#Which is extremely out of character because I usually blink at least every ten seconds and “flutter” them when thinking of words to say

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Did anyone else used to lie on their bed or the ground and stare directly into a lightbulb and/or a ceiling fan when they were a kid?

[marypsue]

This isn't exactly a Sneak Peek Sunday, because I'm not planning to finish and post this ever, but I found this thing abandoned in my WIP folder and it made me cackle in several places, so I figured I'd toss it up here so it could maybe make some of you cackle as well.

...

Nobody wants to say it, at first. No respectable news publication or government spokesperson wants to be the first to stand up in front of the world and say, “A wizard did it”.

But a wizard did it.

It’s the only plausible explanation. It couldn’t really be anything other than magic. Or, possibly, extremely advanced genetic engineering on an unimaginably massive scale and inconceivably short timeline. Which is to say, indistinguishable from magic.

The fact that there hadn’t been – or shouldn’t have been – any wizards in the world before it changed in the first place does present a minor dilemma, of course, but that doesn’t change the fact that a wizard did it.

…

In the immediate aftermath, Bree’s ears do that white-noise whine thing that TV shows always use to show a character was standing too close to an explosion. It’s high, insistent, and really friggin’ annoying, so of course it won’t stop. But it does blessedly begin to fade enough that she can also hear the sounds of people, coughing and groaning and pulling themselves up off the floor all around her.

Bree is perfectly content to stay where she is, sprawled out flat on her back on the floor. Floor is good. Floor is friend. Floor won’t betray her by suddenly vanishing out from underneath her like legs did. Floor is more supportive than Bree’s last six boyfriends put together. Bree and floor are perfectly happy together, and Bree’s not going anywhere.

“-ee! Bree! Hey, are you alive?”

Bree blinks, and is mildly surprised to find that the ceiling is still up there. A strand of flyaway brown hair flutters past her eyes, between her and the stylish pendant lights with the full-spectrum bulbs (for better colour accuracy), and Bree watches it waft back and forth in a pleasant daze. The voice repeating her name over and over is almost as annoying as the fading tinnitus, though at least it varies in pitch and rhythm.

“Bree? Hello, earth to Bree? Do you have brain damage or something? Oh my god please don’t have brain damage.”

Bree opens her mouth to say something along the lines of ‘I don’t have brain damage’, but all that comes out is a strangled noise. She sits up, coughing out what feels like a solid plug of crap from her throat, and sneezes, rubbing the heel of one hand across her streaming eyes. Her hand comes away streaked with black, and Bree sighs. It had taken twenty minutes in the bathroom that morning to get the wings on her eyeliner even, and now it’s taken ten seconds to destroy them.

“Ugh,” she pronounces, after some consideration. “Seriously, Les, I’m good -”

There might have been more to that sentence, but Bree will never find out. She’s stopped almost mid-word by the sight of the best friend she has at the Haus of Ergo, and doesn’t really recover in time to hide her reaction. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “Jesus, Lesley, what happened to you?”

Lesley bites her bottom lip, nervously tucking a perfect loose ringlet of almost luminously white hair back behind one ear. An ear that is significantly and noticeably pointier than it had been that morning when Bree and Lesley had got their morning coffees. Also much, much greyer. As in a colour that skin should not be, unless the owner’s very, very ill or very, very deceased.

“Um,” Lesley says, offering Bree an awkward smile. “So do you know that game with, like, the dragons -”

“And the dungeons? Dungeons & Dragons? That one? That what you’re getting at?” Bree demands, too fast. Lesley’s smile gets more and more watery with every word out of Bree’s mouth, and Bree has to force herself to stop, take a breath. “Sorry, babe.”

Lesley’s smile warms slowly back to full amperage, its usual blinding whiteness only emphasized by the dark, purple-grey complexion of the face it’s now set in. Bree isn’t sure if it’s just her imagination, or if it’s also a little sharper of tooth than usual. “No, it’s okay. We’re all a little stressed out.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Bree mutters to herself, gingerly reaching a hand up to touch the back of her head, where she remembers her good friend floor kissing it when she went down. Apparently floor is not quite as good of a friend as she’d thought, judging by the starburst of pain that pulses through her head when her fingers make contact. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” She grins at Lesley. “No brain damage?”

“No brain damage,” Lesley agrees, smiling back. “But uh.”

“Whoah,” Bree says, surveying her surroundings. “I feel like Alice down the rabbit hole. Am I concussed? Are my pupils weird? Why’s everything look so big?”

Lesley rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. The lip is noticeably purpler than the rest of her face, but Bree doesn’t think it’s makeup. And yeah, the teeth are also definitely just a little sharper than normal.

“Uhm,” Lesley says, tugging on one of her curls and letting it bounce back like she always does when she’s nervous.

“It’s because you’re small, short stuff,” Karl’s snide voice says, and Bree tips her head back to see him leaning his crossed arms against the back of her office chair, looking down at her with a faintly amused expression. For a second, Bree can’t spot the difference – he’s let his truly sad man-bun free to hang in limp platinum-blond curtains around his face, and he might have contoured his cheekbones this morning. But then Bree realizes Karl’s got ears to rival Lesley’s, and that’s when it clicks that something truly fucked up is going on.

“Lesley,” Bree says firmly, turning back to her friend and pretending Karl doesn’t exist, which is easier said than done, “what the fuck.”

Lesley shrugs one shoulder with an apologetic expression. Bree follows her line of sight down, down to where Bree’s own feet are stretched out in front of her.

“Oh son of a bitch,” Bree sighs. “I’m a fucking hobbit.”

…

“Technically, actually, I think the term ‘hobbit’ is trademarked by the estate of JRR Tolkien,” Rafe says, in between bites of pistachio ice cream.

“Halfling?” Bree asks.

Rafe shakes his head. “Wizards of the Coast, dumpling.”

“Okay. More importantly: do I look like I give a solitary flying fuck,” Bree asks sweetly. Rafe gives her an assessing look, and she snatches the carton of ice cream from him. “The question was rhetorical, assface.”

“Always so hurtful,” Rafe says, apparently unruffled, sweeping his tail deftly out and snagging the ice cream back out of Bree’s hands. It’s not fair that he’s mastered having a whole new appendage so quickly. Bree’s only shrunk a couple significant inches and she’s still struggling to figure out how it all works. “Always so vulgar. Remind me again why we’re friends.”

“That’s my ice cream you’re eating,” Bree points out.

Rafe shrugs, popping another spoonful into his mouth. The TV behind him blares on, the announcer going over the statistics of who mysteriously changed species that afternoon (pretty much everybody), what happened (probably a wizard did it, though the announcer’s doing a great job of dancing around it), and what happens next (nobody has a clue). Bree ignores it.

“I deserve it,” Rafe says, after swallowing down the mouthful of ice cream. “For the emotional trauma I’ve had to endure.”

“Oh, like you’re the only incredibly stereotypical gay suddenly-a-tiefling in New York,” Bree says, grabbing at the ice cream. Rafe pulls it effortlessly out of her reach, and Bree glares up at him on his perch on the kitchen island.

“No, peanut, the emotional trauma of having to live with you,” Rafe says, before taking pity on Bree and lowering the ice cream into her arms. Bree barely manages to resist the temptation to shove her entire face into it and inhale. “Hey, slow down! Leave some for the rest of us.”

Bree flips him off.

When she finally surfaces, she says, “I think it fucked with my metabolism. Either that, or changing took a lot of calories. I’m frigging starving. I know second breakfast is a meme and everything but I would kill a man in cold blood right now for a good loaded baked potato.”

Rafe raises an eyebrow, but thankfully doesn’t say anything.

“Well, what about you?” Bree challenges, because apparently she’s a masochist.

Rafe hums in the back of his throat, glancing up at the ceiling light as he runs his tongue over his teeth. It strikes Bree again how much pointier they are than before.

“Not a baked potato. Red meat,” he says, at last, consideringly. “I could go for burgers?”

“Oh fuck me yes,” Bree says, and then considers. “Wait, d’you think anywhere would even be open?”

“Not a chance, lovebug,” Rafe says serenely. “Although, who knows? They keep chain restaurants open through every natural disaster imaginable, I’m sure the corporate overlords of the local McD’s don’t give a damn if half their employees suddenly sprouted new limbs.”

“McDonald’s it is, then,” Bree says. “Get your coat, I’m buying.”

“You’re going in your bathrobe?” Rafe asks, and it’s Bree’s turn to raise an eyebrow at him. “Right. If I say one word about your sartorial choices I will wake up without eyebrows.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Bree says. “C’mon, before I start thinking you don’t really need all of that not-so-secret Oreo stash.”

…

There’s a giant troll at the intersection beside the McDonald’s nearest the apartment, smashing up taxis with what looks like an uprooted stop sign. The deafening honking is even worse than usual. Bree and Rafe wait until the troll’s back is turned, then slip past to the restaurant, heading straight for the self-serve order stations.

“Twenty McNuggets,” Bree says, then reconsiders. “Wait, no. Forty. And an extra-large fries.”

Rafe nods, and then says “Ow! Fuck,” as his horns bash against the order station pillar.

There’s an ominous rumble from the troll, and Bree and Rafe both turn to look, but the troll thankfully is still outside, still occupied with the taxis. The noise from outside’s just gotten louder because of the guy who just walked through the door. He’s built like a brick shithouse and dressed like a Medieval Times threw up on a science fiction convention, with an impressive red beard and a huge-ass sword with a dragon on the handle. Bree wonders if that armour’s real tooled leather or just Worbla foam.

He looks surprisingly human. Bree looks and looks, but can’t find anything to indicate otherwise.

“Hail and well met!” the human dude calls, and Bree and Rafe both stare at him. The door shuts behind him, with a little hiss of displaced air and a sad jangle of chimes. His brilliant smile slips a notch or two, but he recovers quickly. He seems to be one of those people who’re just naturally irrepressible. Bree hopes his armour’s not Worbla; it won’t do him much good if he gets into it with that troll, and she has an overwhelming feeling that he’s going to. “I have travelled far, and I am in need of sustenance!”

“Yeah, hi, welcome to McDonald’s,” the server behind the counter says, poking her head around from the kitchen. The enormous tusks jutting up from her lower lip seem to be giving her some trouble, but she valiantly tries to sound impossibly bored anyway. “What can I getchu?”

“A flagon of wine and your finest sausage, please!” the human dude pronounces.

Rafe nudges Bree with his elbow and mutters, “Is this guy for real?” Bree shrugs, and Rafe sighs. “Buddy, read the fuckin’ room.”

“Yeah, we don’t got wine,” the customer service orc drones, not looking up from the register. “Pepsi okay?”

The human dude looks, for the first time, like he’s a little out of his depth. Finally, he takes a tentative step forward. “May I sample this…Pepsi?”

The customer service orc looks him up and down.

“Tell you what,” she says, finally, clearly taking pity on him. “I’ll ring you up for a fountain drink, you give it a try, if you hate it you can get water instead.”

“That sounds amenable!” the human dude booms, perking right back up again. Bree honestly can’t believe his energy.

“Wow, when you commit to the bit, you really commit, don’tcha?” the customer service orc says, with a glance over at Bree and Rafe. Bree recognizes the please-tell-me-you’re-seeing-this-too look instantly. Rafe just shrugs, and the human dude only frowns like he’s confused, so the orc shakes her head and turns back to the register. “And we don’t have hot dogs. You wanna build a burger, or…”

The human dude suddenly looks so lost and utterly forlorn that Bree can’t handle it. “Man, just get a Big Mac,” she says. When the guy looks even more confused, she says, “It’s…fried ground beef on a bun. Trust me, you’ll love it.” Maybe she’s just playing right into his stupid bit, but this conversation is agonizing and if she doesn’t get her chicken nuggets in the next thirty seconds, cannibalism is seriously going on the table.

Although, does it still count as cannibalism if you’re no longer the same species? How do they define cannibalism in fantasy worlds with lots of sapient races, anyway? If it can say, “Don’t eat me!”, you shouldn’t eat it? Does that apply to parrots? What would a parrot even taste like? Would parrot nuggets taste good? Right now, Bree is just about ready and willing to find out.

“Big Mac it is,” the orc sighs, tapping the little touchscreen on the register. Bree hears a crack, and the orc slams her forehead down on the counter with a sudden and unexpected bang that makes Bree jump. “Oh god damn it! That’s the third till today!”

“I’ll pay for any damages,” the human dude says, a little too quickly, like he’s used to having to offer to pay for damages. Bree catches herself wondering what his deal is, and slams down on that like a ton of bricks. She wants no part of this circus and nothing to do with its clown.

The guy reaches down to his belt, unclips a beautifully-tooled little leather pouch, and opens it up to reveal a clattering handful of bright gold coins. “Do you accept draneiri, or…?”

The customer service orc looks from the human dude’s bag of literal gold, to the busted screen of the register, back to the human dude’s bag of literal gold. Then she buries her face in her hands and leans her elbows against the counter and just stands there like that for what feels like a very long time.

When she finally surfaces, the first thing she says is, “Are you planning on paying for your meal with that, too?”

The human dude’s smile dips another few notches. “Ye…s?”

The orc’s face goes straight back into her hands.

“Look, I got this guy’s meal,” Bree says, stepping forward. “And the chicken nuggets. I agree that this day has been irredeemably bullshit, but please, before you go into the back and have a well-earned nervous breakdown, please can I just get my dank nugs. And then we will get out of your hair. Pinky swear. Thanks.”

The customer service orc slowly straightens up, running both hands over the hairnet holding back her long, dark ponytail. She looks down (very far down) at Bree, and asks, “Are you two friends or something?”

“I just want my chicken nuggets,” Bree repeats. “Everything that has happened here has been an impediment to getting my chicken nuggets. I only wish to remove said impediments so that I may obtain my chicken nuggets. Do you need a minute? Because I’ll come back there and make them myself, if you want. I’m not heartless, I am just very, very hungry.”

Both the orc and the human dude stare at her. Bree’s pretty sure Rafe is also giving her a Look. None of them seem particularly impressed, or like they intend to do anything about feeding Bree anytime soon.

She pulls out her credit card, and gives it a little wave through the air, before setting it down on the counter.

“Please,” she repeats, and adds, “Thank you,” as an afterthought.

“Thank you,” the human dude says, very seriously, meeting Bree’s eyes and resting a hand on her shoulder. Bree edges backwards. “For your kindness and selfless assistance, you have earned my gratitude, and the eternal friendship of Valentine Cross.”

Bree points at him, opens her mouth, looks over at Rafe, finds no help from that quarter, shuts her mouth, looks back to the human dude, who still hasn’t taken his eyes off her face. “Valentine Cross? Is – is that – you?”

The human dude – Valentine Cross? Really? Like, really? – stares at her. “Yes?” he says, like it should be obvious.

The orc takes Bree’s card and swipes it without a word.

…

“You totally got grifted,” Rafe says, as they leave the McDonald’s, Bree’s arms full with the big warm brown paper bag full of chicken nuggets. She’s already eaten her way through ten of them. Should’ve ordered sixty.

“Read my lips, Rafe, I don’t fucking care,” Bree says, and shoves another nugget into her mouth. She looks left, then right, for cars or the troll, swallows the masticated chicken lump, and adds, “It cost me five extra bucks to get my damn nuggets in my facehole. And that guy got fed. If that’s a grift, that’s a pretty sad grift.”

Rafe glances up the street, along the trail of destruction the troll’s left in its wake. It seems to have settled in at the next intersection, and is gleefully bashing in a billboard advertising a new smartphone. It’s kind of weird, now, to see so many huge images of human people overhead shilling for various products, and then look down and see…people who really don’t look like that anymore everywhere. There’s probably some kind of metaphor in that, but Bree has a sneaking suspicion that it might be kinda racist, so she leaves the thought where it lies, half-formed.

“Oh, no,” she sighs, and Rafe turns to look, just as Totally-A-Normal-Human-Pinky-Swear Valentine Cross’ shiny dragon-sword catches the light as he raises it to strike the troll. “I can’t watch this. It’s gonna be like those YouTube videos of cute fluffy stuffed toys being put in a pressure vise.”

“How did he get over there so fast?” Rafe muses aloud. “Big guy like that, he’s pretty light on his feet.” He narrows his eyes, thoughtfully. “Gotta be pretty agile…”

“Can you please thirst over someone normal for once.”

“Sweetheart, look around you. This is as close as I am ever going to get to someone normal, ever again. You should just be grateful I’m not ogling the troll.”

Bree looks sharply over at Rafe. “Are you ogling the troll?”

Rafe sighs. “Ah, ye of little faith. No, peanut. I am not ogling the troll. Come on, though, let’s get back before it turns your new best friend for life into a sticky red smear on the pavement.”

