Your knees wobbled as you set foot into her office, where most of her things were moved with the help of the family attorney and her trusted friends. Your thoughts raced, causing your forehead to heat up as you force yourself to go through her things just to know where to start–how to start.

Your mother was overly critical of you–she had a reputation to keep. Low grades and a bad track record were a sign of failure in her eyes, and in return, she'd lecture and vent to you about her frustrations in the lab.

Oh, you're having a difficult time at a single subject? What more if you're finally in my shoes, hm?

Tired? Ridiculous! Everything must be accounted for–must be taken care of, even if it meant dragging your body to work.

Even if it meant dragging your body to work.

Her reminders loom over you like a suffocating ghost. Before you can even grieve her passing–you threw yourself to work, just like your mother did; refining vaccines, studying new virus samples (those that your hired men can acquire), and testing for results.

But instead of the empowerment that surged in you before–it feels empty. The achievement that you longed for felt nothing like a chore–and your mother's praises are faint–mixing with the practiced awe of your investors and fellow scientists.

Most of your work proved effective against the virus—so much so that it became highly sought after by the government and private companies alike.

And a few questionable individuals too.

That includes a mercenary who disguised herself as one of the interns in your lab. You caught her scanning a copy of your research for the cure and possible enhancement of the G-virus.

You put her in for questioning–and instead of throwing her to the authorities, you made a transactional relationship with her; you'd pay her to take samples of the virus from her different missions and make a cure, in return, she'd get double the money from different employers.

At first, it was simple. Cold. Uncomplicated.

Ada delivered the virus samples, you worked on the cure, and both of you pretended it was just another business arrangement.

It worked—until it didn’t.

Somewhere along the line, the conversations became longer. The silences became heavier. She started sticking around after a job was done, lingering in the dim glow of your lab, watching you work like she had something else to say but never did.

You ignored it.

She never pried, never asked why you threw yourself into your work the way you did. But the way she watched you—like she saw straight through the walls you built—was unsettling.

You should have known better.

Because when the time came—when she had to choose between you and the people who paid her—she chose you.

That was the first time you realized that, despite everything, you weren’t the only one losing themselves in this arrangement.

And that changed everything.

A small smile graces your lips as a message from Ada glares from your screen.

I'm on my way back with the Amber.

Excellent.

"I'm sure Wesker was less than pleased when you change coarse with the Amber." You mused, days after Ada came back with the said item. The older girl's lips morph to a faint smile as she stands next to you, her arms crossed against her firm chest.

"Wesker has a lot of resources," She turns her head in your direction and tilts her head to the side, "I'm sure he can get new samples elsewhere."

You hum as you examine the stone, "Exquisite," You tear your eyes from the Amber and look at Ada. "Thank you."

"My pleasure, doll." The short-haired woman smirks, "I'll leave you to your work–I know you hate being delayed."

"You know me too well," Your tone cool as Ada leaves the room. On cue, your lips flatten into a line as the mirth swims away from your eyes, becoming dull–empty.

Wonderful. Another chore.

In you're need to start planning your next steps, you fail to notice Ada–who is standing at the entrance of your study–eyes carefully studying your change of expression before walking down the halls of the facility.

Without wasting time–you and your team of proficient biomedical scientist began brainstorming the stone–conducting tests among tests and recording your findings without fail–the Amber held so much potential: a superior form of the Plaga. It didn't take a while for it to become the center of your focus, eating and sleeping became an option–you have so much to work with.

Ada has been observing you, the way your food comes back untouched, your sleep patterns–heck, she even woke up with you not beside her.

And if Ada didn't know any better–have you gotten thinner?

Her brows pinch together–and just as it quickly came, it disappeared.

You tell your team to rest–but you can't apply the same to yourself.

Everything must be taken care of, before you have any respite.

With heavy eyes and a blank face, you type away new data recorded from today's findings. Your wrist feels numb, and your body weighed like lead as your eyes shift from one screen to the next.

Then a familiar, feminine, velvety voice fills your cold, sterile lab.

"It's 4:37 AM,"

Automatically, your brows arch and you swivel your chair to the owner of the voice. There stood Ada, wearing a white-button up shirt and beige tapered trousers.

"And?" You mused.

"You're supposed to be sleeping next to me."

Your eyes scan her outfit, "What an odd set of pajamas." You comment with a small smile. A hum reverberates form Ada's chest, her eyes smoothly move to your desk.

"And I see that you didn't touch your food. Again." Her eyes narrow as she takes slow, measured steps towards you. Pink blossoms in your cheeks–nothing extravagant—just a simple meal. You don’t need to ask who left it.

"You're making a habit of watching me, Ada." You mutter, looking away from the older woman. She smirks, using one hand to grasp your chin, coaxing you to look at her.

"Hard not to when you're wasting away."

"I have work..." You trailed off as her expression sharpens–stern.

"And you'll be no use to anyone if you collapse." She lets go of your jaw and takes the fork, stabbing the meat with it before handing it to you. "Eat, doll."

You blink at her, "But–"

She raises a brow.

The air between you hums with tension, silent yet deafening. Ada doesn't waver, her hand steady as she holds out the fork. You recognize the challenge in her gaze—one she doesn’t need to voice. You could ignore her. Dismiss her with a sharp remark and go back to your research. That’s what you would have done before.

But the weight of her stare is different this time.

Reluctantly, you take the fork from her fingers, avoiding her gaze as you take one bite. Then another. The taste is nothing special, but the way Ada leans against the desk, arms crossed, watching you with quiet satisfaction–it was almost irritating.

"Happy?"

The former smirks, but there's a mellow gleam in her eyes. "Ecstatic."

She doesn’t push you to eat more. Doesn’t hover or pry. Just lets you go at your own pace before pushing off the desk.

"Sleep after you're done eating."

A scoff leaves your lips. "I have work to do."

Ada tilts her head, studying you with something unreadable. "Right. Of course you do."

She turns, walking toward the exit—but pauses at the doorway. Over her shoulder, she adds, "Don’t make me force you."

And then she’s gone.

Days pass. Weeks.

Ada watches. She doesn’t hover, doesn’t nag—but she sees everything.

The untouched meals. The way your hands shake slightly when you reach for a pen. The increasing number of empty coffee cups cluttering your desk. The dark circles under your eyes, like shadows carved into your skin.

You're burning out, and you don’t even notice.

Ada does.

She notices when your fingers tremble as you type. When you blink a second too long, as if fighting the urge to collapse on the spot. She notices when you stand too fast, your vision tilting, and you grip the edge of the desk just to steady yourself.

And then, one night, it happens.

You don’t remember falling—only the sharp sensation of your knees hitting the floor, the rush of dizziness swallowing you whole. A sound escapes your lips, something between a gasp and a curse, but before your body can fully crumple—

Ada is there.

Lithe arms catch you before you hit the cold tile. A firm grip steadies you and through the haze clouding your vision, you hear her voice, lower than usual.

"That's enough."

Your head is spinning. You don’t fight when Ada pulls you up, guiding you towards the couch in the corner of your study. You’re not sure when she sat down, only that you’re suddenly leaning against her, the warmth of her presence pressing into your side.

You hate how comforting it feels.

"You’re overworking yourself," Ada states, voice unreadable.

You huff, though it lacks bite. "That’s nothing new."

Ada is silent for a moment, then:

"This isn’t just about the research, is it?"

Your breath catches.

She’s too close. Not physically—though, yes, she is—but she’s too close to seeing through you. Through the carefully constructed walls, through the weight of your mother’s expectations still coiled around your throat like a noose.

Ada exhales, her voice softer than before. "You can’t outrun her."

Your fingers clench into the fabric of your sleeves. You don't answer.

Ada doesn't push.

She simply sits there, allowing the silence to settle—offering her presence without demand. Without pressure.

Ada doesn't move for a while. Neither do you.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. You can feel her presence—steady, unmoving—like a quiet force refusing to let you spiral any further.

You close your eyes for just a second. Just a second.

And then—

You wake up.

The dim glow of your study lamps is gone, replaced by the soft flicker of the emergency lights. The air is still. Quiet. The weight against your back is warm, solid—Ada.

You realize with slow clarity that you’ve fallen asleep against her.

Your mind is sluggish, torn between the rare, unfamiliar comfort of rest and the immediate need to get back to work. You shift slightly, only for Ada’s arm—wrapped loosely around your waist—to tighten.

"Don’t even think about it."

Her voice is smooth, carrying no room for argument. You tilt your head just enough to catch a glimpse of her—eyes closed, looking impossibly at ease, as if she had all the time in the world.

"How long was I out?" you murmur.

Ada hums, opening one eye. "Longer than you usually allow yourself. Not long enough."

A flicker of annoyance sparks in your chest. "I don’t have time for—"

Ada clicks her tongue, and suddenly, she’s shifting—her arm unwinding from you as she gracefully rises to her feet. The warmth you didn’t realize you were clinging to vanishes.

Fine. If she’s going to leave, that’s—

Your thoughts halt when Ada leans down, placing her hands on the couch—caging you in.

"You’re coming with me," she says, voice smooth as silk but carrying an edge that dares you to refuse.

Your brows furrow. "Excuse me?"

Ada tilts her head, smirking slightly. "You heard me."

She grabs your wrist—not tightly, but firmly—and pulls you up before you can protest. Your legs, still weak from exhaustion, stumble slightly, and Ada steadies you without effort.

"Ada—"

"You need air," she interrupts, her tone final. "A break. And before you start whining about time, I already handled the lab reports for the night. Your little research team will survive without you for a few hours."

You blink. "You—what?"

Ada smirks, guiding you toward the door. "I have my ways."

You stare at her, skepticism laced with something else—something almost like reluctant gratitude.

Ada catches it. Of course she does.

She simply tilts her head toward the exit. "Let’s go, doll."

For once, you don’t fight her.

The low hum of the car engine is the only sound between you. The city lights flicker past, painting streaks of gold and red across the tinted windows.

Ada drives without hurry, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily against the gear shift. She hasn’t said much since she pulled you out of the lab, but she doesn’t need to.

You exhale, leaning against the cool glass. "Where are we going?"

Ada glances at you from the corner of her eye, smirking. "Somewhere you can’t escape from."

Your lips twitch. "That so?"

"Mm." She shifts gears smoothly. "You need rest. I’m making sure you get it."

You huff, but there’s no real bite behind it. Maybe a part of you is too tired to fight.

Or maybe a part of you wants to be taken care of for once.

The night air is cool against your skin, but the warmth pressed against your back is unmistakable. Ada.

You don’t remember how she convinced you to stop working for the night, or how you ended up lying in bed with her, tangled in soft sheets. All you know is that her arms are around you, one resting against your stomach, the other tucked under the pillow you share.

Her breath fans against your neck—slow, steady. Unlike you, she seems completely at ease.

You shift slightly, and Ada’s hold tightens just enough to keep you from slipping away.

"You’re still tense," she murmurs, voice low, husky from the quiet.

You scoff. "Habit."

"Bad one," Ada counters, her lips barely brushing your shoulder. "I can think of better ways to relieve stress."

Her fingers trail down your arm, featherlight, before slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. Your breath catches as her fingertips graze your skin, drawing slow, deliberate patterns along your waist.

"Ada—"

"Hm?" Her tone is innocent, but the way her nails drag lightly against your skin is anything but.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to catch the mischievous glint in her eyes.

"You planned this," you accuse.

Ada smirks. "Would you have stopped me if I did?"

You hate how easily she gets under your skin—how the warmth of her touch makes your body betray you.

The way her lips graze the curve of your jaw—soft, teasing—before she bites down just enough to make you shiver.

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

Because when Ada shifts, rolling you onto your back, and pins you beneath her with that knowing smirk—you’re already hers for the night.

Your breath hitches as Ada's hips press flush against you, clothes strewn across the floor . Her fingers dance along your torso, grazing your ribs, the. lower; teasing.

"You're so tense," She murmurs, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Let me fix that."

She shifts, her grip firm as she tilts your hips just enough for her to roll against you, slow, deliberate. Heat coils low in your stomach, and you barely suppress a gasp as her cock rubs snuggly against your walls. Your lover chuckles, voice rich in amusement. "See? You don't have to do anything, doll. Just let me do the work."

Your body betrays you, instinctively meeting her hips, craving more.

"That's my girl," She whispers, her voice dark, dripping with satisfaction. Her hands tightens on your hips, and you fele her smirk against your skin.

"Let's see just how much you can take."

She guides your hips, both of you gasping as her pace is agonizingly slow. The tension pulls taut. Deliberate, controlled, taking her time as she fucks you, her movements slow and deep.

Each movement makes pleasure coil tighter and tighter in your core, and Ada knows it. She watches you unravel beneath her, eyes locked on your every reaction. "You love this, don't you?" She taunts, rolling her hips just right, pulling a broken moan from your lips. "Being under me like this, being taken."

Your body trembles, eyes rolling back as your hands grip at her back, nails scratching along her skin as the pleasure builds to unbearable levels.

"Baby–please," You whimper, desperate, your body arching into hers.

The older girl chuckles, her hands sliding up your thighs, gripping your waist as she picks up the pace, thrusting into you with more force, driving deeper. The cacophony of your moans and her groans mixes with the creaks and whines of the bed.

"Say it," She demands, lips brushing against your ear. "Tell me you're mine."