But it doesn’t. Bree looks back, just once, over her shoulder, because morbid curiousity gets the best of her and also hope springs eternal. The troll does not seem to have smashed would-be hero Valentine Cross into a million tiny pieces yet, though would-be hero Valentine Cross appears to be getting a run for his money. They go back and forth and back and forth until Valentine’s sword chops the stop sign in half. Then it turns into a wrestling match, and then Bree and Rafe turn the corner and Bree can’t see any more.

She kind of vaguely hopes Valentine doesn’t die. Not only would that suck, but it’d be a waste of her five bucks. And a good eternal gratitude. Those aren’t easy to come by these days.

…

The Haus is one of those businesses that could afford – in every sense of the word – to take a few days and let its employees adjust to their new physical realities before coming back to work. So, of course, it doesn’t. Oh, Marina Ergo herself goes into seclusion and doesn’t reappear, but Karl makes it abundantly clear by email that she fully expects everybody else to come to work and create fabulous sartorial creations she can slap her name on.

Sometimes, Bree really hates her job.

She hates it even more when she walks in and discovers that now, instead of a foot taller than she is and twenty pounds lighter, they’re all two feet taller than she is and fifty pounds lighter. Oh, and sporting ethereally beautiful features and pointy ears.

She damn near turns right back around and walks out. None of her clothes fit anymore, everything’s too tall for her to reach, she thought her colleagues made her feel insecure before, and also Karl is here. All she’s doing anyway is the graphic design for the fall/winter lookbook, and that she could have worked on from home. There is literally no good reason for her to be here right now.

Then Lesley catches Bree’s eye from across the room, shooting her a relieved smile and a wave. Bree sighs, squares her shoulders, and forces herself to walk the gauntlet over to Lesley’s drafting table.

“Bree! Oh my gosh, I’m so glad you’re here,” Lesley sighs, and then does a double-take. “Is that your bathrobe?”

“It is in fact a kimono,” Bree grumbles. Okay, so it is a bathrobe. But the fabric is a really pretty embroidered satin, and it was cropped before, which means it isn’t dragging on the ground as she walks. And it wraps at the waist. Bree wasn’t exaggerating when she said none of her clothes fit.

It’s not even exactly like she’s just gained weight. More like what there already was of her kind of got…squashed. All her proportions are different. And she’d looked wistfully at her shoe rack before heading out, but there appears to be nothing to be done about the feet.

Lesley grimaces in sympathy. “Ugh. Yeah. All my skirts are too short now. And my pants are all crop pants.”

“You’re making it work though,” Bree says, trying not to let the green leak into her eyes as she takes in Lesley’s tight cropped jeggings, floral-print stilettos, and white peasant blouse.

“Nothing compliments a complexion that’s grey,” Lesley complains, flicking a lock of spider-silk hair with a mournful look. “I don’t know if I’m even gonna be able to get a new foundation, unless I go to a costume shop, and my colour’s so uneven. And my hair’s gone so fine, it won’t even hold a curl.”

She lowers her voice, looking around before trying to crouch down to Bree’s new height without being obvious about it, which produces a kind of gymnastics that Bree watches with silent amusement. “And Karl’s having a field day. He’s being an even bigger douche than usual -”

“So that’s why you’re glad to see me? I make a more obvious target?” Bree grins, to show she means it as a joke, but Lesley still looks hurt. “Chill, Les, I know you’re too nice to let the thought cross your mind. What’re you working on?”

“I wish you wouldn’t put yourself down,” Lesley says, as Bree turns her attention to the cutting table to avoid meeting Lesley’s eyes. “But I really wish you wouldn’t cast me as the villain to do it. I think we’re friends. I hope you do too.”

Bree doesn’t have anything to say to that.

…

Karl is, as Lesley said, being an even bigger douche than usual. By the time lunchtime rolls around, Bree is in desperate need of a break.

“Let’s go get food,” she suggests to Lesley, who lets out a long, heartfelt sigh.

“Thought you’d never ask,” she says, grabbing her bag from the hanger by her drafting table. “What d’you want?”

Bree considers.

“I don’t really care what it is, so long as there’s lots of it,” she says, finally. “You got a preference?”

“I dunno,” Lesley says, a thoughtful frown creasing her perfect brow. “I’m kind of really feelin’ mushrooms.”

“Oooh,” Bree says, visions of garlic butter already dancing in her head. “Yes.”

“How about that – one vegan place?” Lesley suggests, and Bree makes a face.

“Yeah, but the next bus isn’t for fifteen minutes. Are you sure we’ll have time?”

Lesley flashes a brilliant, sharp-toothed grin. “No, it’s okay. We can take the train.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah, that’s how I got here this morning.” The wattage of Lesley’s grin cranks up a few kilojoules. Or is Bree thinking of amperage? Lesley’s smile gets brighter, anyway. “No more claustrophobia! Actually, the dark underground tunnels were kind of nice.”

“Okay,” Bree says. “We take the train.”

…

“Okay, this is kinda nice,” Bree admits, looking out at the lights flickering past through the otherwise absolute blackness of the tunnel. “Very chill. Little bit cozy, even.”

“Right?” Lesley says. “Like, I think this is how I’m going to get around the city from now on. And it’s so convenient. I’ve been missing out.”

She starts to say something else, but she’s interrupted when a jarring thump shakes the train car. The lights flicker, the car jolting forward and nearly throwing both Bree and Lesley to the ground.

“What the -” Bree starts, and the car jerks to a lurching halt, all the lights going out and plunging the entire car into darkness.

There’s a general rustle and mutter around the car, people shifting in their seats and collecting things that had been thrown around when the car had decided to become a mechanical bucking bronco. They stand – or, in Bree’s case, sit because they can’t reach the hang-straps anymore – in the dark for a handful of heartbeats, before the dim red glow of the emergency lighting kicks in.

“What the fuck,” Bree grumbles. “Oh, it had better not be another troll -”

Lesley sucks in a sharp breath, her pale, silvery eyes almost seeming to shine in the dim light as she stares over Bree’s head, out the window. Bree follows her gaze. All she can see is – maybe a faint blur of motion out in the dark.

[moon-in-daylight]

Night Watch / Davos x reader

Summary: Waking up in the middle of the night, you notice that Davos is gone.

Words: 2.7k

Warnings: Smut implied

A/N: So, I’ve been rewatching Davos’ scenes and I felt the need to write something for him even though it’s garbage lol  because he deserves to be loved and accepted and also because we need more Davos’ fics

Still half asleep, you rolled on your side just to find that the other half of the bed was empty.

It took more than a few seconds for you to be startled by it, though. It wasn’t a strange thing after all, you were far more than accustomed to sleeping alone in that enormous and lonely bed night after night… But as your numbed brain tried to remember the circumstances in which you had fallen asleep, you found that something - or rather someone - was missing.

Davos.

Thinking about him immediately made you open your eyes and sit up to inspect the room with worry. Even though it was still dark you had to blink a few times to adjust your eyes, squinting them involuntarily when you tried to look at the blinding screen of your phone. It was 3:24 am and there was no sign of another person being there with you, at least none that your barely conscious state could perceive.

Your first reaction was to think that you had dreamt it all. It was the most logical, plausible explanation. It wouldn’t have been the first time that your subconscious made you think of Davos like that.

You didn’t feel proud of it, but from time to time you couldn’t help but fantasize about him.

Sometimes, when you two were together and he was telling you some anecdote about K’un-Lun and his early life, your mind involuntarily focused on the movement of his mouth instead of on whatever story he was sharing with you. And while contemplating his lips, you usually found yourself daydreaming about kissing them, feeling them against your skin as you pictured the way his hands would roam through your body. Imagining how he would eagerly remove every piece of clothing and the way his skin would feel against yours, how sweet his moans would sound in your ears as he thrusted slowly but deeply into you…

You were usually quick to snap out of those fantasies, but even if you had only been distracted for a few seconds, you weren’t able to quiet the embarrassment that took over you after imagining him that way. You barely could look at him in the eye after having your attention drifted away by those thoughts.

The friendship you shared was vital for the both of you and you didn’t want to ruin it with unrequited feelings.

You had met after he had escaped prison and, since the first moment after he had rescued you from being mugged, you felt safe with him. The tranquility you felt while being with him was such that you even offered him to stay at your place when he casually mentioned he was running away from justice. It was a risky decision to let a stranger into your apartment that easily, especially when he was a convicted criminal that chattered all kinds of nonsense about dragons and rightfulness, but you could see his intentions were good. There was something in you that trusted him blindly, even when you were convinced that the things he talked about didn’t exist.

It wasn’t until you observed with your very own eyes the way he made his fist glow a bright red during one of his training sessions that you realized that everything he talked about was real.

Hearing his story and how his home had been destroyed, you were quick to position yourself by his side. You knew he had done some bad things, but he was good at heart and you tried to help him see where he had gotten wrong. Surprisingly, he seemed to listen to you and care about what you had to say. It was clear he cared about you too, worrying whenever he saw you weren’t feeling good or taking care of you when you were ill.

It was heartwarming the way you supported one another despite your radically different backgrounds, the way you helped each other improve and see the world from another point of view. It didn’t take long for Davos to become one of the most important people in your life.

Finding out about each other issues and going through them together had been extremely helpful for you both. To talk about them and listen to each other’s advice when you didn’t know what to do. Davos had been through a lot of abuse during his life, and you liked to think that he had finally found in you someone to rely on, just as you had in him.

As he taught you to meditate and control your anxiety, you tried to make him see that he was a person worthy of dignity and affection, not ‘the second best’ as he had been told after losing the Iron Fist to Danny Rand back in K’un-Lun…

It wasn’t easy to erase the toll that years of constant abuse had left, but you had made so much progress while being together… You feared that you would be throwing it all away if he ever found out about your little fantasies. You didn’t want him to know what you felt for him because the last thing you wanted was to make him uncomfortable, especially because you knew how he had been raised and what he thought of sex. And, of course, he had told you how violent his only ‘sexual experience’ had been like…

But the images of him being all over you still creeped into your dreams from time to time, and your half-awaken, dazed-self supposed that was exactly what was happening that night.

Yet, as you slowly roused, you found that the sensations that your mind recreated were too intense to be fictional this time. In fact, you almost could feel as if his touch still lingered on your skin, the phantom feeling of hot, gentle kisses remaining on your neck and collarbone. That was when your mind finally cleared up and you realized it had actually happened.

You had slept with Davos.

Your mind slowly went through the events of that late evening, remembering that you had had dinner together and that you had watched a film in your couch afterwards.

It was normal that he didn’t get most of the inside jokes and implications of American culture in movies considering he had been living in a monastery most of his life, so you always enjoyed sitting in front of the TV with him and explaining every cultural reference that confused him. But that night he hadn’t asked you a single question, nor showed any of his usual discomfort towards the disgraceful and reproachable way in which the characters acted.

Not giving his silence a second thought, you quietly watched the movie until a sex scene appeared.

Looking at your friend from the corner of your eye, you watched him squirm uncomfortably on his sit, the images probably taking him back to the humiliating moment of his ‘sacrifice’, as he usually referred to that unfortunate event.

“We can fast forward this part.” You were quick to grab the remote and skip the frames until a different scene appeared on the screen.

“Have you been practicing lately?” He asked, unprompted. It took you a moment to realize he was actually talking about the Kung Fu lessons he had been imparting you.

As soon as you shook your head, he encouraged you to leave the movie half way through and go over some of the movements he had already taught you in previous training sessions. Truth was you weren’t really into what you were watching anyway, and you supposed it was too awkward for him to keep watching it. Since you had been the one to ask him to teach you how to fight, you willingly got up from the couch and started to show him the little progress you had made.

He didn’t let you finish showing him, though, as he immediately started to point out the flaws in your inexperienced technique, correcting your posture and reminding you to breathe properly to channel your Chi into your every move.

Davos was a harsh professor and he wouldn’t forgive a single mistake from you, telling you that you couldn’t afford to commit any error in battle, as your enemy wouldn’t miss a chance of exploiting your weaknesses. As demanding as he was, you knew that he was being especially tender and easy going with you, at least by his standards. It broke your heart to think about the strict way he had been trained and raised, how severe they had been with him when he was only a child.

Following his instructions, you started to throw punches and kicks at him, attacks that he easily blocked without breaking a sweat. You were definitely glad that you didn’t have to actually fight against him, being well aware that he would be able to end you in the span of ten seconds, maybe even less.

“You have to hit stronger.” His voice commanded you. “Faster.”

You did as you were told and increased the effort put in the fight, but immediately stopped the second he didn’t avoid your punch and your fist impacted against his chest.

“Don’t stand still.” He grabbed your hand and pushed it away. “Now you got it, come on.”

Without saying a single word, you resumed your offensive with the same intensity of that last punch. Unluckily for you, Davos seemed to be more alert now, anticipating each and every one of your movements before you even knew you were going to make them. With a few swift motions, he easily overpowered you, immobilized both of your arms and pinned you against the wall.

You tried to steady your breathing as you did your best to ignore what his proximity was arousing inside of you. Waiting for him to release you for another round, you found yourself growing more and more tense when he simply stared at you in silence, uncomfortably swallowing the lump in your throat when his grip on you didn’t loosen up.

The images of every time you had dreamt about him clouded your mind without you being able to do anything to ignore them, the growing heat between your legs becoming more unbearable with every second his deep brown eyes kept fixed on you. You closed your eyes in hopes that you could distract yourself, think of anything other than the man standing in front of you. But every attempt at doing so immediately failed when you felt the warmth of his lips pressing against yours.

Getting out of your thoughts, you rubbed your eyes as you recalled everything that had happened from that moment. The last thing you remembered the feeling of utter peace and tranquility that invaded you as you fell asleep in his arms.

That calm was completely erased from you now that you realized that he had left in the middle of the night, without saying goodbye or at least leaving a note.

Your heart raced as you mentally slapped yourself for having allowed that to happen.

How could you be so stupid? It was true that it had been him the one to take the first step by kissing you, but you should have known better. You should have figured that he would only disobey his moral code like that in a moment of weakness, a weakness that you had unconsciously taken advantage of. Now he probably had regretted everything and had ran away not wanting to see you or hear from you again.

You feared that your friendship was ruined beyond repair.

Maybe if you called Davos in the morning and talked about what had happened you could still sort it all out. You didn’t want to lose him, to have him walk out of your life just because you had gotten carried away in a moment of lust…

Deep down you knew what you felt for him extended far beyond simple lust, but you were willing to ignore those feelings, to act as if they weren’t there for the sake of keeping him by your side.

You buried your head in the pillow in an attempt to hold back the tears that already started to form inside your eyes, an intense ache inside your chest forming at the thought of having messed up so badly with Davos. He was the person you cared for the most and thinking that you may have caused him any wrong made you feel a profound disappointment on yourself.

It wasn’t until you felt an arm surrounding your waist and a slight shifting on the other side of the bed that you lifted your head, finding Davos laying down next to you again.

“Where were you?” Your voice was a bit husky from having just waken up a few minutes ago. You wanted to lay your head on his chest, but didn’t in case it would make him uncomfortable.

“I was checking the perimeter.” He said, as if it was the most natural thing to do at 3:00 am. “Did I wake you?”

You carefully shook your head as you avoided looking into his eyes.

Judging by the calm tone in which he spoke, you could tell that he wasn’t angry and you felt slightly stupid for having panicked and jumped into the conclusion that he had abandoned you so fast. Still, things weren’t solved up yet. As you finally looked up at him, you wondered in which state was your relationship at.

Davos had been taught that a living weapon should not get involved sexually or emotionally with anyone. And, even if you always tried to convince him that he was a person before a warrior, you weren’t sure he actually believed your words. You weren’t even sure he had ever even considered having a romantic relationship before that evening, but looking at the way he lovingly stared at you, it almost seemed as if he wanted you too.

“What would you check the perimeter for?” You asked in confusion. Was he in danger? Had Danny found him and wanted to bring him to justice? You started to become preoccupied as you thought of all the worse scenarios.

“I do it every night. This neighborhood is full of thugs and criminals, like the one trying to mug you when we first met.” He clarified, gaining a frown from you that silently asked him to explain further. You only hoped he hadn’t gone back to being a ‘vigilante’, it had taken you a lot of effort to talk him out of it. “By making guard I can make sure you’re safe.”

Instantly after hearing his words you felt your heart warming up, moved by the fact that he cared about you to the point of watching over you every night. Hesitantly, you got closer to him and taking the fact that he didn’t pulled back as a silent sign of consent, you placed a tender kiss on his lips.

“Thank you for taking care of me, but you don’t need to make guard every night.” You gently brushed your fingers against his stubble, your eyes on his as you spoke softly. “You need to take care of yourself and get a full night of sleep. Would you do that for me?”

The second he slowly nodded his head a gentle smile formed on your face. You pressed your lips against his once more before cuddling beside him, letting your head rest on his shoulder.

The calming sound of his breathing was enough to quickly made you sleepy again.

“Davos,” You mumbled his name with your eyes closed, feeling consciousness slowly fading from you. “I love you.”

You were too numbed to notice, but Davos’ body clenched at your words. You didn’t know, but it was the first time someone ever dedicated those words to him. He had fought all his life to get approval, travelled to the other side of the world to make the ones he loved proud, hoping they would show him the affection he had always craved for. When K’un-Lun was destroyed, he lost all hope of having someone say those words to him, of gaining someone’s love. And yet, there you were, right between his arms.

You were already asleep when he pressed a kiss on your forehead.

“I love you too.”

[imaginesmai]

Taron Egerton - Hypothetically

This is my first Taron Egerton fic, I hope you like it!! This is for the bunch of people who have been requesting me to do something about Taron. Most of them were anon and requested some alphabets. I don’t think I can do that about him, becuase that’s what I find most difficult.

Plot: you find something that you didn’t mean to in Taron’s tablet, and you wish it had been porn.

It started accidentally. You were working and needed to look something up, but your computer was maxed out running a new program, so you picked up Taron’s tablet which he had left on the table. He had never been particularly previous about keeping his stuff to himself – in fact, he had configured your fingerprints to let you in – so you helped yourself without asking and opened his browser.

A white with golden ornaments webpage greeted you. It took you a while to understand what was it about, because it was early in the morning and because you didn’t read what the website was about. Once you squinted your eyes and looked thoughtfully at the title, you almost passed out.

Taron had been reading about weddings. Specifically, top ten places to have a wedding and impress your girlfriend.  

Eyes widening, you dropped the device on the table with a clatter. Hearing Taron bustling in the small kitchen of your cute vintage aparment, you shoved it back in place awkwardly, and forced your eyes back to your own flickering screen. Suddenly, friction coefficients didn’t seem so important.

“Y/N?”

You jumped out of your skin and turned to see him sticking his head around the door. The sight would have been funny if you weren’t so nervous; he was wearing a hairnet and a glittering apron. He gave you a slightly concerned frown.

“Are you… alright?”

“Yeah! Fine, thanks. Sorry, just… working” you chuckled, pressing random keys on the computer. “I was just concentrating”

“I bet it’s on something really smart” he teased, and you gave him your most real smile. “Sorry for startling you”

“No, it’s okay. Fine. I’m fine!” your voice sounded unnaturally high-pitched even for you.

Taron’s concern didn’t seem to entirely abate, extremely reasonably given your babbling, so he stepped closer and dropped a gentle hand on your shoulder. Despite everything, something about him was always so perfectly solid, comforting and safe that you found yourself breathing almost normally again.

You turned up to him and smiled; not even that forced. Taron liked to get into his characters in the most strange ways, so maybe he had just been looking it up for his new film. You repeated that to yourself at least twenty times in your head, while he massaged your shoulder in a gentle way. There was no way you had just discovered him looking up ideas for your weeding.

“I’m okay, really” you assured him. You gripped his wrist with your hand and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “Just a bit stressed over the project”

“The astrophysics one?”

You had been working on a new project for college for a few months, wanting to be as perfect as possible. It was your last work before graduating on your master, and if everything went well, you would be able to get a real job in a few weeks. Taron had been very helpful on the way, taking care of you when you forgot and being there in every moment.

Nodding, you looked back to the screen.

“It’s almost over, just a few more details”

“You’re gonna do amazing” he bent down and kissed your cheek. “And I’m gonna brag so hard about my physic girlfriend”

Girlfriend. Not wife, or at least not yet. Muttering a quick ‘love you’, Taron turned back to the kitchen; and you gave the forgotten tablet a side glance, checking that it hadn’t been all a dream.

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

“Okay, what is with you?” Betty, your best friend, demanded the next day. “I’ve just told you three times what happened last night with Brian, and you still have to give the talk about going back with my ex. And I don’t buy that you suddenly like him. ”

You shook your head and finally looked over your friend. She was visiting you for a few hours, and was updating you from life back at home while you two had coffee in a beautiful café you found when you arrived. Betty lived back home, working in a supermarket, while you had to travel away to be with Taron. So it was a rare occasion, to see both of you together, and you were completely wasting it because you couldn’t stop thinking about the tablet.

You sighed, and tried to remember what she was talking about as you looked down to your coffee. It had a weird shape made on the top – and it wasn’t as if you only though about it, but it looked like a ring to you.

“He’s an asshole, I don’t know why you go out with him. But I love you anyway” you repeated like a mantra. Everytime you met, Betty had gone back to his ex-boyfriend, a boy who didn’t deserve her, so you thought it wouldn’t be very hard to keep the conversation going.

It didn’t go that well.

“I’ve just told you that I’ve blocked him, so I’m gonna assume you haven’t heard an inch of what I’ve said” she rubbed a tired hand over the bridge of her nose, and finally looked at you with a raised brow. “All right, what has he done now?”

You blinked at Betty. It was disingenuous to pretend you didn’t know who ‘he’ was meant to be, but you found her easy perception disconcerting.

“Nothing!” you shook your hand, and sighed, because lying to a spy would be as useful as watering an artificial plant. “Not really – I just, borrowed his table and accidentally saw some of his browsing history.”

Betty’s eyebrows rose higher than you thought possible, and you sighed. She wasn’t the person you wanted to talk about that; actually, you didn’t want to talk about it to anyone. But you had the impression that if you didn’t you would just explode. Before you had time to explain, Betty talked.

“Looking at porn is normal in –“

“Not that!” you interrupted her. “He was reading stuff… about weddings. And I know it’s probably nothing and just some background reading for his new movie – although I thought it was about spies. But I was kinda shocked? And for some reason my brain won’t shut off and keeps thinking about it.”

Betty snorted with laughter and then just kept laughing. You grumbled and turned back to your coffee, blush on your cheeks.

“Your life is turning into the worst sort of romantic comedy” she laughed. “Come on, what did you expect? We’re talking about Taron! The boy asked you to move in the third month of your relationship! What will be the next chapter? Kids? Retirement plans? I bet he has – “

“Shut up” you mumbled.

It was true that your relationship with the actor had been… rushed. You had met him through a mutual friend, and within the first month of talking, he had already invited you on a date. He was perfect in every way you could imagine; attentive, funny, handsome, gentle and affectionate. He always put you first when it came to decisions, and you were sure he would drop everything if he asked you to do so.

Thoughts about Taron plagued your mind and you smiled sheepishly.

“Then ask him” Betty shrugged, taking a sip of her coffee. “If you’re not worried about spoiling the surprise, of course”

“But it has been merely a year!” voicing out your concerns didn’t make you feel any better.

“So? My mom proposed to my dad three months after they started dating”

“Aren’t your parents divorced?”

“And not in talking terms”

You buried your face in your arms and closed your eyes tightly. It seemed, like it wasn’t going to be an easy task. Betty’s phone rang and you didn’t have to look to know it was Brian. You didn’t bother in looking up or saying goodbye, just heard her hurried steps as she left the place to talk to him.

You had more than enough with your problems.

-

You decided to ask him that evening.

You had always prided yourself in being a practical kind of person, and not someone who made assumptions based on guesswork and lack of evidence. Also, you didn’t think you could stand a surprise proposal without fainting on the spot.

Closing the door again, you announced your arrival and received a quick greeting from Taron. Noises could be heard from the kitchen, and a peek look while you took off your jacket let you know that he was cooking. He was wearing again the awful apron, and you salivated just by the smell of the food. Taron had always loved to cook, from impressive breakfast to surprising meals; after your fair share of disappointment and food poisoning, he had become quite talented at that.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek while he moved what seemed pork in the pan, and he answered by dragging you closer and planting a full kiss on your lips while you were serving yourself some water.

You smiled tight, returned the kiss and decided that you were doing it later.

That later, actually, came when dinner was finished.

You were almost falling asleep on his lap after a delicious dinner, dozing off on the film that you were trying to see. You couldn’t focus on what it was about, but rather on how to keep your eyes open to ask him about the weeding. You were laying your head on his thighs, and he had both of hands on you. One of his hands was caressing on your hip, warm and soft against the naked skin, and the other massaging your scalp, occasionally undoing on the knots of your hair. It felt ridiculous to ruin the mood by something that stupid, but you knew he would notice something was off eventually; and he tended to panic.

“So” you started.

Taron stopped moving for a second, before going back to his business. He, unlike you, liked to watch the movies you played on weekends, and got really invested into some of them. Usually, when you interrupted it, he got all mad and playfully banned you from the couch. But he had known you wanted to talk about something all day, from how silent you had been during dinner.

“So, Y/N” he repeated, and you smacked his thigh.

“You know – I borrowed your tabled, this morning?”

He frowned and you could hear the wheels turning in his brain. Taron, as said before, was the most paranoid boy you had ever met; and not in a bad way, because he fully trusted you, but it was true that he tended to think about conclusions before getting the facts.

“Was it porn?” he asked, and you felt like screaming for the second time that day. “Because I don’t think I opened it today. But, you know – we’ve had this conversation before, it’s hard when you –“

“I’m talking about the wedding plans, Taron”

Now, he really stopped moving. You felt him going tense under you, and the only thing he managed to do was to press silent with the remote he was holding. You could probably hear a pin dropping on the street, but in that moment the only thing you heard was Taron’s breathing and your heart beating loudly.

The truth was, Taron didn’t have the heart to make any excuse. He had already thought that it was a bit rushed, because you hadn’t been dating for that long. But recently, one of his friends was getting married, and all the preparations had made him look up some details about… your possible wedding. Just imagining you in the white dress he had seen the last week or in the beach, walking towards him, gave him chills.

“Uh”

Taron tried to say anything that might had excused the tabs on his tablet, and he mentally kicked himself for it not being porn. He could deal with an argument about the inconveniences of it, but not with you saying him ‘no’ already. He hadn’t even meant to ask you yet – he was curious. You were still looking at him, so he gave you a hesitant smile.

“I just see myself with you” he blurted out, much more confident of what he felt. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. “You’re so perfect, and complement me so well. I just – lately I’m always thinking about the future, and in every possibility there is you, with me, married and maybe with some kids. I’m sorry if… I know it’s rushed, and you don’t have to say anything. I just… imagining a future with you makes me keep going. Hypothetically ”

Taron shrugged at the end, as if it hadn’t been the most beautiful thing he had ever told you. He had a tendency to do that, a lot. Even if he was talkative and open on the outside, behind closed doors Taron was a bit shy. From your side vision, someone did something stupid in the film and got murdered.

You shifted so that you were back to your original position, having laid on your back to look at him. You turned your head to the screen and Taron pressed back the volume, and you didn’t miss how he slumped down and sighed.

Truly, you didn’t know what do say. Taron had been what you had always wanted in partner, and in the short amount of time you had been with him, you hadn’t discovered a single thing that made you not like him.

His hands were resting behind you, as if he was afraid to touch you. You reached for one and made him hug your middle until you could play with his fingers on your front.

“Just so you know, hypothetically” you started, fidgeting and looking at the blonde friend who tried to run from the killer in the TV. “I would say yes”

Taron smiled so wide that he thought he could slip his head in two, and finally relaxed into the touch. His hand that wasn’t trapped by you started playing with your hair once more, and the relaxed and happy mood that you enjoyed before was back.

“Well, I love you a lot. And that’s not hypothetically”

“I love you too, moron” you smiled and closed your eyes, ready to finally drift off.

Want to know more about me? Here is my Masterlist! Feedback is always appreciated!!

[pengychan]

[Batman: TAS] Clockwork, Pt. 1

Summary: To say the Clock King was pleased to see Hamilton Hill lose his bid for re-election would be an understatement - but suddenly nothing in Gotham is on time anymore, and he has to choose the lesser evil. Characters: Temple Fugate, Hamilton Hill  Rating: K    

A/N: Happy birthday, @vampirenaomi​! If you wondered about my radio silence these days, this was why. I was hoping to get the entire thing done by today, but I couldn’t make it. Will do my best to get the second and final part done by Christmas! (Also, little heads-up for everyone: the plot bunny for this thing actually hit me a long time ago and I promise the election fraud plotline in it has nothing to do with the insanity currently going on in the States.)

***

“Freeze!”

The order comes a quarter of a second after the first cop reaches the roof, predictable as the stroke of midday that will follow in precisely twenty-five seconds. The Clock King estimates it will take him exactly another fifteen seconds to reach the ledge, at which point he will have ten more to turn and throw in a mocking comment before his ride arrives. 

Excellent. His plan has been running as smoothly as sand in an hourglass.

“I said freeze!”

Temple Fugate entirely ignores the order and keeps walking to the ledge, pocketing his watch and twirling his cane in his free hand. It is an unspoken rule in Gotham, it seems, to do anything but freeze whenever you’re told to. It only occasionally works - not in a pattern he’s been able to reliably discern, to his annoyance - when it’s Batman to give the order. Or, well, Mr. Freeze, for reasons that should be quite obvious.

An interesting fellow, that one. Intellectually gifted - he wouldn’t mind conversing with, provided that he leaves his freezing gun at the door. Fugate generally pays little mind to his colleagues, even less after having to endure the indignity of being referred to as the White Rabbit by Mr. Tetch - a comparison that he found nothing short of insulting, because he is never late. Not anymore.

Not since the one time he was late and lost everything. But he’s getting it back, one timepiece at a time. The one he just took back from the museum is a priceless one, which he acquired by sheer luck only months before he was forced to sell every single piece he ever collected to pay--

“Stay where you are!”

The Clock King reaches the ledge, turns, and gives the three cops walking towards him with their guns drawn a tip of his hat. He might have thrown an explosive watch or two at them, of course he came prepared, but they are still far away enough he knows he needs not bother. Even if they decided to sprint now, they would never get to him on time. 

“Apologies, gentlemen, but I must decline your invite to stay. I have a lot of lost time to make up for,” he declares, and lets himself fall back exactly at the strike of midday. He straightens himself in mid-air, knees bent to prepare for landing on the roof of the eleven-fifty-eight train downtown going through the elevated tracks right no--

Except that there is no train beneath him. Fugate falls past the exact point where a train should be and is thrown entirely off balance. By the time he does connect with something, it’s with his left shoulder first.

“Aagh!”

He cries out, more in outrage than actual pain - though there is pain, train tracks are extremely unpleasant to pull upon from a height - and sits up, dazed, trying to make sense of that nonsense. He looks around, ascertain that there is, indeed, no train in sight. What… what just happened? The eleven-fifty-eight train is always, always precisely two minutes late. 

Where is it now? It can’t have been on time, he would have heard it rushing past. Is it even more late than usual? Has it broken down? Has the schedule changed? This is an outrage - is nothing in this world reliable anymore?

“Hey! Are you all right, uh… sir?”

Fugate looks up, and sees the three cops looking down at him from the roof of the museum. “It’s Clock King to you,” he snaps, though without much venom. That is… a rather civil enquiry, and he sees no reason not to be equally civil. “I have had softer landings, but I’ll live,” he mutters, standing up and rubbing his battered shoulder. The one talking, the big one, looks relieved. 

“Good! Listen, uh, Mr…”

“Clock King! It’s not that complicated!”

“Right, right. Mr. Clock King, don’t go anywhere - we’ll get you help.”

Of course, on account of not having been born yesterday - his birth took place fifty-seven years, ninety-two days and approximately seven hours ago - Fugate has no intention to wait there until they get help. “Ah, I believe I have to decline your offer, unfortunately, and be on my wa--”

“No, look - things are never so bad. Don’t do this. You’re in a dark place, but it won’t last.”

He pauses, taken aback. Their tactics to get fugitives to surrender certainly seemed to have changed since last time. “... Come again?”

“Get off the tracks, there is no reason to do anything drastic. I am sure we can help - professionals can help.”

The cop standing right next to him - the third is surely coming down the building heading his way - nods in agreement. “It’s going to get better, okay? It will be all right.”

… Wait. Wait a moment. 

Fugate sputters a moment, face ablaze as incredulity and outrage threaten to choke him. “Is this-- are you-- is this some kind of suicide prevention talk?” he yells, pointing up accusingly with his cane. “What in the world makes you think it is the appropriate response now?”

The two of them blink a moment, then exchange a glance before looking back down at him. “... You just jumped off a roof on the train tracks.”

“I am aware! But the eleven fifty-eight train is always exactly two minutes late! Is should have been--”

His words are covered by a warning cry from one of the cops first, then vibrations on the tracks, and finally by a dreadful, loud horn. 