"Yours," You gasp, barely able to breathe. "I'm yours, Ada."

She groans, her rhythm turning rougher, faster, chasing her own release as she takes you apart, the veins on the ridges of her cock rubbing deliciously against your walls while the tip kisses your cervix, eliciting a yelp from you. Pleasure crashes over you, your entire body tensing, and Ada drives into you, pushing you past your limit–until you're crying out her name, clinging to her as waves of euphoria pulse through you.

Ada follows soon after, burying herself deep, her own release hitting as she moans against your throat, her fingers digging into your hips, holding you still as ropes of cum floods your walls, some even oozing out of your folds and down to the sheets. She watches the way you tremble, her smirk returns as she leans down, pressing a lingering kiss against your lips.

"Good girl,"

And just like that, you knew–she isn't done with you yet.

Your body trembles, broken moans and whimpers leave your lips, legs weak and spread open, slick with heat and sweat. She's still inside you, half-hard, twitching against your walls. Your cry out, nails dragging down her back, feeling the way she stretches you all over again, this time with less restraint.

"That's it," She moans lowly, thrusting her hips until there's nowhere left to go. "Take all of me, pretty girl. Just like before."

The ecstasy is almost too much–your pussy still sensitive from the first round but Ada doesn't slow down.

Plap, plap, plap, plap!

The bed creaks, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, and all you can do is cling to her, let her take everything she wants from you. "Mine," She breathes into your ear, her voice dripping with possession.

Your moans swallowed by her kisses as she pounds into you, pushing you higher and higher towards your breaking point. "You'll take everything I give you." Ada growls, gripping your hips, holding you still as she pistons her hips even deeper.

Then, you feel it–the heat, the pressure, the way she stiffens inside you.

Your lover groans, burying herself to the hilt, filling you with viscous ropes of semen, her balls tighten as it slaps against your ass. She stays like that, breathing heavily, enjoying the way your body shudders beneath her, taking everything she has to give.

"Y-you didn't even pull out." You blink at her, dazed, breath ragged.

A cold smile graces Ada's lips. Unapologetic.

"Of course not," She murmurs, dragging her fingers down your stomach, pressing lightly over your womb. "Why would I? You look good like this." She leans down, nipping at your bottom lip, her hands still possessively tracing your lips, before she moves her hips again, rubbing against your puffy folds.

"A-Ada–wait, I-I can't–" You gasp, trying to pry her hips away, but her hands grip your thighs, keeping them spread.

"Oh, baby–I'm not yet down with you."

Her hips press forward, the tip kissing the spongey spot of your walls, making you see stars–your back arches.

"You can take more," She murmurs, kissing down your neck, her hands roaming around your body possessively. "You will take more."

Before you can protest, her knees plant firmly against the sheets as she plows into you, deeper, harder.

Stretching, filling.

Broken moans leave from your lips as your back arches–another choked cry escaping your lips. She's bigger, harder this time–more desperate, more demanding as the headboard keeps slamming against the wall.

"You feel that?" Ada groans, jutting her hips, stealing another moan from you.

"Still so tight–still squeezing me like you don't want to leave."

You whimper, your body is too sensitive, too overwhelmed–Ada doesn't stop. She sets a relentless pace, her thrust deep, hard and void of mercy.

"Look at you, so fucked-out already. But you'll take everything I give you, won't you?" She breathes, watching your eyes lose and your lips open.

So helpless.

"You're mine, inside and out."

Your moans turn into whimpers, gasps, pleas—but it only fuels her more. Ada is insatiable, unrelenting, making you take her over and over again, until you’re nothing but a shaking, overstimulated mess beneath her.

She guides your legs around her hips, pulling out.

A whine leaves your lips before it morphs into a filthy moan with another sharp thrust into your cunt, another nasty squelch echoing into the air–sex and perfume wafts in the room. She slumps against you, pressing her soft chest against your sensitive ones, moving her lips purposefully to the crown of your ear and tugging a bit of your skin in between her teeth.

Your body was hot against hers. Your walls throb deliciously throb around her. Ada's eyes flutter close before she sinks her teeth into your skin.

"A-Ada–fuck!" You sob as she angles precisely into you.

"Nghh–I know, doll." Ada throws her head back, relishing the obscene sound of flesh against flesh.

Plap, plap, plap!

Oh, it's a sound you and Ada never get tired of.

You've already lost your mind beneath her–fucking you to a state of overstimulation, being bred full of her semen.

"You look so beautiful," Ada huffs as she jogs her hips, her pace is shallow to the point that she isn't pulling out anymore.

She grabs the headboard, fucking you into the sheets. The older woman grits her teeth, your mixed fluids being fucked out of your beaten walls, making a mess beneath your legs. Her balls slap against the curve of your ass, heavy with potent seed.

"Mghmm, cumming." Your lover whines, "Cum on my cock, doll–nghh, I want to feel you."

Your eyes roll back again as a strong gush of fluid exits your pussy, coating Ada's cock and her balls. Ada groans, nuzzling her cock into you as she fucks you into overstimulation before she finally stills her hips, shooting ribbons of her seed in you, painting your walls warm and white.

Your mixed essence oozes out, your mind filled with cotton and your body is heavy while Ada looks energized, watching your blissed out state.

"Once I know you're pregnant–I'm putting you on maternity leave." She murmurs.

A promise.

A threat.

And for once, you didn't fight against it.

#ada wong #ada wong x reader #resident evil #resident evil x reader #i'm just a girl #resident evil x you #oneshot #wlw post #wuh luh wuh #sapphic #wlw #fem reader #female reader #yuri

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bleue-flora · 2 months ago

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yeah I think even though c!Tommy had a lot of visitors in exile, its all undermined because he still felt lonely and c!Dream had told him that people were only visiting him to see the place and encouraged c!Tommy to see the gifts as pity gifts but its a nice comparison you made regardless I think comparing the physical torment both faced it would be interesting, c!tommys was more spaced out and emotional based + the hits he took from cdreams weapons, c!dreams was daily and more extreme

[context]

{wrote this answer awhile ago, and was going to add to it a comparison of Exile and prison emotional and physical abuse data but due to recent events I’m finding it hard to watch exile streams so that analysis has been put on hold, but figured I could still post this answer.}

Look I'm not saying Dream isn't a good manipulator, because he certainly is, but from Day 1 even before Dream shows up to visit, Tommy is already moping and calling people's gifts pity gifts and stuff (like in that post the clip of Bad happens before Dream shows up for the first time). In fact, the more I rewatch Exile the more I wonder what would have happened if it had been someone else in Tommy's shoes? Would the situation seem as screwed up if the person was more resistant to the abuse and not falling apart on their own. Is that why there are people who see Dream as deserving of prison, and Exile as more emotionally damaging? I don't know, it's just a thought, is it Dream’s nonchalance that cuts into people's pity and empathy?...

It's actually something I've thought about a lot in the last year, because there is almost always something going wrong in my life and so I've kinda adapted this "is what it is" "this is fine" "I tried what more can I do" attitude of letting things roll off and just dealing with it and turning it into a funny story (sometimes you gotta laugh to keep from crying). It was actually highlighted a few weeks ago when my coworker was trying to stress to me how awful and cold it would be if my heat were to go out this winter. And I was like - "I am beyond aware, I lost my heat, hot water, and internet during a snow storm last year so I know exactly how miserable it is." and her face was just like 'oh... right' as if my anxiety and the words I'd been saying all week finally dawned on her. As if the lighthearted nature and attitude in which I shared those facts before undid the gravity of them.

It’s actually something I really noticed this summer when my sister-in-law was in a car accident and got a concussion. My parents were reasonably worried and like offering to come up and if they need to bring my brother and her food and stuff, and it caught me by surprise in a weird way. Not because I don't think she (and my brother) didn't deserve or need the help and sympathy, but because less than a year and a half ago, after spending a week with covid in an apartment with broken air conditioning during heat advisory, I end up fainting while coming out of the shower as I was getting ready to finally go back to work... The crazy person I am, I was bleeding and still the thought in my mind was - 'I'll just stick a bandaid on it’ (I ended up with 7 stitches lol)... Anyways, long story short despite my concussion I pushed on through my second to last semester of engineering courses and hell even made Dean's List despite my struggling short memory, which might be one of my proudest achievements to be honest. And in hindsight as I observed people's care and concern for my sister-in-law and them asking if she needs to leave the room for the quiet and how long is she taking off work... etc, I realized just how kinda screwed up it was that I had to handle everything by myself. That no one was there to tell me to not use a screen right after getting a concussion and how I definitely should not have been tutoring or doing school the week after. I did it all by myself and pushed through, and I realized that I think because I didn't make it a big deal, it became not a big deal for them. Because I laughed about it and tell the story in a comical way, people don’t seem to understand just how hard it was. As if a concussion in itself isn’t terrible, period.

In the same way, Torture is terrible, period. Dream shouldn’t have to be pathetic for that fact to be true. He shouldn’t have to be broken, or say “yes sir,” we shouldn’t need any evidence but that fact alone. (Now obviously within the dsmp Minecraft medium it’s a little different but hopefully you get the point). The torture isn’t any less horrible if the character reacts by becoming submissive or fighting back. Torture isn’t any less horrible because of who it is on (something Dream tries to highlight to Sam in Daedalus). Torture is bad. It doesn’t matter if the reason was good or not, it doesn’t matter if the victim shows how hurt they are or not. And yet, those facts change our perception of it. It is different to know someone was tortured than it is to see them having a panic attack afterwards or their scars.

So then, would characters and we the audience still think Exile is as bad as it was if the person who was exiled didn’t react the same. If their clothes weren’t falling apart. If they weren’t moping around and complaining. If the facts were the exact same, but the attitude of the character was different, how would it change how we saw Exile? Would we still see Exile as even comparable on any scale to Prison? If we saw all 82 of Quackity’s visits how would it change our perception? If Dream was too scared to hold an axe during jailbreak or if he cried in Punz’s arms right after, if he didn’t show such apathy when telling Sapnap or Foolish or Tommy about the torture, would it change how those characters felt about it? If Dream’s skin had clothes that we saw slowly deteriorating everytime we saw him in prison how would that change how we saw it? Or if Tommy’s clothes hadn’t changed, how would that change how we saw Exile?… yes Exile was horrible, and yes it was abuse and screwed up. But also, is part of why we see it as this big horrible thing because of Tommy’s reaction to it. That’s not to say it wasn’t horrible or I’m trying to minimize the abuse, but also lots of horrible things happen on the dsmp. I mean Fundy committed suicide and I don’t see people getting as upset at Wilbur as they do Dream for Tommy’s almost suicide.

I don’t know, it’s just something I’ve been thinking about. If Dream’s attitude to being tortured changed how characters and we saw it, and if in the same way, Tommy’s attitude changed how we saw Exile. If the roles were reversed or someone else was in Tommy’s place, (whether or not they are actually comparable), would anyone think they are even comparable in any aspect?

Sapnap: “What do you mean he was torturing you? Like literally torturing you?”

#I’d just be curious like if tubbo was exiled how that would look and if we would say the same thing…#Tommy sent Dream to limbo for hours #and yet so often we seem more focused on Dream sending Tommy as if dying and limbo #aren’t terrible period. Tommy describes limbo as the worse place ever #dreblr #c!dream #exile arc #prison arc #c!dream and c!tommy #hello there #dsmpblr #let me cook #why do I feel like saying something about Tommy is a terrible idea… oh well lol… it’s not a take just a thought so maybe it’ll be fine #me on the menu #did someone order an essay?#c!disc duo

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deltaromeo3 · 2 years ago

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𝟷-𝟸 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝𝚜 ⋆ Daniel Ricciardo

pairing: daniel ricciardo x teammate!reader

• as requested by: lovely vex!

“They’re gonna think we’re idiots!”

It was a raining cats and dogs on race day. You were sat in your driver’s room because the race has been red flagged. You decided to wander out to the garage just for the heck of it.

You exit your drivers room and walked to the garage, only to be greeted by a sea of mechanics and engineers who were also feeling down due to race being postponed. You smiled and greeted them back, but your eyes were searching for someone else; your teammate, Daniel Ricciardo.

Your eyes scanned the garage. Ah there he is! Seated beside Tom, his engineer. They were busy discussing about what you assumed were data and statistics, and he seemed so in the zone, listening closely to what Tom was saying, so you took this chance to scare him from behind.

Tom saw you creeping up to Daniel but you put a finger to your lips as if to say “Don’t blow my cover”.

“Boo!”

“Jesus!” Daniel jumps in his seat, turning to look behind to see which bugger scared the living shit out of him.

“Gotcha,” You said as you laughed. Daniel smacks your arm in response. After that, you decided you didn’t want to leave. Instead, you took a seat on his right thigh, wrapping your arms around his neck and instinctively, his hands wrapped around your waist.

You listened as Tom was talking to him. Daniel of course was nodding along and asking him questions but you didn’t care so much.

Everyone around the both of you seem to not care that you were seated on Daniel, they knew that this was a common occurrence.

“Aw cmon Dan! Open your mouth wider!” You said as you tossed him another M&M.

The chocolate lands in his mouth. “Yes!” You celebrated. Daniel smiles and pumps his fist up into the air, celebrating as well.

The pair of you have been at it for a solid 10 minutes. Anything to chase away the rainy day blues, am I right?