Ah. There it is.

Right after turning to see the eleven fifty-eight train rushing towards him, Temple Fugate has enough time to make two calculations: the first is that it’s five minutes late, which is entirely unacceptable. The second is that he has approximately nine seconds to get off the tracks before he’s turned into something resembling strawberry jam, which is highly concerning.

He doesn’t quite manage to estimate precisely by how many seconds he manages to avoid that fate, but later on he decides that is probably for the best. 

***

Hamilton Hill, former Mayor of Gotham City, is rather enjoying his retirement. 

Well. Perhaps losing re-election for Mayor and spending most of his time in his mansion to lick his wounds is not precisely what most people would consider a vacation, but saying he is ‘taking some time to spend with his family’ got most attention off his back for now. 

There is the fact he’s been divorced fifteen years and Jordan is off to college, so the house is empty aside for himself and some domestic staff, but that isn’t something the general public needs to know. He needs some time, is all, to recover from a loss that was unexpected as it was painful, and then to figure out where he’s going from here. 

Back to practicing law, probably. He enjoyed that. Maybe returning to the courtroom having to worry only about the fate of the person he represente and not the entire city will do him good. Gotham is far from an easy city to serve as Mayor, so much so that some of his closest friends delicately suggested he belonged in Arkham for just wanting the job. And maybe they were not too far off, Hill muses. Maybe losing the election was a blessing in disguise. 

… Maybe he needs another glass of port.

He is pouring himself said glass when the glass door leading to the balcony opens, letting in a gust of cold wind. That could mean a number of things in Gotham: that the latch of the window was not closed properly, that a criminal is breaking in, that Batman is breaking in. 

All three things have happened remarkably often in the past decade or so, and Hill simply got used to visits from a masked vigilante, or the occasional kidnapping scheme that would later be foiled by said masked vigilante, so he’s not overly worried. But perhaps, as he no longer is the Mayor, this is simply a matter of closing the glass door properly and--

“Hill,” a voice proclaims. 

Well. It was not the latch.

Hamilton Hill makes the decision to gulp down half the glass before he turns. “Mr. Fugate,” he greets politely, before his eyes even rest on the figure standing rigidly on the balcony. He recognized his voice quite well, of course. When someone tries to squish you between the hands of a giant clock, you do tend to remember what they sound like. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

Temple Fugate lets out a noise of mild disgust. “I highly doubt you’re any more pleased to see me than I am to see you,” he informs him, stepping inside. “But as the situation in Gotham City is most dire--”

Hill downs the rest of the glass. Fugate trails off, then reaches into his pocket to pull out - of course - a watch. He stares at it for a moment before he looks back up at Hill, at the glass in his hand, at the liquor cabinet he’s standing at. “It’s eleven thirty-two in the morning,” he finally informs him.

“So it is.”

“Not even noon yet.”

“And…?”

“Don’t and me, Hill! Isn’t it-- far too early to be drinking whatever it is you’re drinking?”

Ah, Gotham truly was like no other city, was it? The only place where a man who kidnapped and tried to kill you can later show up to lecture over socially acceptable times for alcohol consumption, without any self-awareness whatsoever. Hill supposes Fugate truly is a man born in the wrong time: he would have been right at home during prohibition. He considers voicing that thought, but in the end he shrugs. 

“I’m only having a glass. I’m not drinking myself into a stupor.”

“Your demeanour suggests otherwise.” Fugate frowns, or at least it looks like he’s frowning. It’s hard to tell, with those glasses, but he seems mildly offended. “A reasonable reaction upon seeing me would be fear,” he adds, pointing towards him with that curious cane of his, part sword and part clock hand. “Possibly a scream, if not too drawn out or grating, followed by an attempt at running for your life.”

Ah, here comes the lecture in proper hostage etiquette. “Let me reassure you, it is not down to alcohol,” Hill informs him, putting down the empty glass. Honest to God, he would be more worried if he found himself facing a run-of-the-mill goon with a gun; people like that are more likely to simply shoot you dead. But those like the Clock King, or the Joker or whoever was out in the streets that week? They would come up with an elaborate scheme that gave Batman plenty of time to intervene.

Maybe the best course of action would be to stall for more time, until Batman does intervene. 

“Don’t take it personally, Fugate, but I have been Mayor of Gotham for too long not to get used to some things,” Hill adds. “No Tuesday is complete without at least an attempt at kidnapping me.”

The frown turns into something closer to disgust. “It’s Monday, Hill. have you truly lost all sense of time?”

“Happens when you’re on holiday, I suppose. I am no longer Mayor of Gotham City.”

“I am aware. About that--”

“I am a private citizen with a lot of time on my hands.”

“Not for long!” Fugate snaps, stepping forward with the cane pointed at Hill’s chest. Ah, yes, there come the death threats and-- “You must return into office!”

… Wait. What? Hill blinks, and moves the cane aside with one arm to look at the Clock King’s face more closely. “... Come again?”

“Are you deaf? I am here to make sure you take back your office.”

Who are you, Hill thinks, and what have you done to Fugate?

“Are you well?” he finds himself asking instead, and Fugate groans, throwing up his arms. The cane very nearly knocks a very expensive lamp right off the nearest table. 

“Of course I’m not! Two months with a new Mayor, and this entire city is in shambles, Hill!”

That’s not exactly what Hill expected to hear. He has been told that his replacement made a few… questionable choices, appointing questionable people in delicate roles, and there have been some complaints - but no account he’s heard so far made the situation sound quite that dire. Not that he doesn’t get some vindication over being told that the man who ousted him is making a dreadful mess of things. 

“Is it now?”

“Of course it is!” Temple Fugate paces back and forth, features twisted in what’s nothing short of anguish. “Nothing - and I do mean, nothing - is on time anymore! The trains, the buses, everything is all over the place!”

“Yes, I did hear that the public transport office had an overhaul--”

“Not that your administration was ever able to make things run on time,” Fugate cuts him off, clearly not inclined to hear a single word from him at the moment. “But most things were reliably late. There was a schedule, there was a pattern! Now there’s nothing but chaos! How am I meant to carry on in such a world?”

Hill opens his mouth to suggest he loosens up, remembers what happened last time he advised him as much, and chooses not to. “Surely, it is not quite that bad--”

“Yesterday there was the inauguration of a new mall. It was meant to be at midday - the ribbon was cut almost sixteen minutes late, Hill! What sort of administration is sixteen minutes late?”

"Yes, that is, er. Absolutely unacceptable,” Hill says. He knows better than dismissing it as something minor, considering that it’s distressing Fugate enough to make him turn to the man he probably despises the most in the entire world. “However, there isn’t much I can do--”

“Once you’re the Mayor again, you can put things in order,” Template declares, pointing at his chest with his cane again. “And everything will be just as it was before. Until I exact my revenge on you, that is. Which will be--” he pauses, and a look of discomfort crosses his features at the realization he doesn’t have a set time for that. “... Soon,” he finishes, not very threateningly. 

Hill frowns, pushing the razor-sharp tip of the cane away from his rather expensive shirt and, rather more importantly, the general vicinity of vital organs. “Fugate, as much as I’d like to help you - possibly with better results than last time I attempted to - there is nothing I can do. I lost my bid for re-election. I cannot just waltz in my old office and declare--”

“You can,” Fugate cuts him off once more.

“Yes, I suppose I could, only to be arrested before--”

“This election was rigged.”

Hill trails off, his brain grinding to a halt. “... Come again?” he hears himself muttering, searching Fugate’s face for any sign that he may be joking despite his strong suspicion that Fugate is simply incapable of uttering a joke. All he gets is an annoyed hum.

“Get your hearing checked,” the Clock King mutters irritably. “Surely you must have suspected it.”

He didn’t, not really. The race was rather close from the start, his opponent a new face who made plenty of promises Hill already knew he would be unable to keep but which, apparently, many couldn’t resist; alluring lies often hold more sway than less glamorous truths. He’d thought he would win, sure enough, but that it would be narrow. So his defeat by a rather small margin had been… a surprise, sure enough, but not something he’d thought beyond the realms of possibility.

“I… not really.”

“Hmph.” Fugate scoffs, and sits on the nearest armchair. He may very well be sitting on a stool, because he doesn’t lean back: he remains upright, back rigid, both hands on the handle of his cane. “Unexpectedly gullible for someone sly enough to engineer my demise.”

Oh, for God’s sake. “I engineered nothing. I only suggested you took your coffee break fifteen minutes later than usual because you were so tense--”

“The plaintiffs were represented by your law firm! Am I supposed that your advice making me late for the court date was a coincidence, Hill?”

“Yes, because it was! I had nothing to do with that case, I knew nothing about it - it was only some advice in a conversation you started in the first place.”

The last statement seems to hit a nerve, and there is something on Fugate’s face, a twitch that passes immediately but doesn’t go unnoticed. After all, Hamilton Hill built his career on being able to take note of every telling twitch and expression shown by witnesses and defendants. “... You have thought of that, haven’t you? That it was yourself to start talking that morning, not myself. There was no plan nor conspiracy. You were not targeted. It was a terrible coincidence-”

Fugate’s hands clench on the handle of his cane, so tight the knuckles go white. His jaw clenches before he speaks, words cold and clipped. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“It all happened by chance. Out of your control. Accidents happen whether or not we believe--”

“Silence!” Fugate snaps, tapping his cane on the hardwood floor and likely leaving a hole in it. “I will get you back for it, mark my words, but this is not the reason why I’m here. And you have already wasted--” a pause to check his pocket watch. “Fifteen minutes of my time. Now, do you want to hear what I know, or not?”

Hill sighs, and sits on the armchair across him. “How do you know the election was rigged?”

“I crunched the numbers. Something is not adding up.”

“My entire campaign team crunched the numbers--”

“People who were not me,” Fugate cuts him off, a sharp edge to his voice. “And who forgot to keep an eye on the time.”

Ah, of course. Of course it was going to boil down to time.

Hamilton Hill can feel the beginning of a violent headache starting to build up behind his eyes.  “All right, I’ll hear you out.”

“You’d better.”

The headache immediately spikes a notch. Hill glances back at the liquor cabinet, thinking he could use another glass of port. “Can I offer--”

“I do not drink. Certainly not before noon.” Fugate’s voice sure is full of judgment for someone who goes around with glasses looking like the face of a clock, stealing timepieces from auction houses and museums and throwing around explosive pocket watches.

“... Right. Coffee?”

“I have my coffee at three in the afternoon. On the dot,” is the stiff reply. “As you very well know.”

Hill almost considers asking why not three-fifteen, then his gaze falls on the razor-sharp tip of the Clock King’s cane and he decides against it. 

“... Very well,” he finally says, leaning back on his armchair. “Tell me what you’ve found.”

*** 

The key, as it’s the case with most things in life, was in the timing.

It was something easily overlooked by most people who poured over the election result, exit polls and whatnot, but Fugate found the answer by painstakingly looking through the transcript of all votes registered by the brand new voting machines, which allowed one to give their vote at the press of a button. There were no names, nor details to match individual voters to any vote, but he found something better.

On each of them, he found timestamps.

One of the tenets of Temple Fugate’s existence is that everything has a chronological order. Everything has a discernible pattern. And where order and pattern are disrupted, it can only mean one thing: human intervention. Bumbling, chaotic, life-ruining human intervention, like sand in the cogs or a too-jovial councillor suggesting a break fifteen minutes later. Fugate has seen human intervention at work more times than he’d have liked.

But until he began looking into this, he had never seen anything quite like it.

“So something is wrong with the… timestamps?”

Unsurprisingly, former Mayor Hamilton Hill is having trouble keeping up with his explanation. “Yes. In the districts of Gotham where you were expected to perform better, the pattern was disrupted.” Fugate pulls out his notes from the breast pocket of his jacket and hands them to Hill, who opens the folded pieces of paper to take a long look. “Your team poured over nonsense like age, or gender, or race and class--”

“It isn’t nonsense, it helps predict--”

“But none of them,” Fugate speaks a little louder, cutting off whatever nonsense he was about to spew, “looked at the time in which each vote was cast. One after another, polling stations in each of those districts had precisely a two-hour window during which not one vote was cast in your favor.”

Hill blinks down at his notes, adjusting his glasses as though to see better. “What? Not one?”

“Not a single one, you can check the timestamps yourself. Just read - the pattern is clear.”

He sees it, Fugate can tell from the way his eyes widen. He may be dense, but not so dense that he couldn’t see the pattern now that it had been pointed out to him. He stands and begins pacing back and forth, eyes glued to Fugate’s notes. 

“I think, these polling places-- I would need to look at a map to be certain, but--”

Well, he has picked that up on his own. If not stubbornly determined not to be impressed by anything this man does or say ever, Fugate could say he is impressed.

“No need. I already did, and saw what you are seeing now. This happened in polling stations close to each other. There was the first one downtown, then another a short distance away, then another a short distance away from that one… and so forth.  It, whatever it was, moved across the city with brief pauses consistent with the time it would take to drive from one polling station to the next. This kept up for the entire two days the polls were open,” Fugate adds with no small amount of disapproval. 

He sees no reason why the citizens of Gotham would need more than one day to pick their Mayor, but apparently the change was brought forward upon suggestion of Bruce Wayne, along with the decision to hold the vote over a weekend. Something about allowing more time to vote to people working long hours. How typical, catering to people who cannot be on time by giving them more time.

Unaware of his musings, Hill is still staring at the notes, then at him, then back at the notes. “I… how can it be?”

“Is it possible someone was able to sabotage the voting machines?”

Hill frowns, ceasing his pacing, and finally shakes his head. “I don’t believe so. Those machines were inspected before and after, and are not connected to any other device. They store all votes within their own memory and at the end of the day, the data is saved on an external device. There are witnesses for all candidates each time, to ensure everything is transparent.”

“Yes, that is what I suspected.” Fugate frowns, rubbing his chin. “I have looked for a link between your Mayor Sanderson and the company that manufactured the machines, but found none. Well then. This only leaves one option.”

Hill blinks, trying to think what he may mean and drawing a blank. “What option?”

“If the devices and therefore the votes were not manipulated, then the voters were. At least to a more extreme degree than they usually are during your campaigns.”

Hill gives him a look that somehow manages to be insulted, stunned, and confused at the same time. “I beg your pardon?”

“You may not have my pardon, Hill, but I will repeat myself,” is the dry reply. “You must agree this very clear pattern must have been the result of an external intervention. If the machines could not be compromised, then the people in the voting booths were.”

Hill stares. Opens his mouth. Closes his mouth. Stares some more. 

“... Not that I don’t appreciate you keeping silent for once, but as I cannot read your mind--”

“Is this-- what are you exactly suggesting, Fugate? Some sort of mass bribery?”

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. Word could have got out immediately if such an attempt had taken place. I said the voters were manipulated, not bribed - were you not listening?”

A scoff. “Manipulated with what? Hypnosis?”

“You say that like no such thing occurred in Gotham before.”

For the second time in less than a minute - Fugate probably knows exactly how many seconds - Hill finds himself opening his mouth to speak and then closing it without uttering a single word. He is right, something remarkably similar did happen from time to time in Gotham, usually the work of… of…

“Now, I cannot imagine Mr. Tetch has any stake in this, but the man is not above selling his machinery for money. It is a possibility worth exploring, don’t you think?” Fugate says.

Tetch isn’t above giving people wildly unfitting and unrequired nicknames either - White Rabbit, the notorious latecomer, what an insult that has been - but that is beside the point at the moment, and Fugate doesn’t bring up that particular grievance. 

“I… yes, I suppose it is,” Hill is muttering, looking at his notes over and over as though he thinks anything has changed while he wasn’t looking. “I should call the police, perhaps Commissioner Gordon--”

“Forget the police, they’re busy giving misguided anti-suicide speeches these days. Perhaps once you’re the Mayor again, you can see they are hired in Arkham.” Fugate stands, adjusting his tie. “I know exactly where to go to gain some intel.”

“... Right. I’ll get my coat.”

Fugate blinks. “... I beg your pardon?”

“It’s cold outside. I am not sure how you manage to stroll around with only a suit on, but--”

“Whatever gave you the idea that you are coming?”

“Why else would you show you up here to tell me all this?”

“To let you know what an imbecile you are for letting someone steal an election from you. Put that coat down-- Hill!” Fugate barks, but it’s too late: the coat is on and Hill is buttoning it up, looking back at him. Good God, he misses the days Hamilton Hill feared him. 

“I am not about to leave you a choice, Fugate,” he says, much too flippantly for the Clock King’s taste. “This is personal. I am certain you of all people understand.”

“That’s not-- well--” Fugate is taken aback, fumbles for words. It is only a couple of instant, but it is enough for Hill to get coy. 

“Good to see we reached an understanding. Are we going, or are you inclined to waste more time, mmh?”

The remark makes Fugate want to smack him with his cane, or better yet skewer him with it, but that would be rather counterproductive as a dead man cannot be elected Mayor and he needs Hill alive for… a little while longer. Just enough to fix the utter mess his successor has made of things. A sixteen minute delay on an inauguration, for God’s sake. How is anyone meant to live in such chaos?

The thought of ending that particular brand of chaos is what eventually stills Fugate’s hand. He takes in a deep breath, relaxing his grip on the cane. “... Very well. But you will do exactly as I say. No speaking, no initiatives. And if you’re going to take any advice from me, put your hat on and lose the glasses,” he adds, turning back towards the window. “The place we’re heading to is both rather cold and not someplace you’d want to be recognized if you wish to avoid a potential scandal.”

“Fugate?” Hill calls out, causing him to stop walking and look at him over his shoulder. Chickening out already, is he? He almost smirks, waiting to hear excuses as to why he has just realized he really cannot come with hi--

“You do realize we can get out through the door, right?” Hill says instead, pointing at the door behind himself with his thumb. Something about his raised eyebrow makes Fugate scowl.

“Well, it is not often I get the luxury to go through main doors, since you made me a wanted fugitive,” he mutters, crossing his arms. 

“I thought I made you late.”

“It is the same thing!” the Clock King snaps, and stomps out of the room, using the window out of sheer spite.

[dissonantaki]

Claire de Lune

“What’s his character like?”

The woman adjusting Kaede’s button-up shirt glanced up at her as she asked. “You mean Saihara, yes?”

“I mean Saihara,” Kaede repeated, nodding.

She sighed, folding the cuffs of her sleeve to the length she needed them. “You have to get this through your head, Akamatsu-san, or you’re not going to make a very effective mastermind. This isn’t Saihara’s ‘character’. Unlike you, he isn’t playing a part. Look at me, will you?” Kaede did as she was told. “This is who he is now. The kid you knew is gone. He signed himself away to become somebody new.”

Kaede looked away from the woman, staring off into blank space. She’d spent an extreme amount of emotion on this subject already, so now every time the subject was brought up, it just made her feel... numb. “R-Right. So what’s he like? You said you were going to put me in the locker next to him.”

“Well, we can’t quite say how his character development will turn out— you’ll have to maneuver that. But he’ll be the detective that your old friend wanted him to be. Just with... less murderous intent. Shy, reclusive, intelligent— unsure of himself. If you want to get him to trust you, you’ll need to build him up.”

Kaede slowly nodded. “Got it.”

The woman fixed the collar of Kaede’s shirt, before taking the few music-note hairclips and putting them in Kaede’s hair. In silence, she led the other girl to the mirror. “This is how we expect you to look when you leave your dorm in the morning. Note the placement of the hairclips and the way your hair sits on your shoulders. You’ll need to straighten it daily.”

Kaede took a deep breath.

“Understood?“

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. At the new person staring back at her. A visual representation of the complete and utter mess she’d signed herself away to. “U-Understood.”

_

“It’s still crazy to think about, you know?”

“Wait, s-sorry, I don’t know if I follow... what’s crazy to think about?”

“Oh, I’m not trying to discredit your theory!” Kaede quickly assured the other. “It’s just... hard to think about. That there’s someone in our group of students that’s behind all this. I mean... I’ve only known them for a few days, but I don’t think any of them would do something like this.” She knew full well that none of the other students were behind all of this— Kaede was just trying to spark conversation and keep her fake identity up while doing it.

“Ah, um... yeah. Of course, it’s not helpful that we don’t really know anybody here. I mean, I’ve heard of Hoshi before. But he’s also killed before, so it’s not like he’s completely trustworthy,” Shuichi pointed out. “To be suspicious of them in a situation like this is one thing. But it’s something entirely different to suspect them of kidnapping the rest of us and forcing us into a death game. I understand where you’re coming from.” 

“It’s okay, though. We have time,” Kaede added. “More than enough time. We’re doing a good job— we’re taking action and trying to catch the mastermind in their tracks. I don’t think it’s silly to hope that... nobody might actually die.” Of course it was silly, but...

Shuichi let himself smile a bit, looking off to the side and nodding. “Yeah, I... I think that’s possible,” he nodded.

Kaede felt a sinking feeling of guilt in her stomach that she immediately shoved down further.

_

“Listen! God, just listen to me!” Kaede screamed, glad these dorms were soundproof. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down! You just ordered a sixteen-year-old to kill her friend and now you’re telling to calm down now that I did it?!”

“Akamatsu-san, we need you to—”

“You watched! You watched how much of my free time I spent with him! He should have made it to a trial, at the very least, after all that effort he put into surviving V2! He was my goddamn friend, and you made me kill him! And now...” Kaede choked back a sob. “Now wh-what are you going to do? I’m the mastermind, I... I need to stick around to the end! What’s going to happen in the trial? Please, please don’t kill me, you can’t do that when you ordered me to kill him in the first place...!”

“Akamatsu-san.” the voice in her headpiece snapped. “Be quiet and listen. We’ll stage an execution. Everything will be fine. You’ll be safe. You can be the mastermind from behind the scenes. Are you listening?” That earned a weak hum of approval from Kaede. “Let them figure it out themselves. If they seem to be heading down the wrong path, you can guide them towards the answer. Confess. Accept your fake death and fake being upset that you killed him. Give Shuichi something to use for character development.”

Fake being upset. There won’t be any need for that. I’ll just use what I really feel. Kaede hadn’t heard the ‘Understood?’ this time, but she could just tell that it’d happened, and she responded like usual.

_

“Enough, you guys. I’ve... already prepared myself.”

Shuichi blinked. “You’re... giving up? But why? You said... we’d never give up... that we’d get out of here together... so why are you giving up now?! Did you mean what you said? I... I know we can do something! Don’t give up until the end!“

Kaede shook her head. “...I’m not giving up. Because I have you. Even after I’m gone... my wish will still be here. So I’m counting on you! I’m entrusting my wish to every one of you!” she insisted, her voice getting louder. Why... why did it have to be like this...? “I believe in you...! I believe that you will all make it through this, somehow!” This was all wrong... why did it turn out like this? “You guys better live! Don’t go dying on me now! End this ridiculous killing game, survive, and get the hell out of this place!” She glanced up at Shuichi, who was clearly doing his best to hold back tears. Kaede glanced around the whole trial room. “And then... be friends after you escape, okay? I think you’ll all be the best of friends.”

After a quiet, hesitant moment, the students started to agree— committing themselves to Kaede’s wish one by one. But Kaede knew it’d never work. It’d end with a tiny group surviving or just her. There was no other option.

“Now, then! I’ve prepared a very special punishment for the Ultimate Pianist, Kaede Akamatsu~! Let’s give it everything we’ve got! Iiiiiit’s punishment time~!”

From out of nowhere, a chain with a collar reached out of the walls, clamping around Kaede’s neck while she was still on her trial stand and yanking her back, up, and out of the room. Instinctively, she reached out for Shuichi to save her— from the execution that she’d temporarily forgotten wasn’t real, from her contracts, from Danganronpa. He reached out, too, but they were far too distant from each other for them to join hands.

She could only handle ten seconds of being pulled back violently by her neck before her world went black.

_

Kaede woke up to bright lights and a nearly spotless room. Even though it was a little bit painful, she managed to sit up, glancing around the room. It resembled some kind of hospital room, but once the events before she’d passed out came back to her returned, she figured that it had to be a room in the Danganronpa headquarters— they’d want to keep her on-site.

A TV mounted in the corner of the room caught her eye. Is that my lab? She blinked for a moment. Is that Shuichi? Is that...?

Her favorite song. Easily recognizable. That’s right... she’d mentioned that song to him as something she wanted to play for him in the last hours of the motive. That memory, combined with the wish she’d given to him— she’d been requested to prompt character development, and she’d certainly managed that. He was determined to find the mastermind and end the game now— which wouldn’t bode well for the pianist if he succeeded.

Would he have decided to keep Kaede’s wish if he knew that it had the capacity to kill her in the end? That question rang over and over again in her mind; the only sound in the room to Kaede, other than the whirring of the air conditioner and the beeping of the machine attached to her.

Would he decide to keep my wish if he knew that it might kill me in the end?

[amara-scott]

Halloween

Movie: Blackkklansman Characters: Phil Zimmerman x Reader Categories: M’sorry this is long, everything? lil smutty at the end

So, yes- I may get a little more excited for unimportant holidays than the usual American citizen should. But does that mean others have to be cranky or a grump? No. Why not just go with the flow and enjoy some free candy?

"Okay- I get that you don't like it, but what's your costume going to be?" I ask Zimmerman as I sit on his desk at work, looking through a catalogue of adult costumes. Extremely boring ones, might I add. The ones you see in every store and every commercial.

I hear his sigh and glance over the edge of the current page. He rolls his eyes, not looking up from the paper he's reading. Jimmy laughs behind me, Ron joining in. I give them a grin, like every year, I love teasing poor Phil.

"Not happening this year." He mumbles, taking a sip of his coffee, grimacing afterwords. Probably already cold. I hop off his desk and take the mug.

"I'll give you time to think while I get you a fresh, hot coffee—" I walk out the office, patting his shoulder as I go and make out Ron who can't contain his snickering. He receives a glare from Flip but no further comment. I hurry and greet a couple guys in the kitchen.

"Flip! Hey, I have an idea guys. Since it's my turn to host the dinner, we'll all keep it a secret what we dress up as. What do you say?" I place the steaming mug next to Flip's papers and he groans, leaning back and looking at me.

"Seriously? Why do we have to dress up at all?"

"Flip, why not?" I point at Ron, agreeing with his question.

"You're my favorite officer, you know that, Stallworth?" I walk over to him and place a hand on his shoulder as we share a smile.

"Hey." Jimmy says, I look over and wave him off.

"You know very well you're high up on the rank as well." He sighs relieved and sinks back into his chair with a grin.

"What about Flip?" Ron asks, smirking and we all glance over at Phil. He's obviously listening but trying to ignore us, head down and pen ready to write.

"Officer Zimmerman? Oh, I don't know. He's been quite rude lately. I would say— just below Landers."

"Hey!" His head snaps up and he frowns at me, all of us chuckling at his expression. I skip over and lean my elbows on his desk.

"You know what to do to change that." I wink at him and stand back up straight, walking toward the office door. "I'll see you on Saturday then, no more complaints." I raise an eyebrow at Flip at the end, him sighing deeply but nodding. I grin and wave, turning. My bell pants moving and flowing with my long strides.

___

I wait for Patrice to come over that Saturday. She helps me with the food and dips, decorations and music. As Bobby Pickett's Monster Mash is playing in the background, we get ready, dressing up in our costumes.

I slip into my rather tight Bat Girl suit and Patrice in her Wonder Woman outfit. I place the crown in the perfect spot in her wild hair and we help each other touch up on our makeup. We giggle as we pose, taking polaroids and skipping through my small house like we were saving the world. I'm about to take some more popcorn to throw at her but we hear a knock, freezing and I grin, walking over to the door. I see Patrice straightening her outfit, making sure everything's in place.

I open the door and peek outside, seeing my three favorite men of the night. I can't help but burst out laughing, Jimmy dressed up as Tin Man from Wizard of Oz. Even his face is painted silver, shining brighter than my glitter eyeshadow. Patrice walks over and giggles, welcoming Ron and I hug him afterwards. With Jimmy I try to keep his face a little further from mine.

Ron honestly couldn't have picked a better costume. His name tag reading Agent Bond. Which he kind of was. A really good undercover detective. And a secretive bag in his hand.

And Flip? Flip wore a flannel, his hair as messy as ever and Jeans and boots as usual. I don't want to frown, not showing him that it disappoints me he didn't put any effort into it. I really do like him, and I know he likes me too. We spent many evenings together, staying longer at diners and bars than the others. Talking and exchanging looks. Maybe I'm just overreacting.

"Good you're here Flip." I give him a smile and hug him, wondering why he is so quiet. I raise an eyebrow as we pull away and lead them all inside, showing them the food filled table and offer them beers.

Patrice and Ron sit together, Jimmy on one end and the seat next to Flip still open. I feel his eyes on me as I walk between kitchen and dining room. I also picked the costume because it honestly just looked really good. It sparkles just like Yvonne Craig's version, purple and tight. I pull up my mask and sit down next to Flip, trying not to be too mad at him. It's just a costume for goodness sake. Or rather the lack of one.

"Hey Flip, what do you think of (Y/N)'s costume?" Jimmy says, biting into a piece of meat, raising his silvery eyebrows. Ron smiles, glancing up at Flip too. He hasn't even eaten anything yet, is he grumpy today?

"Yeah and what about the food, you don't like it? I'm sorry that I invited you- won't happen again-" I let out, growing more angry every second he's just sitting there. He looks like he's trying to suppress a grin, struggling to keep a straight face. I frown, not sure what's going on. Jimmy and Ron join in and Patrice too after Ron whispered something in her ear.

"I think you look bloody good tonight, Bat Girl." Flip says, turning to me and I glance at his mouth, wondering why his words sound muffled. He grins at me and my eyes grow wide. Vampire teeth. Everyone starts laughing and I can't help but giggle, slapping his arm. He's unbelievable.

"Just for you." He says, quickly taking out the teeth and drying his mouth.

"Well I have to admit- that was good." I say, taking my beer and holding it up to the others.

"To a fun night with Bond, Tin Man, Wonder Woman and- a wanna-be-Dracula." We all toast and take a sip, I finally feel relaxed and take another glance at Flip, shaking my head at him as he looks back at me, winking.

___

We let movies roll in the background and played Pass Out while eating and laughing. Once we finished the game and Flip won, having ten pink elephant cards first, he raises his fists in the air, Ron and Jimmy groaning in annoyance as he gets his last tongue twister right. I feel very tipsy, not used to too much booze. Who could have figured that Ron would bring that game?

I lower one of Flip's arms, shushing him. "Calm down, cowboy. It's just a game." I hear myself slur at the end, frowning. I need water.

"No way, I've never seen you drunk before, Batsy." Flip responds and I click my tongue, trying to stand up. I had to wait a second before actually moving toward the kitchen. "Hey, hey— let me help you." A hand wraps around my waist, holding me to their side. I look up at Flip and nod.

"Thanks." I say quietly, my cheeks warm and eyes glossy. "I want water." I mumble and he helps me sit down at the small kitchen table, leaving me and returning with a glass of what I hope is water.

I take a sip and frown, a weird taste after all the beer, wine and whiskey we had this night. "You doing alright? Feel like you need to throw up?" I groan, not wanting to even think about it. I lean forward on the table, head in my hands and close my eyes for a moment.

"You want me to bring you upstairs?" He suggests, his voice sounding closer than last time he spoke. I glance over my fingers and he sits beside me, rubbing my back now, beneath my costume cape.

"No, I'm good-" I hiccup, holding a hand to my lips and growing even warmer in the face as Flip chuckles, running a hand through his hair and standing up, holding out a hand to me. I sigh taking it and his other hand is back around my waist, holding me up. I can walk myself, I want to pull away but am not strong enough. Maybe it's good he's holding me.

"Hey guys, the host needs to lay down, I'll bring her to bed." I frown at Flip, shaking my head.

"No, I'm fine-" hiccup "-I just need more water." I can't make out anyone's expression before being lead to the stairs. I hear good night and thank you but the next thing I feel is already my bed. Soft blanket against my cheek. I sigh, not wanting to move an inch and sleep for days.

"Let me get Patrice." Flip says and I hear a couple steps. Then my hair is lifted off my face, moved right behind my ear. "Sleep tight." I feel something wet on my forehead and then nothing. Only quiet. And dark.

___

I roll over, feeling around for my blanket and cover my cold skin. With one eye open I look around, trying to figure out what's going on. My window is open, curtains pulled together, darkening the room. I groan, frowning. The phone rings and I flinch, holding a hand to my warm head. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ignore the shrill tone but it doesn't stop. In one slow but swift motion I sit up, taking a second to regain my balance and blink my eyes open.

"Hello?" I get out, clearing my throat afterwards, not knowing what's wrong with my voice. So groggy and deep.

"Wow, good morning Bat Girl, had a little too much to drink last night?" I hear Patrice's voice and roll my eyes, sighing.

"Why did you let me drink that much? You know me. At least I thought you did." I grin, shaking my head and closing my eyes again, leaning forward, head in my free hand.

"You should know your limits, sister. Maybe you got a little closer to knowing them last night."