“I have excellent aim.” You complimented yourself, a smug look apparent on your face.

“Oh is that so? Okay, your turn.” You nodded, getting into stance, opening your mouth wide to catch the M&M Daniel was about to throw.

Unfortunately you missed. You pout and Daniel laughs. “Cmon Y/N you can do it,” He squeezes your shoulder for encouragement. You took a deep breathe and stood in position again.

“Ready?” He asks.

You nod. “Ready. Toss me one!” You open your mouth.

The M&M lands in your mouth. Your eyes widened in excitement. Daniel comes over and daps you up, “Atta girl!”

Little did you know the cameras caught all of that. Practically everyone saw what the two of you were doing…

Post Race Interview

“Hey Y/N! It’s nice to see you again. How was the race? Congratulations by the way, 1-2 podium with Daniel by your side, how does it feel?”

“It’s nice to see you again too. Thank you! Um, it feels great actually! And it’s even better that it’s my home race. I feel happy. Even happier that I managed to finish ahead of Daniel.” You cheekily smile.

“So we understand that the race was postponed correct?” You nodded. “What happened there? Back in the garage? You and Daniel seem to get along well.”

You laughed, realising the cameras caught your nonsense. “Oh you meant- ah right!” Just as you were about to answer, Daniel comes into frame, scaring you from behind.

“Oi!” You turned around to be met with Daniel laughing.

“And that is how you scare the race winner, folks!” He says to camera and you rolled your eyes.

“Sorry I got a lil’ distracted there as you can see,” You rolled your eyes again, “Maybe Daniel can answer that question, right Daniel?” You looked over to Daniel.

“Y-yeah sure! What’s up?” He steps in front of the mic.

“We’re just wondering, what happened back in the garage? Was a lot of chaos as we saw it.”

Daniel laughs. “Oh that?” He looks over to you and the both of you exchanged looks, a stiffled laugh coming out of you.

“Nothing! We were just tryna.. um.. I don’t know, chase the blues away. It was raining and we were bored out of our minds.”

“So I take it that you both have a good relationship off the track?” The interviewer asks.

“Yeah of course. She may be annoying at times but I’m used to it y’know?”

“Hey!” You smacked Daniel’s arm. “As annoying as I am, at least I finished ahead of you.” You quipped back.

“She’s feisty,” The interviewer says to Daniel.

“Yeah. And thank God you’re not on the receiving end of it,”

The interviewer laughs before continuing to ask the both of you a few more questions before they finish off.

You walked away with Daniel, side by side.

“See, I told you!”

“Told me what?”

“That if anyone saw us, they’re gonna think we’re idiots!”

He laughs. “Well, the two idiots they just saw won a 1-2 podium. I’d say we make a pretty good team.”

“Yeah… I agree.”

#daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo x reader #f1 #daniel ricciardo imagines #daniel ricciardo x y/n #danny ric #f1 imagines #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #deltaromeo3 #driver!reader

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awsdataengineering12 · 3 months ago

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AWS Data Engineering | AWS Data Engineer online course

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yuriosakawa · 1 month ago

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Project R.E.X - P.E.R.F.E.C.T.

Summary: Prototype Engineered for Revolutionary Function, Enhanced Combat, and Transcendence

—————————

Rex gritted his teeth as he barely managed to block a heavy blow from the massive EVO in front of him. The thing was relentless —all muscle, no brain, and completely unpredictable. He’d fought plenty of monsters before, but this one was on a whole other level.

"Man," Rex grunted, dodging a wild swing, "EVOs are really just—" he leaped over another attack, landing with a skid—" gross, less successful recreations of me. "

Over the comms, César hummed in thought. "Well, that’s to be expected," he said matter-of-factly.

Rex arched an eyebrow, barely listening as he rolled under another attack. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"You were designed to be perfect, hermano," César explained. "But with limits."

Rex barely had time to register those words before the EVO lunged again. He twisted, avoiding the strike, then activated his Slam Cannon, blasting the creature backward.

Catching his breath, he frowned. "Wait—limits?"

César’s voice remained calm. "Of course. Perfection is balance. You were given everything you needed to survive, but you were still designed with rules—checks and balances to keep you stable. EVOs, however…" He trailed off.

Rex looked at the snarling beast as it slowly got back up, its mutated form shifting uncontrollably. His grip on his cannon tightened.

"EVOs have no limits," César finished. "That’s why they’re unstable. They have power —sometimes more than you—but no structure. No control."

Rex exhaled sharply, suddenly seeing EVOs in a whole new light.

"So basically," he muttered, bracing himself, "I’m the one thing the Nanite Project got right —and EVOs are just a bunch of bad copies?"

"More or less," César replied. "Now, focus, Rex. The imperfect ones may be unstable, but that just makes them more dangerous."

Rex rolled his shoulders, a confident smirk creeping onto his face. "Yeah? Well, good thing the perfect one’s still here to clean up the mess."

And with that, he launched himself back into the fight.

—————————

Back at the Plant, Dr. Holiday was completely absorbed in Rex’s latest medical scans. She had always been fascinated by his biology—his nanites were already unlike anything else in the world—but now, knowing the full extent of what he was? It was nothing short of extraordinary.

"This is… unbelievable," Holiday murmured, her eyes scanning the data on her tablet. "I always knew your biometrics were unique, but this? Rex, you’re flawless."

Rex smirked, leaning back on the medical bed. "I mean, I do try."

Holiday shook her head, still in awe. "No, I mean it. Your nanites are stable, adaptable, and completely in sync with your physiology. You’re not just the only success of the Nanite Project—you’re perfect in every sense of the word."

Rex’s smirk widened. "Perfect, huh? You hear that, guys? I’m officially the best thing science has ever made!"

Before he could bask in the glory, Bobo smacked him upside the head. "Oh no, no way! Don’t you start with that!"

Rex rubbed his head, pouting. "What?! She said it, not me!"

"Yeah, and you don’t need any more reasons to get a big head!" Bobo shot back. "We’re already barely tolerating you as is!"

Rex rolled his eyes. "Please, you love me."

Bobo crossed his arms. "I tolerate you just enough to mooch off your snacks."

Holiday chuckled, setting her tablet down. "All joking aside, this does mean something important, Rex. Now that we understand what you are, it helps us understand why you can control nanites the way you do."

Rex raised an eyebrow. "And that means…?"

Holiday smiled. "It means there may be even more potential in you than we ever realized."

Rex blinked, then grinned. "Well, now you’ve got my attention."

#generator rex #rex salazar #alternate universe #caesar salazar #césar salazar #cesar salazar #rebecca holiday #bobo haha #project rex

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pinkandgoldensoul · 1 year ago

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CL#16 || Mine First || tape b

Navigation || Masterlist

: ̗̀➛ tape b of the 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹 series If this is your first time here on this blog, please check the Disclaimers here.

pairing: charles leclerc x female!reader x pierre gasly!bestfriend genre: childhood exes (?) to lovers, (fake) love triangle, fluff, a bit of angst tw: swearing, tiny suggestive crumb word count: 10.2k plot: going back to Monaco, you meet him again. Both being Pierre's friends, you're often trapped in the same room: it's inevitable for the past to resurface, through glances, dances, pages filled of ink.

Your walk inside the paddock was followed by gusts of wind throwing strands of hair in every direction, preys of the unpredictable, forcing you to move them out of your face repeatedly. The forecast couldn’t have been clearer: 90% chances of rain. A storm was approaching the track, and so were you.

Looking around, you stared attentively at the frenetic movement pulsating in every corner: mechanics, engineers, journalists and cameras ready to capture any detail, VIPs begging for selfies with bewildered eyes and staring at the screens in awe and confusion. It was all so foreign to you. Despite growing up in Monaco, you had always shied away from the spotlight and tried to live a simple life, therefore moving out in your youth to an unknown town in South France, near the coast, but far enough from the contradiction of luxury. Still, Pierre being a dear old friend of yours, after pleading insistence, you had given up to his invitation to a Grand Prix. You had first agreed to be hosted at his home race, Paul Ricard, then obliged to choose another circuit since the track had disappeared from the 2023 calendar: and so there you were, crossing the streets you had walked countless times, the ones you had run away from.

«Do you think it’s going to rain hard?» «How do you expect me to know?» You snorted, arms crossed. Pierre simply shrugged, zipping up his suit. «I don’t know, you’ve lived here enough to recognize Monaco’s clouds.» he half-joked. «Maybe you’re the Monegasque Mazepin.» «Who’s that?» you asked, frowning. «No one, forget it. I just thought you, standing there doing nothing, had more time than I do to check the forecast.» «Uhm, if you want, I can take a look.» you offered, searching for your phone. Pierre quickly made it over to you, crossing the garage, and put his hands on your shoulders with a smile. «Y/n, I’m just messing around. Why are you taking everything so seriously? You always get my jokes, what’s up with you today?» «Uhm… maybe… It’s Monaco’s clouds.» Pierre couldn’t help but grin bigger and shake his head, leaving you standing on your own while he got near his helmet to clean it. «If you’re worried about tonight’s dinner, there’s no need to.» You sighed. To your annoyance, Pierre had stricken home yet another time. He was too good at reading you like an open book, your expressions and reactions too plain for him to interpret after years of sincere friendship. «I just don’t understand why you want to introduce me to this one friend… It’s a bit intimidating, like, the three of us…» «Oh, but we won’t be completely alone!» Pierre said, amending his partial explanation. «We’ll be hanging out in group, it’s going to be fun! I just wanted to introduce you to my best mate, that’s all.» «Fine, but… why can’t I even know his name? Why are you acting like I’m going to be surprised about who he is?» «Because I think you will.» «You’re such a drama queen.» He laughed at your arms-crossed and roll-eye as he finished cleaning the helmet, placing back on a counter. «Of course I am.»

To Pierre’s amusement, you hadn’t followed free practices with a lot of attention, which is a euphemism to say that you basically didn’t watch the screens installed for the guests inside the garage at all: instead, you had nestled in a small empty spot right next to his engineer and you had silently followed Pierre’s action and data, without really understanding much, more so as the second sessions had been red flagged before being half-way through it.

Pierre was dying of laughter onto the small, leathered couch of the club you had chosen for the beginning of the night, waiting for all his friends to show up, as he listened to your unforgettably miserable experience in the Alpine box. «So you didn’t see any other driver?» he asked, still chuckling. «No, I mean… I was also getting a bit car sick, with all those walls left and right. You drive way too fast, you guys are crazy…» Loud as a freight train crashing the rails with its speed, a group of youngsters entered the club with a thunderous burst of laughter, which made you flinch in your seat. «Oh, here they are!» Pierre immediately flailed around and whistled in order to be heard by les gars, who soon walked towards your table. Without you noticing, he stood up and waited them to hug and give friendly back pats. Composed in your awkward silence, you felt even more uneasy as one of the newcomers stopped and looked down at you sitting, staring with an uncomfortable persistence, a smile fading from his lips. «Who are you?» he asked, curiosity and perplexity mixed in his tone. Reciprocating with the same depth his stare, you realized you had just fallen inside a dangerous and unexpected sand trap, wishing the dark-lit room would suddenly turn the lights on so that you could make out his features clearer, or completely drown them out together with the anxiety in the pit of your stomach. «Finally I can introduce you both!» Pierre clapped his hands, breaking the moment and inviting you to get up. «Y/n, this is my best friend: Charles.» «Charles…» you muttered under your breath, trying to make sense of it. «Yes, Charles Leclerc.» he repeated in confirmation, smiling, shaking and holding your cold and still hand. «And this is y/n, one of my dearest friends.» «Nice to meet you.» The flickering sparkle in his eyes, the dimples making their painful appearance and his sweet, fond smile struck you all at once, the freight train now hitting you as you simply stood by the platform of time, uncapable of anything but playing reruns of distant and long forgotten memories in the back of your mind. He let go of your hand and you slowly slipped down in your seat, heart beating uncontrollably. But everyone was just too absorbed into the conversation to notice, too playful and happy to be in joined company. Drinking from your glass full of insecurities, your gaze was always searching for his, carefully studying his heavenly face, then immediately straying away, consumed by indecision and inner turmoil.

You all got up a couple of hours after to have a nice walk through the harbor; the cool breeze sweeping the dump asphalt made your skin shiver, and you felt forced to bring your hands upon your forearms to soothe the coldness. Pierre had noticed for a while the way you hadn’t engaged in the conversations a lot, had seen you full of thoughts back in the club and, of course, immediately read your body language; in a few strides, he was next to you, placing his jacket onto your shoulders, matching your steps. «Thank you.» you smiled. You both slowly walked alongside, letting silence fill the gaps, until the Frenchman couldn’t bear it anymore, as he gazed at the stars. «I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy yourself that much tonight… I thought you would get along just fine, since you’re all friends of mine.» «They’re nice, in fact!» you tried to reply. Pierre gave you a knowing look. «Y/n, there’s no need to cover it up, I’ve got two eyes to see you have been running away from everyone tonight… Especially from Charles.» «What?» You stood still, watching him stop as you did. Had he noticed? Did he… know? «Are you… are you, like, jealous of him?» Pierre asked, reticent. «What?! N-no, of course not, why would I-» «Sorry, I was just wondering why you gave him strange looks all night, that’s it.» «No, it’s just… I think I’ve seen him somewhere else, before.» you swallowed hard, hoping he’d buy into your lie. Pierre first looked at you, then started laughing contagiously, to the point you had to giggle as well with a frown. «Why are you laughing?» you asked. «Are you kidding me? Of course you’ve seen him before!» «And… where?» you hesitated, now even scarier than earlier. «On track, y/n! He races for Ferrari, putain!» His laugh didn’t complement your heart drop. «You didn’t watch any race for real, uh? I thought you were joking. Now, that hurts!» The attempt at matching his laugh was almost miserable; the clench grinding your poor heart felt unbearable, feelings gushing and bleeding out beneath your skin.