"Sure thing, sister."

"You up for a run later?" I raise an eyebrow, not sure if she even drank anything at all last night. I stand up carefully and draw the curtains aside, squinting my eyes as the first sunlight burns my eyes.

"Wow, how late is it?"

"It's one thirty. I'm glad I finally woke you up."

"I'm glad too, I bet it's a mess downstairs. I'll call you when I'm done cleaning, a run should do me some good though."

"Yes, right on, sister. See you later."

As I put on a robe, scanning my costume at the end of my bed, I walk out and down the stairs. I sigh relieved, the mess not as big as I thought. I hope the boys took some leftovers home to eat. But I see all the food stacked in the fridge. I roll my eyes and pack boxes, to drop them off at the station later.

I get ready, drinking a rare cup of coffee and put on grey leggings and a turquoise long sleeve for my run with Patrice. I'll meet her in about twenty minutes at the station.

As I drive there, I try to remember what all went down last night. The pass out game was maybe a little too much for my fragile stomach. And Flip, his Dracula teeth still make me grin. Such a dork.

I park my car and walk inside the station, having all the food stacked on my arms. As I get to their office I make out Patrice at Ron's table, laughing and sitting down on his desk.

"Hello guys, anyone ordered leftovers?" I place down boxes on their desks and lastly at Flip's, sitting down on his.

"Someone arose from the dead I see." Flip says and Patrice nods.

"She was still asleep two hours ago." I frown at her, mouth agape and cross my arms.

"Why do you have to betray me, Patrice?" They laugh at me, Flip nudging me arm. I glare down at him, not able to hide a smile.

"Especially you, Dracula."

"What? I didn't betray you, I even brought you upstairs." He raises his hands in front of himself, eyebrows doing the same. I roll my eyes and stand up, telling Patrice to wrap it up and go running.

"You're going for a run? You mind grabbing me a good coffee on your way back?" Flip says and continues to scan through papers.

"Who says I will come back after my run?" My hands land on my hips, eyes on him as he slowly looks up, adjusting his holster over his red plaid shirt. Which was my favorite. I loved the color on him and it's the softest out of all of them.

"Well, I know you need those tupperware boxes back so-" He shrugs his shoulders, smiling innocently.

"You're lucky you're cute, Zimmerman." I mumble, hitting his shoulder and the guys laugh, Patrice and I walking out.

___

"So are you dating now or what?" Patrice huffs, running alongside me as we enter the park and follow the path down to the water.

"Who? Me and Flip?"

"Obviously, he's absolutely into you."

"What makes you say that?" I swallow, trying to take a look at her but struggling to do it while running. I just see her eyes rolling.

"The way he's treating you, looking at you. Last night for example, he helped you go to bed and was such a gentlemen. He came back down, asking me to help you undress."

I frown, hoping not to trip as I try to remember the wet sensation on my forehead last night. The way his finger ran across my forehead. My skin tingles at the thought.

"I don't know, Patrice." I say and she sighs, changing the subject.

___

The whole way back to the department I have to think of what Patrice said, nearly running into a couple officers. I carry the four big coffee cups from our local Colorado café that usually doesn't do takeaway coffee. But for the department they do. So sweet of them.

"Three orders of hot and delicious coffee?" The guys look up and I give them the cups, Jimmy nearly burning his finger. "Careful!" I say and giggle. I give Flip his cup and he hums, smelling the liquid, eyes closed.

"That's the good stuff." I grin, nodding and take a gentle sip myself, sitting back down on his desk.

"Flip?" He looks over, nodding and drinking the coffee. I push a black strand of hair out of his face, adjusting my seat and face him more. "Can we talk later?" I ask quietly, not wanting to cause a scene or give the boys anything to tease Flip with.

"Uh, sure. After work?" I nod and rub my arm, smiling at him. "You could come by my place, if you want." He adds, seeming hesitant but tries not to show it, drinking more of the coffee. I stop moving for a second, not sure if I heard him right. To his place? I've never been there. Weird, to be honest. I've known him for a while now, nearly a year. Patrice introduced me to them all after an incident with an investigation she told me. That's how she met Ron too.

"I'll be there at around eight?" He nods and smiles at me. After writing down his address for me I leave and decide a hot shower would be the best now.

______

I'm done cleaning up my house and myself, when it's already 7.20. I curse under my breath and quickly get dressed. It's chilly outside and I settle with a thin white turtle neck and my favorite blue plaid skirt, short but beautiful. At the door I put on my black thigh highs and grab my purse and coat, finally leaving at 7.45. It's about 20 down to 21 Street so I hurry, still staying with the speed limit.

As I pull up to number 1813, I take in the house. It's matching the blue tones of my skirt, the lawn turning dry and a huge oak tree standing to the side. It's a cute one story house. I smile and step out, a cold breeze welcoming me. I pull on the coat and hug myself, walking up to his house. After knocking it only took him about a minute to open the door.

"Hey there." We share a hug and he leads me inside, taking my coat from me. I take off my boots, him clearing his throat and then moving from behind me toward a different room.

"Just follow the smell once you're done." He calls out and I look up to see where he's going. I grin and try to imagine Flip cooking a dinner. I walk toward the kitchen and stop in the doorway. He's stirring something in a pot, then goes over to grab a couple plates from a cabinet.

"Can I help?" I walk in further, smoothing down my skirt. He looks over, up and down my form only briefly and shakes his head.

"No need, I can manage. You can pick a drink and sit down in the dining room, right through that door." He nods ver to a different entry way and I open the fridge, looking through his options.

"Alright, you want a beer too?" He hums in response, tasting the sauce next and I try to peek but he points to the door, looking at me seriously.

"Okay okay, I'll leave." I raise my beer bottle filled hands in defence. Before going out the door I glance over my shoulder, his eyes on my bum, not realizing I caught him. I smirk and sway my hips more, leaving and sitting down at the round table in the room. I bite my lip, crossing my legs, running a hand over my exposed skin.

"Here we go." Flip enters, carrying two plates. Pasta with red sauce. I mean, it's nothing extraordinary but it doesn't have to be. It's a good dish and smells really good.

"Thanks, Flip, looks and smells amazing. Where have you been hiding your cooking talent all this time?" He chuckles, joining me across the table. We clink our bottles and start eating. My thigh high socks warm my feet and legs, it's really gotten cold out now. November is one of my favorite months.

"How was work, everything alright?" I ask, wiping my lips with a napkin and take another sip.

"Yeah, it's gotten more busy lately, though." He sighs, twirling more pasta on his fork. I just watch him for a moment, eating. I want to place another fork full into my mouth but it's too much sauce and splatters onto my white turtleneck. I groan, wiping my mouth and start dabbing at my shirt. But it's only getting worse. I hear him chuckle and watch me.

"Hey, that's not funny. Do you have dish soap?" He frowns, nodding though. "Excuse me for a second." I stand up and walk toward the kitchen. I make sure the door is fully closed and step up to the sink. I pull off my top, running some warm water over the spot. Then I look for the dish soap. Nowhere to be found. I want to groan again but start looking through the cabinets. Where does a man keep his cleaning supplies?

"Flip? Where is the dish soap?" I call out and hear his chair squeaking. I freeze, panicking. He'll see me in my bra- I block my chest with the wet top and shiver, the water cold against my bare skin. He walks inside and stops for a second, looking at my state. He clears his throat, hiding a smile and opens one of the upper cabinets, pulling out the dish soap from a shelf that I clearly could not have reached all by myself. Idiot.

"Here you go." He hands it to me and I smile tightly, trying to avoid eye contact. "Do you Want me to get you a shirt?" He asks, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. His grin warms my face even more and I only nod.

"Thanks." I mumble and he pushes himself off, walking past me and toward his bedroom, I assume. I let out a breath and use the soap to quickly soak into the fabric, rubbing the spot together and running it under warm water again. I repeat that until there's only a very light shade of sauce, nearly gone. One time in the wash should get rid of the rest.

"Here you go." I flinch, turning around and accept his shirt. A black plaid shirt that I haven't seen on him before.

"Is this new?" I try to act casual, pulling it on and buttoning it up- but wrong. I groan and he pushes my hands down gently, redoing the buttons. His fingers grazing the skin of my stomach and chest. He apologizes quietly, focusing on the buttons. My heart races fast and at hope he doesn't feel it.

"There- and yes. It's a new one." I thank him again, tucking the shirt into my skirt on one side at the front. The sleeves are long and wide, covering my hands as well. "You want to sit on the couch?" I bite my lip, nodding at him. Before we move he steps closer and wraps his hands around my neck, my breath stuck in my throat. His fingers push out my hair that's stuck underneath the flannel. "Better."

He smiles down at me and walks past me, looking back to see if I'm following. I do. And sit down next to him. Right leg tucked underneath me and hands in my lap as I face him. "I like this one." I say, playing with the ends of the sleeves.

"Me too." I look back up, he's already watching me. "So what did you want to talk about?"

I knew this would be coming but I hoped he forgot. He's a detective. He doesn't forget anything. Maybe struggling to remember names sometimes but that's about it.

"I- uh, you know I just wanted to see how you're doing. I care about my- friends." He nods slowly, totally not buying my words.

"Well I'm doing just fine, thanks for asking." I nod, looking down at my lap, hoping he would let it go.

"How long, (Y/N)?" I meet his ganze, a sigh leaving his lips.

"What do you mean?" He shakes his head, chuckling and inching a little closer, his left hand over the back of the couch and right hand taking my left one, holding it and then gazing back up at me.

"How long are we supposed to keep this game going? I mean, it's fun, don't get me wrong. I love flirting with you and showering you with compliments but- you know, I think-"

"-it's time we take it a step further?" I conclude for him as he starts struggling with words. He nods, sighing with a smile. I take his big hand between both of mine, running my thumbs over his skin.

"Exactly." He adds, his voice calm and warm, like always. Another thing I love about him. I don't know what else to say so I lean my head closer, watching his lips and eyes, his own face leaning in. I close my lids and concentrate on his and my breath mixing. Soon our lips meet, gently and slow. My left hand going up around his neck, trying to sit closer to him. His hands hold onto my waist, lifting me up and setting me on his lap. I giggle against his lips and he chuckles, pulling me tightly against him. Our flannels rubbing together. He's still caressing my hips, digging his thumbs into my skin and hands cupping my bum. My skirt riding up with every movement. Soon his thumbs hook under the hem of my skirt and stay there for a moment. Our tongues fighting and tasting each other. My fingers running through his thick dark hair. His beard tickling my neck as his lips move from my mouth down to my neck. I hold his head and lean mine to the side slightly, giving him more space to play with. His breath is heavy and hot against my skin, his lips leaving a wet trail as he tries to move even lower, quickly opening the top two buttons of the flannel I'm wearing.

"Flip~" I whimper, his teeth pulling at my lower lip, hands back by my skirt, lifting it even further until the fabric is around my waist, panties exposed. My core tingles and I can't help and rock back and forth on his lap, glancing down and making out his hard member inside his pants. I unbutton my shirt even further and pull it off completely, his eyes glued to my every movement, cupping my breasts as soon as they are free. I still wear my bra but he's quick to unhook it and throw it to the side. Hands back on my breasts.

"Fuck." He says under his breath, kneading them and playing with my nipples. I inhale sharply as his teeth graze that soft skin. I try to take off my high socks but he grabs my hands, shaking his head at me, going back for a kiss. His hands now running up and down my thighs up to my ass.

I finally get to unbutton his flannel and he pulls it off, shirt following. I already try my best at opening his buckle but struggle, sighing and stopping the kiss to have a better look. He chuckles and helps me, pulling down the zipper too. I feel his fingers move around my bum and push my soaking panties to the side, teasing my lips and bud. I moan, moving my hips and palming him through his boxer briefs before freeing his member fully. I stroke it, his forehead now resting on my shoulder as he breathes deeply, small but low moans leaving his luscious lips every now and then.

And that's how we had sex for the first time.

___

The next morning I wake up to low snoring, I smile before opening my eyes, glancing over at Flip's peaceful form. The blanket only covering his lower body. His bare chest falling and rising with every breath he takes. I reach out, pushing his hair back gently and watch him, covering myself with more blanket. I move closer to him, resting my head in his chest, fingertips dancing across his stomach. His breath calms down and he's sighing, still sleeping as I glance up to his eyes. I look back down and bite my lip, my fingers moving further down and pushing the blanket as I go. Soon I reach his member, lightly touching it. I lift myself off the sheets and move lower, parting his legs carefully and kneeling between them, I wet my lips and kiss his semi hard cock. I watch his face, twisting and moving. And when I finally take him whole into my mouth his eyes slowly open, hands gripping the sheets as he looks down, smirking and chuckling as he throws his head back against the pillow. I smile as I lick his penis, kissing the tip and running my hands along his abdomen, dragging my nails down. His muscles twitching underneath my touch.

"Good morning to you too." He mumbles, his voice still sounding way too tired. He rubs a hand across his face and the other one tangle ps in my hair, guiding me up and down at a pace he enjoys. His other arm is tucked behind his head and he looks relaxed. His breath is getting heavier, louder, turning into moaning. But suddenly he sits up, me following his movement as his wide eyes search for his alarm clock.

"6.30? Fuck-" He stumbles out the bed and nearly bumps into his dresser on the way to the bathroom. I didn't know he would be working today. Oops. The shower is running and I hear him exhale loudly, soon turning off the water again. I walk to the bathroom as he comes out, pulling out clothes from his drawers. I have to suppress a grin, holding a hand in front of my lips as I still see his hard member. He's trying to tuck it into his pants but I push his hands off, kneeling down.

"If you're late, ten more minutes won't be a problem." I say, his face twisting in frustration and he groans, pulling on his shirt and the black flannel I wore yesterday. I start my job, trying to make him release fast.

"Fuck, okay- this might work." He says, sounding more awake and guiding my head again, his head tilted back. He's pushing my head so far that I'm near tears, struggling to take a breath. The pace quickens and he's holding me down, groaning and twitching in my mouth, now loudly moaning and releasing his load down my throat. I hold onto his legs, hoping he'd let go soon so I could catch my breath. And that he does, I gasp and cough, wiping my mouth and swallowing down his cum. I wipe my eyes and smile up at him. I kiss his tip as he takes a couple deep breaths.

"No more- I need to get going." He tucks his member away, zipping up and buckling his belt. I stand up wiping some spit off my face. He stops and turns to me, pulling me into a hug. "You're incredible." He whispers into my hair, kissing my forehead. He steps around me and I follow him into the living room where he quickly covers me with a blanket from the couch. "Careful love- only I'm allowed to see you like that." He winks and I giggle, pulling it tightly around myself, watching him put on his boots. "I'll bring you lunch later." I say and he smiles, walking over and giving me another kiss, this time on the lips.

"Thanks, see you later." I wave and watch him leave, going to his car and driving off. I go into the kitchen and sigh as I see my stained shirt still laying there. I clean up his house as best as I can, taking a simple black short sleeve shirt from his drawers and get dressed. Before I leave I make sure he has dinner for tonight and write a quick note.

Thanks for last night, I loved it. Dinner is in the fridge, hope you like it. :)

I leave and take all with me that's mine, driving back to my place to make him some early lunch. I make sandwiches, grab an apple and a piece of my homemade chocolate cake that they didn't finish at the Halloween dinner.

Once I'm freshly showered and wearing new clothes, a sweater and my bell pants, I drive back to the station. It's now 11.30 am.

I walk into the office, a big smile on my face. Their conversation dies down as they see me and Flip stands up, taking my bags and pulling me into a hug, kissing my lips. I melt into his touch, stroking his cheek. Other hand holding his strong arm.

Once he lets go, he goes in for a second but brief peck on the lips.

"When did that happen?" We look over at a stunned Ron and smirking Jimmy who looked like he was waiting for it to happen.

"You owe me, Stallworth."

I ignore that our friends were betting on us and only look at Flip. "I made you lunch and brought you some cake as well."

"What about us? Are we getting no food no more?" Ron gasps, holding a hand over his heart.

"I don't know yet. Maybe you should ask Patrice." I raise a brow at him and Flip throws an arm around me, pointing at me.

"She's my personal chef now, none of yours. Get used to it. Comes with having a girlfriend, Stallworth." I look up at him. Slowly smiling.

"Girlfriend, huh?" He shrugs, smiling innocently and I ignore the comment he made about me. Instead I agree with him. Hugging him around his middle.

"He's right." I mumble into his flannel, loving his smell. I could fall asleep just like this. And just like that I won not only a man who I want to spend a lot of time with- no- I also gained a best friend. My Flip.

_________________________________

More Blackkklansman Imagines

Full Masterlist

[magioftheseas]

Scale for a Wish

Summary: In which Nene climbs a mountain to get her desire for a chivalrous romance granted by a dragon. It turns out that she didn't think this through very well.

Rating: G

Warnings: None.

Notes: I just thought this would be a cute idea to write Nene confronting dragon!Hanako. It’s pretty short, simple, and sweet. It’s more about writing them banter than any of my usual overly complicated setups. But also this is dedicated to the several rocks that hit my character in the face as I was trying to get the blue feather in Harvest Moon: Magical Melodies. I wish I married Jamie, my precious genderfluid rival. Please get remade so that I can marry them.

***Alternate Ao3 Link***

Commission? Donate?

There is a legend that speaks of a powerful dragon seated upon a high, treacherous mountain. It is said that the dragon is a mischievous sort—a being that grants wishes to those with the strength and courage to confront it within its domain. But be warned—for the beast’s power is great and great power cannot always be comprehended, especially to those who do not wield it.

Yashiro Nene, a mostly normal young girl with very little to lose beyond her life after the decimation of her pride, is too bull-headed to heed such warnings. She’s also too stubborn to be deterred from her efforts in scaling the treacherous mountains even as the climb is arduous and the wind whips her face mercilessly.

Legends aside, it can truly be said that humans have no limits in their bravery.

Nor their stupidity.

--

The (mostly?) normal girl has arrived at the peak. She is covered in dirt and sweat, her gloved hands bruised and calloused. She is determined, even as she has to take a moment of rest. After panting and gasping like a fish out of water, she recovered, regained her poise, and marched her way towards the cavern where the dragon slept.

Keeping her hands clasped, her heart racing, Nene entered the cavern. Her gaze darted about nervously, not sure what she was to bear witness. Riches? Bones? Books? A dragon’s hoard could be unpredictable. And it seemed—this dragon was sleeping on paper. Blinking a few times, Nene stepped forward carefully, soundlessly.

Hands tightening, she took a deep breath, and called out to the mound of shadow and obsidian scales.

“Hanako-san, Hanako-san. Please grant my wish.”

The dragon stirred. Slowly but surely, eyes the color of liquid gold began to open. Its head began to raise, and it towered over Nene, so enormous that its very shadow threatened to fully encompass her being. It turned its great, terrifying head towards her, snorting a puff of smoke.

Yashiro Nene, allegedly mostly human, trembled under its glare but she kept her head high, her own gaze fierce and defiant.

“I’ve come to have my wish granted,” she exclaims, voice clearer. “Hanako-san!”

“You...”

“Eek!” She jumped, nearly cowering. “S-Sorry! Sorry! I probably shouldn’t have woken you.”

The dragon stared at this girl, curled up and shivering with fear. It let out a throaty chuckle that was—surprisingly high-pitched. Actually, it sounded less like a fearsome dragon’s snarl and more like a cheeky boy’s snicker. Almost doing a double take, Nene turned back to face the beast, still falling to her knees from shock.

“It’s been a while since a human made it this far,” the dragon admitted, surprisingly good-natured. “And you’re quite—different from the norm, aren’t you? Quite plucky, aren’t you? Miss Heroine, I presume.”

H-Heroine?! Such flattery! Nene quickly got to her feet. But! No! Not yet!

“My name is Yashiro Nene!” she cried, puffing out her chest. “I have come to Hanako-san to have my wish granted! And that wish—is for you to hold me hostage so that a super handsome knight on a while horse can come to my rescue!”

The dragon stared. It did not answer. The silence stretched on. So much so that Nene ended up faltering.

“That’s—something you can do, right?” she asks, frowning and tilting her head. She then realizes. “Oh! No, I’m not asking you to die for something like that, Hanako-san! No, no, no!” She waved her hands furiously. “I just want you to face off against the knight! Once he proves his worth and defeats you honorably, you can just—fly away! Leave us to our happy ending! That’s not too much to ask for, right?”

The dragon continued to stare.

“I-I mean,” Nene stammered, beginning to feel surprisingly awkward. “I’ve heard you grant all kinds of amazing wishes. Um. Riches. Magic. Entire kingdoms. Compared to all that, this...shouldn’t be that hard, right? A lot of fair maidens have found their knights this way, and I—I’ve yet to be abducted by a dragon naturally, so that’s why I’m here! To request the services of Hanako-san!”

And, then, finally...the beast lays its head back down. Its eyes fall shut. It resumes sleep, to Nene’s dismay and exasperation.

“I-It’s not a joke! Nor is it a dream!” she cried, flailing. “I’m serious! And I scaled the mountain! You owe me a wish! That’s how it works, right? Right?! Hanako-san? HANAKO-SAN?!”

She pushed at the dragon’s side repeatedly, wailing and whining as she did.

“H-Hanako-san! Come on! Come on, come on, come ON!!”

It only rolled away from her, onto its back. Nene chased it desperately.

“Hanako-san!”

And then, to her utter shock and dismay, the beast was trembling. Trembling with restrained bouts of laughter. Its tail flailed, clearly trying to not smack either the ground or the wall, but the mountain still shook from mirth. With a yelp, Nene fell down and curled up, covering her head.

It didn’t last for long. Everything stilled after less than ten seconds, but Nene’s heart was still hammering terribly.

“Ah, sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that, Yashiro.”

The dragon had settled back into a more harmless position, head on the ground with rather doleful eyes. Even when talking, it seemed careful to not show Nene too much of those rows of razor-sharp teeth, many of them about the length of her arm. She still shuddered in spite of the dragon’s best efforts.

“I-I-I-I-It’s fiiiiine.”

“You don’t sound very fine,” Hanako said quietly. “I really am sorry. So what was that about abduction and knights? I mean...it sounds to me like you’re looking for a matchmaker.”

“That’s—about right.” Nene nodded in quick succession. “I’d like to be set up with a noble, handsome, knight in shining armor on a white horse. Please and thank you.”

Hanako turned its head to snort so that the ensuing smoke didn’t hit Nene in the face. She still coughed a little. As she rubbed her throat, those slitted golden eyes softened.

“You climbed all this way. It couldn’t have been an easy feat.”

“It wasn’t that bad!” Nene exclaimed. “Actually, I’m used to scaling mountains for herbs and flowers! I’m pretty accomplished in agriculture!” Though she seemed proud of that fact, she did falter as she added, “Just not so much romance. It’s pretty difficult just talking to a guy, and when I try, a lot of them are pretty disinterested in me compared to my friend, Aoi. I think—well, a guy who’d go out of his way to save me... That’s at least someone I might be able to thank earnestly?”

“So, it’d just have to be someone who’d go through trials for your sake?”

Nene’s cheeks puffed.

“When you put it that way, you make me sound pretty selfish and demanding. I just want a good man, I’ll have you know. Someone cool, confident, and chivalrous!” She huffed. “I’ve got no interest in a shallow prick who only cares about slender legs!”

“Slender legs...” Hanako muses, gaze drifting down. The dragon is deterred, however, by Nene yanking down her jacket with quite the ferocious glare. The dragon averted its stare, pretending nothing was amiss. “Well, unfortunately, not every man who goes out to fight dragons for fair maidens is—all you’ve said. Some of them are just glory hogs. But, I could always just eat those types since I’ll be the one guarding you.”

“Oh.” Nene shook her head furiously. “N-No eating! Murder is a bit—it’s a bit much, don’t you think? Or, well, I guess you’re a dragon... S-Still, it’s extreme! Just scare those guys off!”

Hanako does show more teeth, and Nene paled even more.

“Don’t do it!” she pleaded. “Murder is bad!”

Hanako doesn’t answer. There’s just a nod before Hanako’s head drops docilely to the ground.

“Your strange wish comes with caveats, so I suppose you are smarter than I thought.”

Nene bristled even as she remained visibly anxious.

I did come this way to make requests of a dragon... Anyone could point out that’s pretty reckless. But, I—

“I wasn’t exactly sure what else to do besides wait, and I didn’t even know how long I’d have to wait be it months or years. In the time it took, I’d probably get left behind.” Fidgeting, Nene’s eyes flicker to the ground, a solemn glimmer in her stare before they fell shut. “I don’t want that. So I guess—here I am? Instead? Hanako-san, I... Please do grant my wish. There are always knights looking to save maidens from dragons. Surely, among one of them is someone that I can...!”

Hanako hummed softly.

“You’ll still have to wait. You really think that because you won’t be in easy reach that it’ll make you more desirable? Well—it’s true that humans are drawn to that which is difficult to obtain. Even then, it’s not exactly a noble attribute. But I guess what you’re really looking for is someone who’s so compassionate and true that they simply can’t ignore a maiden in trouble. That said—you’ll still just be one of many saved by them.”

Nene flinched.

When you look at it that way—it’s true, isn’t it? There are tons of other maidens to save. I’m not special just because I made a deal with the dragon.

“Of course, who knows,” Hanako went on. “You might get lucky, and I’m pretty bored so maybe we can try it. How about it, Yashiro?”

Rather than look pleased, Nene was now on the verge of tears.

“U-Uh.” Hanako’s eyes widened considerably. “Y-Yashiro?”

“This was stupid!” she yelled, covering her face. “This was so stupid! I’m so stupid! There’s not even a guarantee that this would work the way I want it to! I’m so dumb!” She began to sob. Wail, even. “I-I’m so, so dumb! What was I even thinking?! Waaaaah!”

“H-Hey,” Hanako stammers. “I-It’s okay—”

“It’s not okay!” she shrieked. “I’m so tired! I ache all over—I could have died just getting here a-and for what?! J-Just to try and get a dragon to abduct me?! In hopes I’d be saved?! What kind of desperate, s-selfish—s-stupid—?!”

“U-Um, even if that’s true, you still...”

“Even Hanako-san knows!” Nene wailed, tears running down freely. “It’s so obvious! It’s so, so obvious! Why did it take me this long to see how dumb I was being?! Urgh! I’m—I’m the worst! Just the worst!” Pressing her weeping face back into her palms, her shoulders quaked and quaked. “S-So stupid...! So humiliating...! All I ended up doing...was making an absolute fool of myself...!”

And then, suddenly, surprisingly gentle clawed fingers brushed her hair back, brushed some of the tears away. Confused, Nene uncovered her eyes to blink tearfully at the nervous figure before her.

A boy—of sorts. With messy black hair, golden eyes with slit pupils, and dressed in a black cloak. If it weren’t for the claws, those eyes, the horns protruding from his head, the tail, and the remnants of scales on his cheeks, this person could’ve been mistaken for any other human. But with an expression like that—Nene found she didn’t doubt his humanity at all.

“Please don’t cry,” he murmured, awkward but kind. “I didn’t want to make you cry.”

“...Hanako-san?” Nene blinked, and Hanako wiped away more of the tears that came down her face in rivulets. Sniffling, Nene rubbed at her nose. “I—no, I’m sorry. It’s not Hanako-san’s fault this happened. I... I should be apologizing. First for wasting your time...”

“I don’t mind visitors,” Hanako muttered, not looking at her, but seeming a little embarrassed. “Regardless of the reason—it’s nice to have company. It’s lonely up here.”

Nene does look around. Now that Hanako was roughly the same size as her, she could see just how large and empty the cavern was.

Why—does he even stay here, I wonder? Maybe he has nowhere else to go?

“Well... I can still make the climb pretty easily, all things considered,” Nene pointed out meekly. “If you want someone to visit you more often, I can do that.”

Hanako does stare at her, perplexed.

“You came up here to ask me for a favor.”

“I-I know! B-But I don’t mind being nice to you, either!” she stammered, flustered. “Being lonely is sad. I know that, even though I have Aoi. You don’t seem like a bad person, er, um. Dragon?”

“This is as much my form as the other one,” Hanako said. His tail beat a little against the floor. “You’re not scared by it.”

“I was surprised, but...” Nene shook her head. “Hanako-san comforted me. So, you must be nicer than you are scary.”

“I could still kill someone like this.”

She does recoil, gritting her teeth with fear flashing over her features before her eyes narrowed sharply.

“N-Now you’re just being difficult, Hanako-san! I-I just wanted to be nice!” Puffing her cheeks, she pouted quite fiercely at him. “If you’re uninterested, just say so!”

“I wouldn’t say I’m...uninterested.” His gaze is sweeping over her, rather intense. Nene felt herself warm, her heart skipping a beat. “Yashiro, what kind of person were you hoping would save you?”

“I-I... Um.” She can’t help but be sheepish. “L-Like I s-said, someone cool, confident, and chivalrous. S-Someone who would cherish me and protect me... But also someone kind.”

“I can be kind,” Hanako said, rather sweetly. “And I’m definitely strong enough to protect you.” He does reach out, but he hesitates for a moment, instead gently pinching a lock of her hair between his claws. “So, how about it? This is much less complicated, don’t you think?”

With her face flushed and her eyes wide and watery with emotion, Nene waited until he had let her hair slip from his grasp before she made an X with her arms.

“Sorry! You’re not my type! I like tall, princely guys! Not short, dragon boys! I’m really, really sorry.”

“Oh.” Hanako exhaled. “Okay. Well. I guess that’s to be expected.”

“That! Said!”

Before he could pull away completely, Nene had grabbed his clawed hand and squeezed, mindful of the edges but firm all the same.

“Hanako-san, let’s still be friends!” she exclaimed. “I don’t mind being friends!”

Hanako blinked at her, seemingly taken aback before he laughed.

“Even though I’m a dragon that can eat people?”

“W-Well,” Nene swallowed. “You haven’t actually eaten anyone, right?”

“Who knows?”

“I’m taking that as a no.” She didn’t have any interest in pondering it further if Hanako was going to be so vague about it. She’ll just take it as him not being used to having friends. Or something. Yeah. Yeah. “So, let’s be friends. I mean. For my wish, I guess...you can just bring me down the mountain safely?”

“That’s a small price to ask for. But, yes, I can do that easily.” Hanako showed a rather toothy grin. On a face like that, it was much less intimidating than before. “Consider it the favor of a friend, though, not a wish granted.”

Nene smiled back brightly, completely unaware of the mischievous glimmer in Hanako’s eye.

“I’d really app—aah!”

Before she even had a chance to protest, she had been swept away with ease. Carried like a princess, Nene could hardly even breathe. She only remembered to when she was met with Hanako’s grin.

“Hold on, Yashiro.”

Just what did I—

He was off at a speed she could barely comprehend.

Just what did I get myself intoooooo?!

[helenarasmussen87]

Writing Asks

This the post where I know no one is going to ask me anyway.

1. Describe your comfort zone—a typical you-fic.

Something that is like a “Oh hey, what happens if we do THIS!” and go from there. Usually ends up having loads of emotions, comfort, angst, introspection, loads of kitchen sink dialogues, not too much action. Families, happy endings.

2. Is there a trope you’ve yet to try your hand at, but really want to?

Fluffy stuff and humourous stuff. I am a little too serious for either one and my humour is drier than the desert and very odd. So no.

3. Is there a trope you wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole?

Teacher and Student relationships. Necrophilia, abuse of all sorts, underage. Just not my thing. I’ve gotten unable to stomach a lot of grimdark and super dark stuff as I get older so I won’t write it. But go ahead if that’s your thing.

4. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Care to share one of them?

Two, since I can’t have more than two on the burner. Learned THAT early on and they’re Terror AU’s One is a fixit, but with health complications and angst. The other is a Modern Day AU which has two professors falling in love after one gets injured and the other worked as an EMT and helps to take care of him and they fall in love.

5. Share one of your strengths.

I can offer insights on what flows and what doesn’t. I can also happily shred my own drafts if they don’t work. 

6. Share one of your weaknesses.

Action. I work at it, but it’s not my favourite. Or war writing. 

7. Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

“Danny had to turn his head away to hide his smile, because he knew that it was a legitimate concern for Jose. Most of the time, he had jumped into bed with his partners first and then did the mating dance. 

Although extremely smart in other aspects, dating and social interactions were always a bit skewed, because he was always second-guessing himself and nervous as hell.

“That’s actually how things work out in these situations. At least it did for me and my ex and for me and Claude.” Danny explained calmly, making Jose nod and take another pull of his slurpee.

“So what do I do? Like is there a time when I bring up the possibility of us sleeping together?” Jose asked, the words slightly mumbled as he chewed on the straw.

“You don’t bring it up. You’ll just know when the time is right for it to happen. Sex isn’t what a relationship should be built on. Yes, it’s nice and it’s part of it, but it’s not the end all to be all. Trust me on this. It will happen if it’s meant to happen.” Danny explained, hoping that he had put it all in the plainest and simplest terms he could for his friend.

I am proud of this because it was majorly borrowing from life and I can see the difference from earlier writing. 