Nothing had prepared you to see him once again face to face, nor you had anticipated talking to him, spending time together. For sure, no one had warned you about the way he would’ve changed so much growing up. A childish mischief still lingered in his expression, but you could clearly see he had matured, his perfectly crafted jawline and his beard giving it away; his athletic body resembled nothing of the young, agile and slim figure you remembered. You recalled witnessing Pierre’s transformation. Looking at them now, they didn’t seem like guys in their mid-twenties and, compared to them, you felt like a child, whereas they had already achieved a lifestyle you would never even dream of. Despite the obvious differences in the physique, something about Charles’ demeanor had unexpectedly softened: you were so accustomed to his impulsive, black-or-white younger self that you almost couldn’t recognize him under the charming and elegant masquerade. It can’t be him, you thought.

An awkward tension made every gesture clumsy, intrinsically wrong: throughout the weekend, anytime you’d cross each other’s way, you both moved cautiously around each other, studying the new person you had in front, as if you were trying to read a book you once knew by heart, word by word, now translated into an unknown language. And even though you struggled recognizing the Charles you used to know, he could clearly tell it was the same old you beneath the embarrassment: he always found you lightheartedly making jokes and having fun, smiling kindly, or thinking deep in silence. When you were with Pierre. Because as soon as Charles entered your vision, he would see you stiffening, stuttering, fighting insecurities in every sentence and gesture. And as much as he felt discomfort in making you all flustered, a thorn of pride stung his heart. He still had an effect on you. He wouldn’t makeyou laugh uncontrollably as Pierre did, but he was still able to stir some deep feelings inside of you, and it fueled him like gasoline on fire, for some reason. # Charles genuinely thought seeing you in Monaco was a karmic debt’s payment, enduring the comfort and the palpable chemistry between you and his best friend: apart from the small talk he had tried to initiate with you, Charles had kept away from you, purposely avoiding your presence. Undeniably, you still had an effect on him too.

When he entered the paddock on Wednesday, welcomed by the Spanish heat, crossing the lane with the hospitalities already brimming of life, he definitely didn’t expect to see you again, let alone to find you sat on a white wicker couch next to Pierre. Right as he witnessed the scene, the Frenchman swiftly placing your bare legs on his lap, his fingers drawing circles upon your skin, both spread out and chilling, enjoying the nice weather, Charles couldn’t help himself from chewing his inner cheek and pacing quickly towards Ferrari’s hospitality. What made him even more furious was knowing that Pierre was well aware of the cameras pointing towards you and taking pictures with no disturb, implicitly giving them permission, being so physical with you in public. Pierre wasn’t stupid. He knew what he was doing. And Charles didn’t like it. Because you seemed so innocent, always caring, smiley, kind and considerate of others, hanging off Pierre’s lips; and Charles hated, oh, he hated it as much as immediately spotting the flash of fear and tension crossing your irises as soon as he tried to approach you. Charles would’ve gladly done without hovering around you, or stop caring about you and Pierre’s affair, but he simply couldn’t: after seeing you amidst the crowd, he was drawn to you, by far the quickest in reaching you swiftly dodging everybody else, ready to find stupid excuses to chat with you and get your attention away from Pierre at least for a couple of minutes. The painful truth was that Charles desperately wanted to catch up with you, spend an entire night just the two of you and be your listener, hearing your enchanting voice narrate the life you had led so far and staring into your mesmerizing eyes full of dreams. He wanted to amend for the past. He felt guilty for what he had said, yet he acknowledged he wouldn’t know any better back at the time.

Instead, he was attending yet another night out with Pierre and mutual friends, throwing deadly glances over your dancing silhouettes, painfully reminded of what it could’ve been. Charles had so many apologetic words stuck in his throat, but an overwhelming wave of unlabeled feelings impeded him to talk the matter out with you. Only a question, the same one, all over again. Why Pierre? He unfortunately knew why you two had broken up, he couldn’t blame you in any way: but Charles couldn’t accept being discarded in place of Pierre. He loved him like a brother, he was one of his best buddies, and exactly because he knew him that well and had met you before, he was sure you two, as a couple, could never work out. Or, at least, that’s what he believed. There was also another annoyance cutting Charles’ skin: the fact that Pierre hadn’t been honest while introducing you. A friend? Sharing jackets and hoodies, letting each other be touchy and clingy, always hanging out together? Yeah, of course. Charles was having none of it. His drink tasted bitter, with you two in his vision; he couldn’t bear it any longer. So he simply decided to get the work done by himself.

Pierre had been talking and cracking jokes non-stop since the beginning of the night, getting his mouth dry quite rapidly; right as he left you dancing by yourself to grab another drink, Charles took the chance and crossed the dance floor fueled by liquid bravery, stopping right behind you, placing his hands on your waist carefully, so that you’d acknowledge his presence too late to run away from him. «Having fun with Pierre? Hasn’t he run out of words yet?» Charles teased you. «When he’s drunk, he gets quite talkative.» you explained. «And so do you.» At your raised brow, Charles took a sip of his drink with a smirk. «Just checking up on someone who seemed to be getting bored.» he leaned in a bit closer upon your shoulder. «Oh, and when did you start being concerned about me?» When I realized I was still in love with you, he thought. Charles wetted his lips. «Y/n, I’d really like to talk about everything that happened between us, if you just gave me the chance to-» «Charles, I suffered enough, trust me.» «And I’m suffering because of it now.» «Not my business. It’s your time to get over it.» «If you got over it, then why do you keep avoiding me like you’re still affected?» Charles knew he had hit home once he saw your eyes dart towards his, defenseless, uncapable of putting up shields of indifference. «Woah, Charles, stop bothering my girl!» Pierre loudly approached the two of you, drunkenly placing his arm around you, which Charles clearly interpreted as a “private property” sign. You were his girl, after all. Of course you wouldn’t give him a chance. Everything was already settled, nothing else left to be discussed. Still, if there was something Charles couldn’t do, it was losing without trying with all his might to grab the win. «Can I borrow her? Just wanted to dance with her.» Pierre chuckled and nodded. «Bien sur, go ahead!» You hated being treated like a parcel without thoughts and feelings, as if you not being willing to dance with Charles wasn’t even an option; indeed, you definitely didn’t refuse his gentle hand guiding you towards a quieter space on the dance floor, and didn’t sway the times Charles would place his face near yours, leaning against your ear, almost about to whisper something but never giving you the satisfaction to drop a single word.

There was no way you could deny the effect he still had on you, after all those years spent apart from each other: any moment your eyes flicked to glance at him, his bright eyes were still glistening with youthful innocence, his dimples still dazed you, his enigmatic smile still made you question his and your own feelings. For a moment, standing that close to him without sharing useless words, you imagined Charles had stayed. In fact, that you had stayed. With a little effort, you could almost imagine you two had never broken up: you were dancing, comfortably enjoying his hands on your waist, placing yours around his neck lightweight, scared of lengthening physical touch. He stared down at you with a pleased and peaceful gaze, so sweet it could almost stich up all the scars he had left over your heart, splitting them apart and filling them with love before sealing them forever. But he had made a choice back then, clear-cut. Formula One was his only lover, no room for others. No room for you. The music died around your ears. But it still pumped quick inside your heart. «Are you good?» Charles’ voice caught your attention, as his hands firmly kept you up and yours had fallen back onto his shoulders for support. You simply tripped, you said to yourself; something normal which would happen while dancing drunk, a usual slip of thoughts diving back into the hurt of the past. «Yeah, all good.» you breathed out, looking behind your back. Pierre’s silhouette had completely disappeared from the radar, leaving your clenching stomach lonely in the search of a ride home. «Where’s Pierre?» you slurred. «I don’t know…» Charles’ green eyes scanned the room and trailed off yours, joining them in the search. «Can you bring me back to the hotel?» Charles opened his eyes wide at those words. «What?» Maybe he hadn’t heard right. Maybe it was the voice of someone dancing next to him. «I’m tired, can you give me a ride?» The tip of his tongue slipping out to wet his lips got you stuck on his mouth, a lost soft look into your eyes that Charles had to avoid watching, before his drunk system would act bypassing rationality. «Of course.»

«Where are the keys?» Charles waited for your lazy hands to rummage inside your purse, quickly taking the shining, jingling metal out of your fingers. Right as the door cracked open, you aimed towards the king-sized bed, taking your heels off and slowly picking up the sheets in order to slip underneath them. «Don’t you want to change into something comfier?» he asked, dumbfounded. You whined in response, head already resting onto the pearl white pillow. «Y/n?» «Mmh?» «Do you want to sleep with your jeans on?» he almost chuckled. «Jeez, Cha’, I’m tired…» He walked next to the bed, kneeling down in front of you. «Yeah, I know, you said that quite a few times already.» With your eyes shut, you couldn’t see Charles’ enchanted stare; yet, you could feel the warmth of it even through the closed eyelids. «There’s a pair of shorts inside the wardrobe.» you mumbled. Pretty easy to spot, since it was the only piece of furniture Charles felt comfortable enough to name “wardrobe”, he slid the door of wood and sifted through. «They’re not hung… Are they inside a drawer?» «No, they’re on top of the first drawer. Under the hung clothes.» Following your instructions, Charles found the shorts, but pulling them out something fell down to the floor. «What was that?» you asked at the thud. «N-nothing, there you go with your shorts.» he quickly reached over. «Okay, don’t peek.» «Yep!» Charles turned back towards the wardrobe, gulping both at the guilt of dropping something off and at the shuffling denim behind him. He closed his eyes, covered in shame. Then, tugged by curiosity, he looked down before his shoes. A diary, spread open. Charles picked it up, a picture immediately threatening to escape the pages, but his fingers were fast enough to catch it. It was you and him, awkwardly posing for your mom, both wearing matching bracelets. «Cha’, the bed is cold.» «Uh?» he held his breath, caught by surprise. «Can you like… rub me from above the duvet?» Your drunken request didn’t sound weird to his equally drunken mind. He hopped onto the bed, with the back leaning onto the headrest, his right hand brushing you back and forth to soothe the cold, while he held the diary and the picture with the left. «Thank you, Cha’…» He couldn’t restrain himself from smiling, engraving in his mind the tender and natural rolling off of the nickname you had chosen. It was the same sweet tone you would use with him back then, when you still held hands, when your cheeks were tinted rose in his presence, when the only bracelet he would wear were the ones you made yourself. With love.

The shop windows were brimming with lights and Christmasy decorations: the whole city was lit alive by the thrilled atmosphere, and everyone seemed to be strolling by the pavement, making it difficult to catch up with your mother’s steps. «Come on, y/n, we’ll be late!» Winter holidays had started, and you couldn’t help but staring mesmerized at the streets, couples walking hand in hand, the grey sea roaring in the distance. Christmas was only a few days away and your mom had booked an appointment to the hairdresser to adjust your hair a little bit before the new year; you knew, though, that she had insisted also because she enjoyed Pascale’s company and gossiping quite a lot, especially since his son was only a year older than you and had the same middle school teachers you had.

«Ah, y/n, I wish I had a daughter like you. My sons are three devils.» Your mother chuckled at Pascale’s defeated comment, sitting on a couch behind you, holding a magazine. «But they’re talented, at least.» You pouted at your mom’s words, frowning. «Especially Charles. By the way, how is he doing?» your mother added. Pascale sighed, blow-drying your hair. «Very good… But I’m worried he’ll never finish school.» «But he’s in third grade now, how can’t he not?» you asked, with lively eyes. «Middle school isn’t the problem, y/n. I’m afraid he’ll never graduate from high school. I mean, he’s clearly on a league of his own, but… there are no certainties he’ll make it to Formula One, and in case things might not go as planned I don’t want him to struggle finding a job due to a lack of diploma.» «I don’t think you need to worry, Pascale. If Charles can’t succeed, then nobody else will!» Pascale sadly smiled at your mother’s answer, brushing your hair. Still staring at yourself inside the mirror, you caught eye of something quickly storming into the saloon from the backdoor. «Mom, can I go out now?» You had never met him, but it was immediately clear to you that the boy tugging at his mother’s apron was Charles. A lock of hair partly covered his eyes and you were amazed at how large and luminous they were, full of hopes and dreams. «Did you finish your homework?» she asked, still patiently brushing your hair. Hesitating, you saw his eyes trailing off towards Pascale’s movements, pointing towards your hair and ultimately fixed his green pearls onto you. Charles’ lips parted to let out an inaudible gasp, caught by surprise by your gracious and lightful beauty: your hair, perfectly combed, seemed like a crown of silk upon your face, and your blushing cheeks hit an unknow spot of his young, tender, unexperienced heart. «So?» Pascale prompted. «No, I haven’t finished yet.» Charles felt stupid, but he couldn’t stop staring at you, nor could you. He was so scared you would never see each other again he was trying to extend the moment as long as he possibly could. «But I’ll finish them.» he added. Pascale, surprised at the answer, never heard beforehand, watched him pacing fast out the backdoor and reemerging with the notebook in his hand, sitting on the couch nearest to you. Unbeknownst to both of you, your moms had exchanged a knowing look through the mirror; but how could you notice, when all your attention was undividedly offered to each other? He took furtive peeks, as you darted him side-eyed glances, enchanted with his haphazard pose. Needless to say, Charles didn’t get much homework done… But he studied, oh boy, he did: he studied all your features, your behavior, your shy answers to your mother, your graceful red dress as you stood up in order to leave the saloon.

«M-merry Christmas!» he hastily blurted out, before you exited the door. Melting like a candle under a flame, Charles’ chest tightened at your small smile. «Merry Christmas.»

First it was doing homework together, then it was hanging out to eat some ice-cream as a treat, then it was strolling by the sea, and then riding the bike chuckling and giggling, until it was walking to the school gate hand in hand and wearing the matching bracelets you’d gifted him – not making it on purpose – for Valentine’s Day. It had happened so fast you couldn’t give a name to it: you spent all the free time you had in his company – whenever he wasn’t down karting tracks training – and you let yourself be swamped by Charles’ explosiveness, dragging you alongside him down all Monaco, willing to show you anything beautiful he had seen in his life, making memories together.

You had seen other classmates of yours having boyfriends, but they all seemed too morbidly physical to you. Charles would only grab your hand occasionally or give shy and awkward hugs, and that was more than enough for you, more than you would ask him to do: you didn’t feel the need for more; everything was as perfect as he could be. Some of your classmates also mocked you for being his girlfriend, since everybody noticed he often skipped lessons and wasn’t known as an easy character. In fact, Charles, at times, especially at school, treated you a bit coldly, annoyed by all the guys watching him and judging the both of you spending the breaks together. It had never been a problem to you, though, because you had soon realized his heart was full of love and care for you.

«Did they do anything to you?» he asked you, accompanying you back home after school, referring to your classmates. «No, they just talked crap as always.» you shrugged. «Did they touch you?» he asked once again, grabbing your hand a little tighter. «Uh?» «I saw they patted your shoulder, in front of the gate, when you were coming out. Did they do anything before that?» «No, they didn’t.» Charles’ frown was still on display, and you could tell he had been upset by the scene. It was normal, after all: he had witnessed his girlfriend being bullied, liked none of it and wished he would’ve got the chance to intervene. But somehow, seeing him deep in thought and keeping you closer to him made you realize for the first time he genuinely cared about you, more than two good friends, and as your chest filled with an unexplainable excitement, you slowly leaned your head against his shoulder. You waited for him to sway and withdraw from the touch, but he didn’t. You walked back home, fingers intertwined, moving slow steps, both wishing the path was endless.

«Are you done?» «Almost.» Charles huffed in impatience, as your fingers knotted the thread tighter. «Done! Give me your wrist.» you said. After attentively securing the bracelet, Charles took the other one you had already completed. «Give me yours.» You pressed your lips together to suppress a smile as he tied the matching bracelet to your wrist. «I like it a lot. Thank you, y/n.» His few words of appreciation warmed your heart, which fluttered and flipped in joy. You had thought it through for weeks, months; you had shyly confided with your mother, who tried to push you in being a little braver; still, you couldn’t bring yourself to admit your love to Charles. Because it was love. As you stared at each other in silence, your heart was about to explode, but he seemed to be unfazed by your flushed cheeks and nervous giggles. “Charles really likes you, y/n. You don’t have to doubt it.”, Pascale had told you. So, without thinking, prompted by the reassurances you had gathered from external feedback, you quickly leaned towards him and gave him the fastest peck on the lips. Pulling back, you kept your eyes shut, too scared to face his reaction; completely still, terrified, heart flinging out of your chest, you were caught by surprise feeling Charles’ lips back onto yours. It wasn’t as rushed as yours; he probably wasn’t as scared as you were. Under the careful touch of his hand upon your arm, you felt all your tension melt like snow under the sun, giving in to the moment, happy you had broken the ice so that you could both enjoy this second kiss without hesitation. As his face moved away, you saw him opening his mouth in order to say something. «I… I love you, y/n.» he gulped. «And thanks for the gift, they’re so well-made.» The way he had immediately changed topic didn’t help making his first words going unnoticed; Charles couldn’t put his heart on the line that openly, after all. But it seemed like you had only heard those three words, getting stuck at them, flinging yourself towards to hug him. «I love you too, Cha’!»

Charles looked over at you, peacefully drifted away, sleeping your hangover off. He had never told you, but you had been his first love too. Charles didn’t stop tenderly rubbing you from above the sheet, shamelessly enamored with that delicate, indirect touch. Caught once again by the diary, he frowned at a wrinkled page.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, you knew bad news were coming. You had never seen him as silent, as closed off and distant before: instead of immediately reaching out to your hand, walking alongside, he had fastened his steps, marching ahead of you, without sparing you a glance. He stopped on the promenade quite abruptly, forcing you to halt to avoid tripping over him. He stared at the raging sea, tinted of green and grey waves, foaming onto the harbor. «Where do you want to go?» you asked, trying to be as quiet as possible. «It doesn’t matter.» His voice was categorical. «We can’t be together.» He didn’t glance over to you nor blinked, as he threw you on the abyss of the sea, in the freezing coldness of his heart. «What?» you said, above a whisper. «I need to win the karting championship, so I must exclusively focus on training. Spending time with you will make me waste time.» A waste of time. That’s what you were to him. «But… We can still see each other, once you’re done with training! There’s no need to-» «I want to be a Formula One driver, y/n. I can’t have distractions.» «I’m not a distraction, Cha’! We… We love each other!» you pleaded. He finally turned around and threw a pity and almost annoyed look at you. «My only love is racing.» Too young and vulnerable to know how to hide the hurt of rejection, weeping like a baby you bumped past him, running back home, completely distraught. Charles’ words had cut you open like a knife, and what made it worse was that he had given no warning sign: those months together had flown by like a fever dream, sweet and carefree, even when he was telling you about his races and training. It made no sense, to you. He had given you up without thinking twice, whenever the choice was presented to him: racing had been and would always be his answer. Your feelings, whatever you two had shared meant nothing to him. Slamming the door of your bedroom, you looked down at your wrist: with a violent grab, you tore your matching bracelet apart, sobbing loudly, desperate at the thought he would soon throw the one you had made for him too.

Charles’ chest clenched. He had forgotten about the words he had used with you back at the time, but he hadn’t been able to rub off his memory the tears you shed before him. He was sure to be making the right choice, despite not knowing the cost of blindly pursuing his dream without taking others into consideration. He heard you heaving peaceful under his hand, still placed upon the duvet, and he felt a deep regret assaulting him: how could he ask you to stay near him, to bear his presence after what he had done to you? But most importantly: why did he have to lose you only to discover, years later, that if he had kept you by his side, you would’ve been the most supporting and understanding person, given the honey-laced words Pierre always had rolling off his tongue whenever he talked about your presence during race weekends?

Charles sighed and flipped the pages over and got stuck onto another entry, enchanted by a matured handwriting.

Pierre has always been a friend. Every time he would invite you down karting tracks, he would do anything to make you laugh with his stupid jokes, telling you about all the places he had been able to see throughout his first racing weekends around France, dreaming together of his future and reassuring you he would bring you along with him once he would reach F1. No matter how convincing he could sound, his talks always managed to trigger a deep fear in you: you thought you would soon lose him as well, the only real friend you had made since moving out. But Pierre didn’t reject you as Charles had done. Instead of excluding you, he tried to involve you in his world made of races and revving engines, sharing every bit of energy and passion with you. So you grew up together, as close as time and space allowed. The ease and comfort you felt around him and that developed over time was a novelty, more so as you got to know each other since you were fourteen; if you really had to carefully think your relationship through, being there for each other during teenage ha certainly cemented your connection. Because Pierre has always been a good friend; but there had been times, occasions, small moments in which raveled feelings coursed beneath the seemingly smooth surface.

It was no mystery Pierre enjoyed partying, more so if he could drag you with him down the hell of heat, sweat, shots and loud blasting music pumping his blood stronger than ever. That night, though, he had overdone it a bit. Embarrassingly enough, for the first time in his nineteen-years-old existence, he was locked in a bathroom, hands on his stomach, nausea all over his head. And, most importantly, you all over his thoughts. He had downed drinks all night with the intent of celebrating his F1 debut, but completely forgetting about your intoxicating presence, your breathtaking smiles, the little temptations that had begun tormenting him subtly after you had both abandoned innocence and had inevitably grown older. Pierre had completely underestimated the power you had on him, and losing control with drinking loosened his nerves: throughout the night, his hands had unexpectedly lingered on your waist longer, betraying the intentions of removing them in a painstaking delay; his glance had flickered down to your lips too many times, despite him checking in with himself and correct it; the crowded club being accomplice, he had danced way closer to you than he should’ve had, closer than friends would do, and he had mischievously invited you to throw your arms behind his neck. Pierre had never felt so next to completely letting go of any restraint and kissing you then and there, freeing years of pent-up desires. And at that exact moment, nausea had hit him, throwing water upon his fire: he had excused himself to you with incoherent mumbles and ran, scattered, in search of the first restroom he could see. Of course, he should’ve imagined you would follow him and enter the bathroom with him, locking the door behind you.

«Do you… do you need help?» you asked, moving an unsure step towards him. Pierre’s thoughts were running wild: he closed his eyes, fighting the sickness and avoiding engraving in his memory your sweet, worried eyes. «No, I just need to calm down, I think.» You got closer to him after seeing him frustratedly passing a hand through his hair, and affectionately cupped his cheek, pained to see his skin pale under the yellowish light of the bathroom. «Do you want me to bring you some water? I’ll come back in a second.» But Pierre, who was melting into your palm pressed against his face, enjoying the touch with eyes still shut, opened them wide with a frown the second the contact was lost: he grabbed your wrist, which was willing to flee from him, and brought it close so that your fingers would linger back upon his cheek, not ready at all to let you go now that he had you so tantalizingly near. «Please, stay here.» he breathed out. The swift hand pulling your waist closer to him almost went unnoticed, since dizziness was beginning to get you as well; however, not a single hint thrown at you that night, and not even the ones he had left in the last three years or so, had ever led you to believe Pierre yearned for something more. After all, he was a highly popular guy, always hanging out with different girls every night, never trying to hide it from you, in fact. Chicks came and went, but you always stayed. And you also stayed as Pierre spitted a strained and husky putain before rapidly closing the gap between you and trapping your parted lips in a kiss. He didn’t leave much room for you to think nor react: Pierre’s tongue had already met yours in a sloppy and fast-paced dance, and your hand, previously brushing the lightest veil of his beard, had already made his way up to his hair, tugging at it, before you could realize what was happening. Pierre’s stare was completely drowned in dark lust and he couldn’t think straight anymore, taken over by the fog of alcohol and your addictive presence. He kept your lips glued to yours, too scared your words would break what Pierre reckoned to be a fantasy, too good to be true; still, even when he was quickly interrupting the kiss to catch breaths or change side and tilt his head the other way round, no protests were raised. Thirsty and urged by drought, he drank his fill from your lips with such an avidity he would take away any resistance hovering in your mind: Pierre’s desire to see your face under the poorly lit restroom won against the feral need of tasting you, failing to take into consideration how the trail of glistening saliva connecting your swollen lips would turn him on even more, combined with your drunk, dazed eyes and your flushed cheeks. His hands couldn’t stop roaming all over your back, gripping your neck to keep you close, then finally finding rest onto your hips. It didn’t take long before they became daring: still placed upon your waist, they slowly slid up, meeting the cotton of your top and slightly rolling it up-

Charles closed the diary with an abrupt thud. Breathing heavily, eyes filled with rage and fear, he stared straight into the void. He had no intention to keep reading that entry. He wouldn’t read other two pages of you and Pierre’s first hookup. First of how many? He had introduced you as one of his dearest friends… But Charles knew Pierre better than anybody else, and it was a fact he had never befriend that deeply any girl. Unless she was his girlfriend. The idea Charles had had you before and lost you, then found you again and now lost you once more, and to his best friend, stirred unknown feelings inside of him he’d rather bury deep.

A buzz broke his trail of thoughts. Caught by surprise, Charles realized you had dropped your phone onto the bed before slipping under the covers and it had sat near his thigh all along without him noticing. Until it started buzzing, of course. Unconsciously, he took the phone in his hand and saw the notifications pop-ups coming from Pierre. “where aare youuu? I can’t find you And Charles is gone as well ? Please text me back” Charles rested his head again the wall, just above the headrest, and sighed. He should answer Pierre’s texts in order for him not to panic about you two disappearing without warning… or ignore him and pretend he had never read anything? In that moment, Charles realized he had overstepped plenty of the boundaries of your privacy, reading through both your diary and your phone. So… why not going all the way in and earn full damnation? Once he was asked to put a passcode, he stared at the number pad waiting for his drunk brain gears to move; digiting his attempt, he hoped you still kept the same passcode you had back in middle school. It’ll never work, he thought. But to Charles’ amazement, it did. Pressing his lips together mentally mocking your laziness and lack of clever choices (overlooking the fact that he was the only one to possibly know your code from middle school times), he quickly tapped the notification and got ready to type an answer. “I brought her back to the hotel and we’ve just fucked, so that’s why she didn’t answer back :) " No, Charles, for freak’s sake. No resentment. No jealousy. No throwing it back in his face. He’s your best mate, after all. “Charles brought me back to the hotel cause I didn’t feel good We wanted to warn you but couldn’t find you” Quite satisfied, Charles reckoned that would be something you’d say. He didn’t even bother checking for Pierre’s replay, definitely willing to miss out on him being love-sickly worried about you, eye rolling at the mere thought. You were still there sleeping quietly, unaware of the emotional mess you had stirred in Charles’ poor heart. He glanced over at you for the last time, then slowly got up, put the diary back in the wardrobe and sneaked out, closing the door as delicate and silent as he could, not to wake the love he had put to sleep.

Charles sat to the small table, his lower calf resting on his other knee, the pointer finger brushing against his lower lip, in wait. He had been asked by the waiter to order a couple of times already, but Charles, as politely as his upset heart could allow him to, had dismissed him and sent him away. Pierre’s lean silhouette casually strolled towards him with that usual, smug smirk adorning his face with an aura that Charles, for the first time after years of hanging out together, behind his Ray Bans, found terribly unsufferable. He tried to study his best friend in search of whatever detail could’ve ever caught you trapped into his arms, and how the man now taking a seat right in front of him could’ve lied to him straight to the face keeping his new relationship away from him.

«So… I’m all ears.» Pierre stated, smiling. «Alright.» Charles didn’t move, watching his every movement. «Can I ask you something first?» the Frenchman interrupted him as he was about to speak up. «Sure.» Charles sighed, tilting his head in a slow, controlled back and forth motion. «You didn’t tell me anything about y/n since you met her. What do you think of her?» The Monegasque couldn’t restrain a snort, looking away and removing his glasses only to fidget them close, before enigmatically staring at Pierre. It wouldn’t take as long as Charles had predicted to get to the main point of the conversation. «Why does my opinion on her matter so much to you?» «Because you’re my best bro?» Pierre nervously chuckled, scratching his nape. He can’t be lying straight to my face so openly, Charles thought. «You know, you could’ve told me right away you wanted me to meet your new girlfriend. You didn’t have to put all this shit up and call her “one of my dearest friends”.»

Charles, still glancing at him, expected to savor Pierre’s astonished reaction, ready to catch him red-handed: so it was only natural for him to be left confused as the Frenchman frankly laughed, hand on his belly. «Mate, I don’t know how you made it up, but this is the most stupid crap I’ve heard in a while.» «Well, the way you two look at each other and are so comfortable with touching and being close gives it off. You aren’t subtle at all.» Pierre frowned, squinting his eyes to read into Charles’ expression. «Well, that’s a pity, because there’s nothing between me and her. And if you really want to know, she also rejected me long time ago.» «If she rejected you, something must’ve happened.» he stated, raising a brow. «We just made out once. I was celebrating for my F1 debut, I drank way too much and I kissed her. But she refused me quite badly.» he smiled at the thought. «What?» Charles stared at him conflicted, not knowing whether to trust Pierre’s version of the story. «She almost pushed me against the wall. I don’t even think she remembers, we were both completely hangover next day and we never talked about it anymore… Because there was no need to.» Charles would’ve liked to say that, in fact, you clearly remembered it, since he had found it in your diary; but knowing that he had skipped the pages which probably contained the rejection made him feel somewhat relieved. Yet, the undeniable closeness he had witnessed with his own eyes still put him in guard. «Still, you’re always PDA… and you also called her your girl.» «Did I? When?» «Literally last time we went out.» «Oh, I don’t remember. Too drunk to know.» Pierre smiled again. «But at this point, I guess there’s something you really would like to tell me about her.» Charles frowned, waiting for him to speak up again. «You act sus the entire night I introduced you both and dodge every conversation I try to have about her, but you still search for her any hour of the day just to give me second-hand embarrassment with you two’s awkward tension…» Pierre smirked to himself, shaking his head in the smallest movements and scrolling through his phone. «Then you use y/n’s phone to send me a drunk text she questions me about, stating it certainly isn’t hers, which kind of hints at the fact you stayed over to her room until…» he paused, then snorted loudly, «3 a.m. Wow.» Pierre put his phone on the table, screen facing downward. «Lastly, you invite me here, act all classy and cold with your Ray Bans, ready to confront me and make me confess my undying love for y/n with this pissed off face,» he pointed at his friend’s expression, «‘cause you’re jealous as fuck and you’re the one in love with her, uh? Good move, Charles. You’re the one who’s not being subtle at all, here.»

The waiter jumped right in at the worst possible moment, but this time Charles thanked his presence and let him interrupt the conversation: he felt spent, let down, somehow sorry for acting childishly. But, most of all, for being put in front of the harsh true: he still loved you. «Do you know all the story already?» Charles asked him, looking down, dejected. «Which story?» Pierre stared at him bamboozled, as Charles did in return. «But- you said I’m in love with her, so you know, right?» «Know what? What are you talking about?» Charles gulped. «That me and y/n have been together.» Charles saw Pierre’s eyes flick wide open, then him covering his mouth, in disbelief; once again staring back at him, completely sucked in by the news, willing to get at the bottom of it. «When she lived in Monaco…» «Yep.»

A short pause was offered by the drinks opportunely served, just in time for processing the information. «Now I understand why she acts weird when you’re around.» the Frenchman hummed, taking a sip. «Why did you breakup though?» «Guess I was too young to be in a serious relationship while also competing in karting.» Pierre glanced at his best friend, almost uncapable of recognizing him: he’d rarely seen him heartbroken and let down as he was, brushing his fingertip against the edge of his glass. «You should’ve invited y/n here instead of me.» Charles sadly smiled. «To say what?» «Exactly what you told me. You should’ve shown her you’re jealous of me and her, so that she knew you still love her. She should’ve seen you care for her as you probably did back then.» «So that she could rip my heart in two saying she doesn’t feel the same anymore?» «So that she could realize she never dated anybody else after you because she still feels something for you.» Charles bore his helpless eyes into Pierre’s, hope and surprise dancing in his irises. «C’mon, Charles, she even rejected me. Nobody has ever turned me down!» «Oh, please, I know that already.» Charles waited a couple of seconds to let the playful comment set before speaking up again. «Anyway, I tried to talk to her. But of course, she doesn’t want to listen, rightfully, and I can’t force her to.» Pierre loudly put down on the table his glass, spitting out a “tsk” of disapproval and disgust. «Where’s the Charles I know? The one who fights his battles until the end without giving up?»

In love, Charles had never had many problems. After you, that is. Loving came easy to him, as much as being loved: Pierre was popular due to his damned-cool boy reputation, but Charles wasn’t less of a dream for girls. He’d see the astonished stares, cheeks burning bright for him only, the small gasps and whispers shared between friends, the trembling voices and shaking fingers handing him the phone, a picture, a felted tip. A power he never used, let alone overused, to his own advantage. Still, he wished he would work with you. He always searched for any positive sign or reaction to his presence, but he never had the chance to spot them clearly. Every time some fans would hand him a bracelet, an instant stab of sorrow and regret seeped through his heart, overlaying memories of your delicate, small hands offering your handmade sign of love. Pierre was right. He couldn’t let you slip away, once again. «You must hurry up, though.» Pierre stood up, one hand stuffed in his jeans’ pocket. «Why?» «She leaves tomorrow. She… she goes back home.» he trailed off his stare. «What?! Why didn’t you tell me?» Charles abruptly stood up to face him, screeching his chair on the floor. «’Cause I didn’t know you cared?» Charles ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration. «Oh, fuck me…» Pierre took his phone out of the pocket and sent a text, under the desperate stare of his best friend. «Okay, she’s in her room now. Go to her.» «W-where?» «She’s staying at my same hotel, room 214. But you know that already from last night.» Charles gaped, uncapable of letting words out. Pierre smiled, patting his shoulder. «You’re welcome. But get to work, okay?»

You knew since the beginning that Pierre’s newly gifted sweatshirts wouldn’t fit your suitcase, so you had warned him not to shower you with merch as he always did: in vain, of course. Hence, you were completely bent over the suitcase, desperately trying to squeeze it with your body weight, in order to close the zip. Huffing and grumbling, about to break the zip due to the excessive might, you halted every movement as a confident knocking on your door startled you. You weren’t expecting anyone; so typical of Pierre to forget stuff in your room and casually pass by… But his knocks would be usually followed by a string of embarrassing pet names, forcing you to open the door immediately. It was unusual for silence to drop right after the knocks.

You got closer to the door, only to jump back hearing insistent thuds against it. Okay, this is more like Pierre. You didn’t wonder further and simply got ready to welcome the sight of your best friend. Apart from the fact that the guy swiftly sneaking inside your room wasn’t him. «W-what are you doing?!» First rage, then fluster hit you: but Charles’ stormy eyes made you weak and helplessly condescending to anything he’d come by to say, as they had always done. «Why are you here?» you asked, your tone softened. Wetted his lips, irises scattered around, purposely avoiding yours, then a firm, determined yet resigned stare. «I read your diary.» «W-wha-» «When I brought you back here from the party, you were drunk. I made it drop by mistake and… and it was right open. I read it. And I also used your phone to answer Pierre’s texts, but you already know this.»

You couldn’t even get mad. As much as you tried to gather fury within you, something about him being vulnerable and fragile before you, frankly confessing the wrongdoings, seemingly heartbroken, couldn’t stir up blame on him. The only thing which made your ears ring and blurred your eyes was black fear. «What… what did you read?» Charles swallowed hard; you followed the movement with your eyes, you almost heard it loud and clear. «Everything.» With a single word, your pride tore apart. You could feel the void it left right beneath your sternum, and you could perceive the prickling tears stinging your eyes. Charles’ brows trembled in sorrow as he watched shame flash through your body, enhancing the shaking of your fingers, the twitching of your lips. «Why did you come here to embarrass me?» Not bearing being that far away from you while simultaneously being the reason you were crying, Charles closed the gap with a step, cupping your cheek with unknown tenderness. «Can you forgive me?» he whispered. You deeply wished he didn’t sound that fragile and loving; you couldn’t bear the pity look he was giving you, not after the brutal ways he had used with you in the past. He was being unnecessarily unfair. Because he probably knew, as you did deep down, that there was no way on earth you could avoid forgiving him.

Charles waited for your answer with his heart on the line, ready to crash in the abyss of despair or hopefully swim in relief, his fingers brushing the dust of time off your precious self, like a rediscovered chest of memories. He shouldn’t have never let you go. «You’re so stupid…» you shook your head and drop it low. «Charles, reading a diary isn’t as bad as-» «No, y/n, that’s not what I meant.» You raised your head up at his words. «Can you forgive me for… leaving you?» Beyond your inner walls, water fell and crashed the dam with its violent flow. He let you hide your face in the crook of his neck, hugging you closer, placing a kiss on your hair, tightening the embrace as your sobs tightened his chest. «Would you trust my love?» he spoke again. A loud sigh erupted from your lips. «I hate you so much…» Charles affectionately leaned his cheek upon your head, rubbing your back in hope to soothe your cries. «I was so naïve and stupid, y/n. I’m so sorry.» he whispered. «You don’t even know how much pain you put me through… I fucking left my hometown, Charles! I moved out…» «I know.» Charles acknowledged, resigned. «No, you don’t! You don’t…» «I never forgave myself for this. You know that?» His honesty showed through the hoarse tone of his voice, which obliged you to look at him, fast enough to see the veils of tears adorning his mesmerizing green, now saddened, eyes. «When my mom told me you had moved out, I thought it couldn’t be real. I waited for you out of school, to bring you back home as we always did, but you were never there.»

You cried harder against his skin, devastated by his shaking voice, and you encircled his neck with your arms to nestle closer. «I kept wearing your bracelet, I couldn’t take it off. It was the only thing I still had of you.» Charles trailed off his gaze and strayed away from the fixed spot he had been staring at, willing to interrupt the unraveling of his raw, way too powerful feelings; then he gently pushed you away the bit he needed to look inside your eyes. «Even if you don’t believe me, I won’t be able to forgive myself until you do. And I might not be able to forgive myself anyway,» he wiped off one of your tears with his thumb, «but I couldn’t add another regret, letting you go without telling you that I still love you.»

Charles felt a weight lifting off his shoulder, relaxing his tensed muscles all at once: he had said the words he had kept stuck in his heart for way too long. He let the hug loosen and moved backwards, now ready to see you leave. «But… if you’re in love with Pierre… I mean, I won’t interfere with you guys. You’re free to love whoever and I honestly can’t blame you, after all I’ve done.» You sadly smiled at his antics, diverging gaze as soon as he had broken the embrace and distancing from you. He had just told you he loved you, but had thrown another topic onto the table so that it would go unnoticed, so that he wouldn’t be hurt in case you didn’t reciprocate. He hadn’t changed, not even a bit. Under the cool and elegant demeanor, you could still see the shy, impulsive and passionate boy you had fallen in love with. «Cha’… You know I can’t choose who to love, right?» Charles’ eyes widened as soon as he saw you stepping towards him, closing the gap once again, lacing your hands around his neck while he held your waist in disbelief, scared you would fade away leaving him with splinters of a dream. «And the proof is that… I can’t help loving you.» «I’d like to say that I’m sorry for you, but…» You both inched over each other’s head, hearts twisting with the renewed novelty of what love felt like. «But there’s no need to be.» you breathed on his lips. The tension pent up through your muscles released all at once, right as you both fell caught inside a kiss: the lock which had sealed you heart for years cracked open at Charles’ key, unleashing the old, affectionate and immature feelings so that you could dress them with the newer and shinier clothes of reconciliation.

Charles couldn’t help a soft moan of frustration while deepening the kiss, his hands failing to keep you as close as he needed, touch-starved. You let him take control, overwhelmed by bliss to the point you simply gave in and relied completely on him; as he worshipped every corner of your beauty, your heart overflowed of unexperienced joy and love. You weren’t in a rush for taking the flight anymore: time was a senseless number uncapable of measuring the moment. Charles delicately laid you on the newly made bed, leaving a trail of feather-like kisses on your collarbones and down to your stomach, lips brushing against your summer dress and eyes desperately sticking onto yours all along. «Tell me you want this as much as I do.» His eyelids shut and his hopeful, breathless voice invited your fingers to pass through his hair, pulling his lips back above yours. «I promise I do.» Scared of opening his eyes and discovering he was having a feverish, heart-rending yet delightful dream, Charles helplessly smiled after resting his forehead upon yours. «Let me love you, then.»

I'm dead sure it's full of mistakes but I'm too tired and happy to be posting that I don't care! Thanks for bearing through everything! And thanks a ton to who leaves notes of feedback, they're so precious and dear to me! ♥ ✧ ˚ · . Wish you a wonderful day . · ˚✧

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akhil-1 · 1 year ago

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thelongestway · 6 days ago

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Me: slowly working on outlining s5. Me: remembers that there's one more really fun social group that TTOU mentioned and cut off before Aspen could talk about them. Me: they survived! they have to be incredibly weird by now! Also they have one of my favorite mechanisms of group reproduction ever, soo... Also me: I need to figure out the Vivacious' new crew complement, and also how Cosmica forms its roster.

You: get this little thing, which is... I'm not sure if the worldbuilding here is actually in its final form, but hey, a sketch is a sketch. Beware of the awful fictional sociology and enjoy. :P

As Above, So Below (Ruby)

I know the group of people I'm supposed to meet immediately, even though I've never seen them before in my life. They've commandeered a table right near the clear glass wall of the observation lounge and are splitting their attention between monitoring the space-side approach to the Courageous and going through the sort of motions people who are going to be in each other's life for a while do when they first meet. Of course it's them. It couldn't be anyone else.

Three out of four in the group are familiar from transit on the Maple Adventurous, so they must have come down from the Asteroids like I did. (Or at least that was their last stop pre-wormhole, I remind myself. Any Hylarans would likely have gone that way for transit, too.) The last one? Judging by the salvia leaves adorning their shoulders, they're from the Perceptive. Hmm. That's a pretty old ship.

They live up to their old cluster name, catching my glance and waving me over. I join the table, making our gathering a five-pointed star, and I can't help but smile to myself. Not a bad personal omen.

"Here for the Vivacious?" I nod, and they press a button on their emergency comm. Mine chimes, receiving data. Oh. If they know my comm, and can match it to my face, they must be our future captain. "I'm Cypress. Used to be the Perceptive's logistics officer. And now, your shipmate."

Right. Not cluster, not yet. Not until the social dynamics shake out and we figure out if we can live with each other and with our new ship. Triune divinity and their singular consort, Arborea Cosmica and its frankly byzantine social praxis is going to get some getting used to. But well, I knew what I signed up for.

I quickly give my communicator a glance, just so I can get everyone's formalities right, and then offer my greeting.

"I'm Rubrum of Blackthorn Base," I say, using the Arborean version of my name. "Ruby's fine, too."

"Mm," Cypress says, smiling sympathetically as he pushes a clean glass towards me. "Everyone, meet our science officer."

"Science!" The shortest member of the crew--Bee of the Aurora Set, our computer technician--kicks up kes feet and grins. "So, what sort of science do you do?"

I flush. But as the captain's gesture implies, I might as well get this over with.

"Sociology."

Everyone stares.

"Taproot and stars," our engineer, Coleus, puts his head in his hands. "The Vivacious did not."

"They did."

"Are you that good?" Bee asks directly, frowning at me.

I shake my head. "This is my second assignment post-doctorate. I didn't even expect to be getting a jump ship position this early, much less as a senior officer on this specific ship. And no, I don't know why exactly they wanted me either. They didn't specify."

Coleus lets out a complicated whistle, which I recognize as the refrain in a popular Hylaran song about the vagaries of fate, and claps me on the shoulder. The logistics officer, Bursten Fields, takes the pitcher on the table and silently pours me a drink. The drink is non-alcoholic, not tonight, but I appreciate his sentiment anyway.

"I'm actually very glad we have a sociologist," Cypress says. "Because judging by the crew manifesto Aspen sent me, we're going to spend a lot of time getting used to each other's cultures."

"Really? Can I see?"

The captain nods and sends me the file.

I skim the roster's sparse data, and… Blackthorn spine and toe of frog, I can see why our captain has questions. Some of them, I might even be ready to answer, because there's at least one obvious thing Aspen did here, and it's actually kind of funny. The initial roster is the most barebones quota sample imaginable, featuring people from different planets, age and social groups, faiths and visible genetic heritages--all the easy things you want to have on hand if you want to see how people we encounter out in the new worlds might react to the makeup of Starwind Accord society in a nutshell. (Even though that sample means fewer people from Arborea Cosmica proper than one might have expected. Only the captain and navigator so far.)

(Also fifteen people isn't anywhere near enough for a proper sample of this type, but the full roster is made together with the initial crew seed, so that's out of their hands. I guess they're hoping we'll bring people in accordance with the initial parameters they've set, or at least close enough.)

But that roster is also missing one obvious and important component, and its lack sends a chill down my spine.

"Let me confirm that," I say, looking at Cypress. "Not a single person from the Courageous cluster."

He nods, looking deeply uncomfortable. I can imagine why. Ships changing form didn't mean they shed their entire cluster. Sure, historically you had some pretty large hivings off, especially when the Great Ships went from ship to station to ship again, because some people strongly preferred one or the other way of life. And one could expect more losses here, considering the deeply unusual decision of deciding to leave the Courageous name and mantle to the station… But the entire cluster? I'd expected us to be half, if not three-fourths, former Courageous crew. Okay, fine, accounting for the quota sample--one or two people at least?

And instead we were all complete strangers. To a new jump ship. This was ludicrous.

What in the empty Cosmos could possibly have happened between Aspen and their family?

Wait, though. Was it their family? I skim the roster again, and yeah. This was even weirder.

"Scratch cluster," I say, taking a swig of my drink. "This looks like there's not a single person from Trellin? And I can't check that for sure, but if I were to guess--probably no one from any ships that routinely run routes to Trellin?"

"Not a single person our ship knows," Bursten murmurs, looking as unsettled as I felt. "What the fuck. Any explanations, science officer?"

Not the captain. Who's a) Arborean and b) has been briefed. Oh, the first few months of this were going to be so fucking stupid, at least until I make enough visible mistakes so that people stop going 'wow, sociologist picked by Aspen themselves'. I'd start doing that now, but it'd be even more stupid if I didn't run the problem by the captain first.

So I say, "All I can do for now is guess, like maybe that Courageous Station is huge and needs all hands on deck to help the new node or something. Though I still can't imagine the Courageous cluster not having anyone to spare for Aspen--that's not how it's done in Arborea Cosmica, right, captain?"

The captain makes a dismissive hand motion.

"Of course not. Normally we would have had someone, but this time the risk was too great."

All four of us stare at him. (Even as I mentally sigh in relief. Sorry for putting you through that, Cypress.)

"What risk?" Bursten asks.

"According to the Courageous' cluster's briefing, there's been complications with Aspen's old synnerve system because they've been keeping track of far too many people for far too long. The plan is to let their new synnerve system recuperate with as few familiar stimuli as possible, and also with as few people in the crew as possible. Which is where we come in."

Suddenly my research begins to make sense in context.

"Quarantine. So that's why we're a skeleton crew of strangers," Coleus furrows his brow, absentmindedly sketching something invisible on the table with the blunt of his spoon. "For how long?"

"It's not a temporary assignment, if that's what you're wondering. Station Commander Bodack called it an exile, so the minimum time frame here is years, and we're going to be very far out in the new worlds besides. Those of us who work out as crew are going to be the seed of a proper new cluster."

Coleus nods, his question answered.

I add, "I can see the logic behind not having anyone from Trellin on the roster now. Aspen's taking no chances. Also, if my specialty's anything to go by, we each probably have some sort of niche expertise that might help here."

"Makes sense!" Bee says, nodding rapidly. "I do a lot of work on ship-human connections, and just before you got here, Coleus was saying he worked on tricky synnerve stuff. So what's your specialty, Ruby?"

"How small can you make a hiving off to still have it be a viable vector of cultural transmission." Of course, I'd never dealt with going from tens of thousands of people to less than a hundred. My case studies were all more in the vicinity of several dozen going to a hive-off of several people, and also in the context of a mainstream culture that was superficially similar to ours, but also confusingly different, which I didn't think was a type of problem we'd have with the new worlds.

"And what does your research say here?"

"That it worries me whether the cutoff they've chosen isn't too harsh. Yes, minimum group size for effective transmission is just six or seven people, if other conditions are right and everything is set up correctly, but Aspen's a node ship, not leading a human hiveoff. Even the prototypal coming-of-age exile allows for communications, and for members of one's cluster visiting. Aspen's project looks a lot harsher at first glance. Either the situation's just that bad, or…" I trail off, looking at my new shipmates.

Bursten scratches his chin. "Or maybe they've got it covered in a different way. The other ship roaming that far out is still going to be the Tenacious, right, captain? And they're the ones in charge of our training?"

Cypress nods. "We'll be working together closely, yes, both during and after the initial months."

That would do it. Ships usually know their shiblings' clusters quite well, but not to the same intimate extent as their own. I feel a weight fall from my shoulders.

"So no big deal," Coleus grins. "Two out of three Great Ships out in the new worlds, and us wet-behind-the-ears astronauts together with them. Are we sure the Waveskimmer isn't planning to set off from Trellin anytime soon either?"

"Two forage, one tends. Also, I know none of you grew up in Arborea Cosmica, but seriously. Don't use that moniker in direct conversation with our ship, or anywhere they can overhear. And never call the Tenacious 'Phoenix' in earshot of her crew. Trust me, you do not want to ride that storm."

Captain Cypress gives Coleus a pointed look, and our engineer throws up his hands in surrender. "I know, I know! Literally every Hylaran knows!"

"And this is why you don't try to make something taboo," I mutter. "Seriously, she should have known better."

Or at least Aspen should have. The Herostratus-Streisand effect is called that for a reason.

Cypress folds his hands, guarded. "She never did. And she never says a word about it. She just doesn't like it, and her crew know that."

The implied "and so should you" hangs heavy around the table. I can see on the captain's face that the gigantic task of acculturating a crew that's almost entirely non-Arborean is beginning to dawn on him, so I don't say anything about how you don't have to actually explicitly try to make something taboo to wind up with the same result. That's the kind of notion that usually takes a year or two of training to really start sinking in, and he doesn't have that, not yet.

I wonder suddenly if Aspen ever had to hold their tongue like I am doing now. Maybe they did know better, but just couldn't do anything about it. Not every social process can be controlled; most need to be ridden out. And if anyone knows about that, it would be Aspen, specializing at the other end of the social scale from me.

Truth be told, that was the reason I'd never done much more than skim their work: I never really understood the fascination of that moment where people become numbers. Aspen as a theorist was mesmerized by the movements of millions of people, while I always worked on localized groups, their small and specific habits, traditions, dilemmas and problems. I wasn't bad with numbers by any means, but really, I couldn't even imagine--and didn't actually want to imagine--the scale they usually worked at. Did they struggle just as much working at mine?

But what was all of Starwind Accord but a small fringe group in comparison to the enormity of the new worlds? And what was our little research ship but a microcosm of even that tiny, localized subset of humanity?

As above, so below, I suppose. And wherever we find ourselves in that ancient equation, we have our work cut out for us.

#the nameless fanfic #ttou #time to orbit unknown #tmbd #horrible crossover thoughts #my writing

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meowmeowmeowmeow4x · 1 year ago

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Dark Blue Moon and the Suffering Sun Chapter 32

MASTAPOST

Samson S. Skulker. Wealthy real estate owner, noted trophy hunter. Been on safaris in Botswana, Indonesia, India, and other countries taking big game. Guy hunted just about everything. Elephants, rhinos, tigers, elk, only to come to Elmerton Bay, just an hour away by boat from Amity Island.

It didn’t take two brain cells to figure out why. The better question was why Phantom tried to point webbed fingers at him as to the whereabouts of Danny Fenton, a move that was transparently (goddammit Dick and your puns) a lie, according to Bruce. Tim Drake slipped into the man’s more private records without even trying.

Of course, getting the data out and parsing what it meant were two very different things. But he wasn’t trained by Batman for nothing. Skulker did make cursory attempts at hiding his electronic paper trail, but cursory was absolutely not enough to keep 13-year-old Tim out, let alone his current self.

Firstly, the man absolutely hunted more exotic, more illegal creatures. That much was clear. Borrowing some of Barbara’s programmes, Tim found the man travelling to much more remote countries. His little vacations coincided with missing persons reports around the same time.

Missing metas, to be exact. Each person with a power set dangerous to themselves and others. Each person having disappeared without a trace and then never to be found again. The picture Tim was building was getting grimmer.

Secondly, the man was buying parts. Robotics parts, to be exact. Engines, weapons systems, hydraulics. Many of them sourced from Vladco, the company founded by Vlad Masters, an old college friend of Jack and Maddie Fenton, who were the parents to the missing teenager of Tim’s current case.

But Danny Fenton did not have the meta-gene, a fact Tim confirmed after yet another concerning breach of privacy. He filed that detail away for later investigating.

Tim pressed a key, letting his programmes run while he got a coffee. Oh sweet delicious coffee. He had once distilled almost pure caffeine into a syrup. It was the most horrible thing he’d tasted in his life, but the buzz kept him up all night, that was until his heart started giving out. That was less enjoyable.

What was also less enjoyable was the revving motorcycle heading into the Batcave. Two motorcycles, in fact. Just as Tim’s afternoon was looking to be peaceful and quiet.

“Don’t fucking give me that, Dickwing!” Jason called out.

“I’m fine, Jay, maybe you need to stop hovering over me like some mama bear.” Dick put down his helmet with maybe a little too much force.

Jason hopped off his own bike. “That’s bullshit and even Timbit knows it.”

Tim shrunk into the Batcomputer’s chair. He so did not want to be a part of this. He just waited for his older brothers to carry their argument out of earshot, like they had been doing regularly now. The men traded strong words with every footstep across the cave.

“Maybe I’m just a little high strung. It’s honestly nothing.”

“You literally cannot fucking say that when I saw you going full-ass Punisher five minutes ago. Like the traffickers yesterday were one thing. Those guys suck. This dude was literally just a mugger. Are you going out of your fucking mind?”

“Jason, I thought you were supposed to be the one who’s all for going full Punisher style?”

Jason groaned loudly, and then transitioned into a frustrated scream. “Do you even hear yourself?!”

The changing room door slammed shut.

That was the second argument in the last two days. If you told Tim that Mr Heads-in-a-Duffle would be lecturing the Golden Child over excessive force, he’d start working on a machine to send you back to the topsy-turvy alternate dimension you’d come from, but apparently his dimension was the topsy-turvy one the whole time. And he hated it.

Turns out Dick inherited more from Bruce than he liked to admit, including his awful coping mechanisms. And to be honest, he was way too tired to even begin to breach this subject.

He should be happy that his literal attempted murderer was going to be out of his hair for a good while, maybe even forever. But even entertaining the thought made him sick enough to avoid the topic in his head for hours, only to think about it again, and get himself sick again.

So back to Skulker it was. Joy.

It turned out his new friend Skulker had made himself a fucking Iron Man rip-off suit, capable of flight, diving, and packed to the gills with fuck-you bazookas, machine guns, and hydroplasm weapons. Hydroplasm guns that he’d sourced from the Fentons themselves, through a long and complicated chain of buyoffs.

And happy day, the man was kind enough to install cameras and microphones, and kept logs from both.

In a surprising twist, it was fiendishly difficult to hack into those logs. Tim was honestly beginning to sweat. He suspected Skulker’s friends at Vladco (namely Vlad Masters, the sleezeball. Tim never liked him at galas and this only cemented his low opinion) had some secrets that they didn’t want out.

No matter, it was only a matter of time. Tim continued typing.

And typing.

What the hell was this firewall?! Tim pinched his arm just to make sure this wasn’t a sleep-deprivation hallucination. He could’ve sworn he’d gotten through that layer of security. It was like it was shifting itself to cover up his progress and force him to start over. Almost like it was alive.

Against the thunderous backdrop of his brothers’ clashing voices, Tim set himself on overdrive. If he could just act faster than it could correct itself, then maybe, maybe.

A plain error message informed him of the results long after he’d already seen them. Tim kicked the table for good measure. The only thing he could extract was two frames of video footage. They showed, respectively, a T-shirt and pair of sneakers that matched what one of the missing metas was wearing when they were last seen.

Was it damning evidence? Absolutely. But it also proved to him absolutely nothing that he wasn’t already suspecting, nothing that could point him in a new direction. Still, it made his stomach churn. He hoped those people would get a better second chance beyond the grave.

Maybe the fact that the data was this well-hidden at all proved something.

The locker room door swung open, his brothers in civvies and glaring at each other, trying to appear civil in front of (right behind) Tim, even though they’d literally just been shouting at each other ten minutes ago.

“Timmy!” Dick called out. “How long have you been awake?”

Tim gestured offhanded to his pile of only two used mugs. “Not long enough. I’m still working. Can you take it upstairs please?”

Jason huffed, and stalked off upstairs without a word, probably too disgusted to be in his and Dick’s presence much longer.

Dick clasped his hands. “It’s fine, Tim. Honestly. Jason and I are just having a little, err, disagreement, is all.”

“Hm.” Tim inputted another set of commands. He was starting to see why Bruce liked to say that now. Avoiding painful emotions felt so good. Dick made a pained noise.

“Well, ok. I’m just gonna head back to Bludhaven now. Say hi to Alfred for me! And contact me if you need anything!” And then he sped off.

Tim shook off the awkwardness like old clothes. Thank goodness for some peace and quiet again. Maybe that was why he was working so hard to help Bruce get the demon child back, so he could return to the status quo, and not this. This hell reality where Dick was as emotionally constipated as Bruce and Jason was the one acting as the voice of reason.

The first night when Bruce called home, the entire family was in an uproar. Dick got a pale look on his face, and was halfway about to take the Batplane and go searching for Damian himself, only for Bruce to remind him that they were all still needed in Gotham and Bludhaven, and whatever few leads there were, Bruce would pursue. It was effortlessly logical, but it was clear Dick hated it. He stormed off in a rage that Tim had only seen when Ethiopia was fresh, when he and Bruce were at their lowest.

And Jason? He got this look on his face that he’d never, ever seen before. Tim had laid awake one night just contemplating it for ages.

Actually, no. He had seen it once before. It was Tim caught Jason looking into what Bruce was doing in the months after Ethiopia. Tim had subtly hacked the phone camera, and the look Jason had then was the same as how he looked when Damian was declared missing.

Tim shook his head. It was a gruesome image, what Bruce had sent them. Damian’s clothes ripped to shreds. The ground stained with his blood. No body in sight.

A little brother who may or may not be dead, something he may or may not be glad or sick to his stomach about. Brothers who were acting like completely different people, and a monster of a man who had to be connected somehow.

A ping appeared in the corner of the screen. The government siren hunting branch appearing in Panama?

Sam Manson sat up in her bed, her body finding some way to release the dread and tension. She looked on at her phone in horror and macabre fascination in equal parts.

This had Danny written all over it. She didn’t even need to hear the anchor confirming it to know.

On the one hand, she really wanted to applaud him for fucking them up this bad. The comment section was ripping into the GiW for their actions in Panama, treating the country like it was some vassal state they could romp around in. She personally screenshotted the fucking beautiful mass car crash the GiW had gotten into trying to catch him, and saved it into her favourites folder.

On the other hand, she really wanted to slap him for fucking up this bad. This could’ve easily gone wrong. Danny what were you thinking?! They could’ve got him that time!

And finally, she wanted to yell in frustration, because they had a radio communicator there. Goddammit! If only Tucker had known, they he could’ve hacked in and they could’ve talked to their best friend and actually got an update on what the fuck was going on.

And finally, finally for real, she was so glad, because the GiW would’ve announced it on every news channel if they’d actually managed to catch him. Thank fucking goodness.

Ugh, this headache. She really needed to lie down again.

Knock, knock knock knock knock, knock knock.

Dread pooled in her stomach. “Come in,” she said, resigned to her fate.

Grandma Ida, the person she least wanted to see right now, opened the door. She was the kind of woman who never carried herself very seriously, except for in matters of sorcery, and especially when warning Sam on the dangers of her craft. Dangers that Sam had ignored in order to go all out. Now she marched into Sam’s bedroom like an executioner.

Grandma stood at the foot of Sam’s bed, scanning her closely. “I knew I smelled tinged blood.” She went up to the side, and palmed Sam’s forehead. Her hand was freezing cold to the touch. “You should’ve called me immediately.”

Sam averted her eyes. She should’ve, but she didn’t.

Her parents never failed to get a rise out of her; she rejected their notions of female beauty and social etiquette in every way, their attempts to hook her up with Tim Drake-Wayne, then Damian Wayne, and she hadn’t cowed to them or submitted since she was ten. But with Grandma’s withering disapproval, she couldn’t feel more like a child if she tried.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered.

“I warned you many times of the risks, Sammy. You’re lucky to be here, and not in the hospital or worse.”

“I know.”

Sam moved to lie on her side, facing away from Granny. Granny had questioned her decision to fight alongside Danny, but allowed it under the condition that she did so safely, and turning your body into a popping water balloon, but with blood, was so not the definition of safe.

And Danny’s fate was still in question regardless. He wasn’t able to cross Panama, and who knows what Damian was doing. What if it was all for naught?

A hand was put on her shoulder. “Did you accomplish what you were set out to do?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

“And was it worth it?” Yes. Absolutely yes. Danny bled every day for this god-forsaken town of ingrates. He’d bled for her mistake six months ago.

Granny seemed to understand her feelings. She nodded, and ruffled Sam’s hair, and the tension in Sam’s body drained away.

“Then I trust your judgement. Can you sit up? I’ve brought some more medicine for you.”

Sam pushed herself against the bunched-up pillows at the headboard. Her head spun from the motion, but she was never one to let her body’s limits confine her. “Thank you, Bubbe. I love you.”

Granny passed her a brew of herbal medicine, dozens of dried spices and mushrooms brewed together into a blackened sludge that felt like knives into your tongue, but which never failed to get her feeling better. It was a leg up from what big pharma tried to pedal for ten-fold the price.

Sam lifted up the mug to her face. And, oh yeah. Nothing like bitter liquid pain to help with a migraine. She let the hot tea flow over her taste buds, pathing them in cinnamon, star anise and a million other things.

She finished her tea in one satisfying gulp, running her tongue over her teeth and scratching out the lingering aftertaste. As she put the mug down, it revealed Grandma’s face hovering right in front of her. Sam yelped in shock. “Bubbe! You gave me a heart attack!”

Bubbe smiled devilishly. “So what did you do?”

Sam’s mouth gaped open. Leave it to her Grandma to almost kill her from emotional whiplash.

“Now come on, this is a monumental moment for a budding young sorceress like yourself. Why, when I was twenty-two, I used to run with some heroic types myself. We had all sorts of hijinks together.” Bubbe cackled and clasped her hands, eyes going wispy. “My friends got a heart attack when I pulled off my own hare-brained scheme to topple the evil overlord of the week’s central command. Hah!”

“What?!” Then Sam coughed, and lowered her volume. “What do you mean ‘heroic types.’ You just told me you went to some stuffy academy and eloped.”

Bubbe shrugged. “I did do that. Must have forgotten the extra stuff.”

Sam blinked.

She moved to sit beside Sam on the bed. “We got up to a lot of fun back in the day, and a lot of pain too. I did what I did to protect those I cared for. Did you, bubbeleh?”

She held Sam’s hand with a look that reminded her just how many years Grandma had lived, and how many adventures or stories she had yet to tell, how much heartache she’d had to endure to become the woman she was now. “I projected an illusion all the way off the coast of Panama. It hurt like nothing else in my entire life, but…” She paused. “We got Phantom out. He’s safe now, I think.”

Grandma Ida nodded solemnly, the kind of understanding that Sam craved from her parents every waking moment of her teenage career.

“I don’t want this to be a regular occurrence, ok?”

“Yes, I promise. This was an extreme circumstance.”

“Good. Now, are you well enough for some meditation? It would do well to keep your soul energy flowing.”

Ok, but you have to tell me what you got up to back in the day.”

Granny chuckled, and agreed to it. Sam kicked off her covers, letting her legs get some fresh air. She was probably pushing it, but she needed to recover as quickly as possible. Who knew when she would be needed again?

Maddie Fenton kneeled in the sand. Her hands clamped down on her gun. Her knees shook. Tears prickled in her goggles.

Her baby was right there. He was so close. So fucking close. She could almost touch him, even now.

And he ran away from her. And at first her heart shattered into a million pieces, just like it had when he’d come home after his first disappearance and flinched when she hugged him.

Then she realised. He was protecting her. Some metal menace was shooting at her defenseless son like it was some kind of sick game. The monster of a man had laid fucking landmines on a public beach.

It should’ve been her protecting him.

Bruce Wayne returned to her side, empty handed. They’d scoured this entire beach. Danny couldn’t have gone far, she had thought, only for their search to turn up with nothing.

That left only one option. That her enemy doubled back after fleeing, and snatched Danny up without either her or Bruce noticing. Maddie’s heart sank. She should’ve aimed for the head.

A name pinged in her mind. Phantom had whispered it to her. Skulker.

With nary but nod, she and Bruce mounted their jet skis again.

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