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

“Sergio laughed shortly. “I’ve already done enough of that, and look at where it’s gotten you. Yeah, legally I hold claim over you. I could make the club buy out your contract and sit at home all day, having litter after litter.”

Iker’s blood froze at that and he turned to look at Sergio to see if he really meant it, but Sergio’s face gave nothing away.

“Or I could sign your rights to the club and let them sell you wherever or to whomever. Take you out of Spain, or sell you to Getafe or Malaga. All of these things I could do. The club actually did bring it up at that meeting you didn’t show up for.”

Iker blinked, his hands going numb as Sergio’s wickedly honed words hit home.

“I’m not telling you this to hurt you. Or make you feel indebted. I’m telling this to you because you’re this close to losing your spot and that’s the last thing I want for you. But there’s only so much I can do for you.”

He sighed and looked at Iker dead in the eyes.

“I miss him too, Iker. I miss Antonio every fucking day. And I miss you.”

Iker swallowed hard as Sergio abruptly turned and left, slamming the front door and freeing him from the command so suddenly that Iker fell onto the couch and curled up in it.

He had no energy to do anything else. Not when he was all too aware he’d fucked up and fucked up big and needed to fix it.

Borrowed from life again and it was more of a dialogue that needed to be had when you finally realize how much you fucked up and how much you need to stop coasting and make it right. 

9. Which fic has been the hardest to write?

ALL OF THEM! Kidding. I want to say the one I’m working on right now. I was lucky enough I got a ton of help fleshing it out. I can see the end of the 1st chapter and I am having a hell of a time writing Goodsir’s chunk. He’s turned out more emo and romantic than I was expecting. 

10. Which fic has been the easiest to write?

The QuiObi prompts for the prompt week. Took me like two hours to knock them off and post. 

11. Is writing your passion or just a fun hobby?

Its a passion and a hobby. It helped me through a lot of rough patches and keeps me sane. 

12. Is there an episode above all others that inspires you just a little bit more?

Mostly music or a change in life. I tend to write when everything is in flux with me.

13. What’s the best writing advice you’ve ever come across?

Just write. Worry about editing later. Once you have something on the paper, fixing it up becomes easier. 

14. What’s the worst writing advice you’ve ever come across?

Edit as you write. You don’t get anything done.

15. If you could choose one of your fics to be filmed, which would you choose?

Oooh. I think it’s a toss up between my Qui-Gon/Jango fic in a pastoral setting where they have put their pasts behind and are farmers on Concord Dawn. Or the Werewolf fic I wrote during my RPF phase.

16. If you only could write one pairing for the rest of your life, which pairing would it be?

Bloody hard. I would have to say Fitzier (Commander Fitzjames/Captain Crozier)

17. Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order?

Depends. Sometimes I go straight from beginning to end and sometimes I end up writing the middle and not figuring it out until later.

18. Do you use any tools, like worksheets or outlines?

Outlines. I have notebooks I jot down point form notes about the characters and the plot.

18. Stephen King once said that his muse is a man who lives in the basement. Do you have a muse?

Mine is a librarian or an alchemist trying to figure out answers and how things fit in.

19. Describe your perfect writing conditions.

A good playlist. Alone, in my room.

20. How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

I revise it along the way when I sit down to write. Then before I post, I give it a once over to make sure it flows and makes sense. 

21. Choose a passage from one of your earlier fics and edit it into your current writing style. (Person sending the ask is free to make suggestions).

All my old fics are honestly gone so I’m skipping this one. 

22. If you were to revise one of your older fics from start to finish, which would it be and why?

Honestly? The Duo and Heero one I wrote about them being in an abusive relationship where they split up, then got back together again. I was again writing from life, and I have seen couples who did overcome it, but looking back, I think I should have written it that they separated and went their own ways. 

Keep in mind I was very young when I wrote this, and I was in an abusive relationship myself and didn’t realise it at the time. He hit me once, apologised and never did it again. But he did end up manipulating me, gaslighting me, and emotionally abusing me until I finally had enough and left. 

23. Have you ever deleted one of your published fics?

Yes. Loads of them due to me not wanting to finish them. Or the hosting sites going under. 

24. What do you look for in a beta?

Someone who is honest, someone who knows the way I write, and has suggestions to fix those said things. But someone who is themselves is the best. Because they know what they want. Same here. 

25. Do you beta yourself? If so, what kind of beta are you?

I do, simply due to lack of steady betas. Flow and story telling, but I also look for syntax and formatting as well as grammar. I will miss typos, so I run spell-check too. I mostly use a mental rubric. Teacher training.

26. How do you feel about collaborations?

I haven’t had a successful one due to the second person always deciding that they can’t follow through or up and disappearing. So I don’t do them.

27. Share three of your favorite fic writers and why you like them so much.

Oh my God! I read so much and so many different people that I can’t pinpoint three. I usually end up reading a fic or two, so I can’t say why I read the author.

28. If you could write the sequel (or prequel) to any fic out there not written by yourself, which would you choose?

I haven’t done that. I do admit to having inspired by fics. I wouldn’t ever presume to do that. It just feels like a snub.

29. Do you accept prompts?

Not really. I can’t tailor write stuff consistently. 

30. Do you take liberties with canon or are you very strict about your fic being canon compliant?

Oh always! I end up liking the characters that somehow never make it until the end. And in the Terror, unless you want to write angst all the time, you HAVE to ignore canon. And I mean BOTH the book and the show, since the book is nasty. The show is amazing, but oh my god is it depressing.

31. How do you feel about smut?

Yes damned please!

32. How do you feel about crack?

Depends on how well it’s done. Sometimes it is needed. Sometimes it’s like “Why?”

33. What are your thoughts on non-con and dub-con?

A bit tricky. I don’t mind non-con, but it has to be handled well. Dub-con, especially in A/B/O happens within context and it is usually dealt with. So I can tolerate that more than the first. Outright abuse, no.

34. Would you ever kill off a canon character?

Yes. Not often thought. But yes. I usually try and keep as many alive as I can though.

35. Which is your favorite site to post fic?

AO3, its a wild place and I love it for that reason.

36. Talk about your current wips.

It’s an AU where two professors that live in the same building and work in different faculties get thrown together and start to get to know each other. Due to circumstance, one gets injured and the other kind of volunteers to help take care of him, where they fall in love. The others in the vicinity do also. There’s Canadian shenanigans and baking. 

37. Talk about a review that made your day.

That they really liked how I wrote Frank Randall and would like to see more with his son, an OC I created for the story.

38. Do you ever get rude reviews and how do you deal with them?

I either delete, or give a generic reply and leave it. I’ve got stuff to do.

40. Write an alternative ending to [insert fic title] (or just the summary of one).

Nope. It just doesn’t work for me.

*somewhere I fucked up on the number but here you are*

Whoever wants to do this.

[stassisaunders]

Thread: Must Love Dogs Location: Edgewater Flower Festival Status: Closed Thread w/ Stassi & Thorne || Moved from Discord - In Progress

STASSI

She was running late, of course she was running late, she was always running late—that had always been a thing with Stassi, poor time management, her skating coaches all lectured her on being punctual, but it never took and probably never would. It wasn’t really her fault this time, okay maybe it was, but not fully her fault that she had a last minute customer and ended up closing the bakery twenty minutes after she had planned, she couldn’t exactly shove the man out the door after all, that was rude and bad for business. And so, she was running late, rushing along and balancing a rather large box of fresh cupcakes and assorted other baked goods for the other volunteers to enjoy during breaks—as usual, Sugar was off leash trotting along beside her like the good pup she always was—except apparently not today, because one second her faithful Pitbull was heeling as trained and in a blink she had bolted ahead of Stassi, which of course caused immediate anxiety—compounded times ten when the pup launched herself at a young man walking with a cane, knocking him flat on his ass to her horror.

“Sugar… NO!”

Stassi winced as the man went down and the pup began to assault him with licks to the face in between dancing around him—tail wagging proudly as she looked up at her owner as if expecting a reward for her behavior. The blonde quickly rushed over, setting the box down before lunging down to grab Sugar by the collar, gently tugging her back. “Sugar, SIT!” she firmly commanded, the dog immediately doing as told. “Stay!” she added, leaning down to offer her hand to the poor victim of her chaotic canine. “I’m so, so, so sorry about that, she’s never done anything like that before…” she stammered, noting the very not at all pleased expression on the man’s face. “Did she hurt you?” she bit down on her lower lip, her brow furrowing with worry.

THORNE

Thorne, most emphatically, did not want to be at this festival. If anyone but Alfie had asked him he would have told them in no uncertain terms to fuck themselves. Al had vanished, of course, and had left him wandering around like a lost child while he waited for him to come back.

His hip throbbed incessantly, making his dependence on the cane that much more apparent as he paused to catch his breath and look around. He hates this. He hates being an invalid. Even on good days he felt broken, useless, and he was beginning to think that feeling would never go away again. He missed having good days...

He was about to start moving again when a dog came out of nowhere, leaping at him in excitement. Had he been expecting he might have been able to catch himself. As it was, he went sprawling into the dirt with an indignant cry. The dog lapped at his face before he could stop it, pushing at it in a vain attempt to get it off of him. Before he could do much, the owner was there, chastising it and pulling it away.

He sat up with a groan and ruffled his hair. “No, i’m fine. Just wasn’t expecting to get mauled today.” He offered a small smile and picked up the cane, leaning on it. “No worse for wear.”

STASSI

Stassi felt horribly about the whole thing, it definitely wasn't Sugar's typical behavior and she had no clue what prompted the pup to go rouge, especially on someone who clearly did not need to be bowled over by forty pounds of pure muscle that probably seemed like at least twice that at the speed she had launched herself. Her cheeks were flushed from the excitement of the whole ordeal as she kept her hand out for him to take just in case he needed a little more than the cane to help him get back on his feet again.

"I never expected her to do such a thing, she's literally never done that a single time since she was a tiny untrained puppy. You're sure she didn't hurt you? She's little for her breed, but she's stronger than she knows." She explained nervously, her cheeks flushing just that little bit more when he smiled—her eyes flicking up to meet his as she offered another apologetic smile while Sugar continued to adhere the stay command, though her tail was wagging so hard her whole butt was wiggling as she let out a little whine in protest of being all but ignored.

"I suppose there's worse things than being mauled with puppy kisses..." She rapidly blinked a few times as she remembered why she had been rushing in the first place. "Kisses... I'm late for my shift at the kissing booth, fuckity-fuck..." she sort of muttered to herself before her eyes once again met his. "If you're sure you're okay," she began, leaning down to pick up the box of baked goods. "I should probably haul my ass to where I'm supposed to be." she crinkled her nose as she stood up straight again. "If you realize later she did actually do damage, I own the Butterstick Bakery so you can find me there if you need to, again, I'm so incredibly sorry..." she continued as she started to walk back in the direction she had originally been going. "Thank you for not yelling at me... Sugar, let's go heel..." she trailed off as the pup hopped on all fours, pausing briefly to lick his hand before following behind.

THORNE

He was, to put it kindly, a bit miffed. He did his best to remain dignified at all times and that was hard to do when you got shoved over on your ass in the dirt. He tried to be pleasant though, shaking his head. “I’m fine. She didn’t do any damage.” Indeed she hadn’t. The throbbing in his hip was the normal amount. He was fully intact otherwise, ready to get up and get out of the hell scape of people and flowers he found himself in... and yet he didn’t make a break for it.

“I can go with you. If they’re mad you’re late I’d be more than happy to let them know you had to stop to help me.” He tapped his cane on the ground with a wry smirk. “Most folks won’t argue with a cripple. It has worked to my advantage several times in the past.”

STASSI

She quickly paused her departure when he offered to accompany her and be her excuse for being tardy, she was pleasantly surprised by the offer—after all, her dog had just accosted him and it couldn't have been a very pleasant experience being tackled to the ground when you're already having mobility issues. "Yeah? Sure, that would be extremely kind of you, all things considered." She offered an appreciative smile and a light giggle as he poked fun at the whole situation. "Well, I mean one could, if you want to look like a total asshat, but yeah."

Stassi waited for him to catch up to her and slowed her own pace as the trek resumed, he was cute and she was definitely grateful he was so forgiving. "I'm Nastassia, by the way... well, Stassi, no one really calls me by my given name. Doesn't roll off the tongue easily I guess." She shrugged her shoulders slightly, glancing his way as they walked side by side with Sugar insinuating herself between them, again licking his hand. "She really likes you, they say dogs are the best judges of character, you know?"

THORNE

“That’s just it,” he smirked, one blond brow arching in amusement. “No one wants to be an asshole so i can get away with quite a bit.” He winked at her and headed back into the heart of the festival. He nodded at her. “That’s a very unique name. I’m Thorne.” He added after a moment, ruffling his hair as he looked down at the happy dog. “Yeah well. It could have been a lot worse i suppose...” he lightly flicked his fingers at the animal, grinning softly

STASSI

"So I'm getting the sense this is a well tested tactic of yours?" She too quirked a brow, her cheeks once again flushing a deeper shade of pink at the little wink. He was was cute, and had a good sense of humor, and was chivalrous, she liked him instantly—then again, Stassi did have a habit of falling in love with every guy who paid her the least bit of attention—the rub was that not one had ever reciprocated her feelings. "Yeah, my mom swears I'm named after my great-great-great-great grandmother, who was an exiled Russian princess." She shrugged, crinkling her nose. "Thorne, that's definitely not a name you hear every day, but I like it, it suits you." She then added. "It's nice to meet you, Thorne. I mean, clearly not the most ideal way to meet someone new, but yeah." She smiled as she glanced down at Sugar and saw him attempting interaction with the white and tan pup. "So, where are you from ... if you don't mind me asking? I assume you're not originally from Edgewater, it's kind of a small town and you have the kind of face a girl doesn't forget." A face she definitely was enjoying looking at.

[metatextuality]

Broken Parts

(prompted by this post on lasting physical injury. tagging @aerialsquid and @whetstonefires because i expect this disorganised character exploration is at least relevant to their interests.)

The Jester’s face is a mass of scar tissue.

When people hear that, they usually say things like “I’m so sorry,” and, “That must have been awful.” They don’t think of things like two-month psychotic break or traumatic amnesia – or if they do, they assume it’s a vanity thing, even if they don’t normally think of appearance as particularly important; that J’s biggest problem was the violent disfigurement of his face into something unrecognisable instead of –

– the fact that the bleaching and discolouration go far more than skin-deep: the Jester can’t feel most of his face, most of the time; the muscles are drawn painfully rigid into something just short of lockjaw, so that if he doesn’t pay close attention and check his reflection in nearby surfaces often his mouth stretches automatically back into a ghastly gum-baring grin. He had to relearn how to talk like a parrot or a ventriloquist because it was too hard and hurt too much to bring his lips together for every P or B or F or V. He has to massage his jaw for ten minutes or so after waking up in order to loosen the muscles enough to open it; after he cracked a molar in his sleep, Francis (Dulmacher, the surgeon who treated him without asking for documentation or reimbursement, and who was clearly more used to being addressed by title and last name as befitting a professional but resigned himself fairly quickly to J’s reflexive familiarity) made him start wearing a polymer mouthguard at night.

– his throat hurts all the time. The Jester’s voice rasps like a violin played with a badly-frayed bowstring, and crackles like broken glass when he laughs; that’s what happens when a person inhales hazardous industrial chemicals.

– the numbness covers his entire body, not just his face. The Jester moves like a drunken master, or like a Weeble that wobbles but doesn’t fall down; people seem to react like this is just a him thing, a relatively unimportant eccentricity amongst the already vertiginous pile of eccentricities that has somehow kept him from getting killed so far, instead of realising that it’s because he always loses track of where his limbs are and has gotten used to compensating. Whenever he gets into the shower he notices new bruises he didn’t remember acquiring. This also means that he routinely performs superhuman feats of strength because he doesn’t notice sprains and dislocations until after the fact and doesn’t have a reference baseline to calibrate his expectations to. (It drives Owlman crazy that he can hit the Jester with two-hundred-something pounds of force behind it and J will just pop back up like a jack-in-the-box nearly every time, which is a silver lining.)

– there may, in fact, be something superhuman about him. Francis has lamented at length about his desire to examine Extruded Man for comparison, because the Jester’s body heals from things it shouldn’t in ways that, quote, “defy scientific canon” and bends in ways that “shouldn’t be possible without injury”. Most people, it turns out, don’t find back handsprings an equally intuitive form of locomotion as walking. (Which is to say, equally unintuitive, but it isn’t really a big deal for J to use his hands instead of – or in addition to – his feet, especially when he’s used to catching his balance with them all the time anyway.)

– J has at least two bullet scars, one of which he remembers getting. Owlman usually seems to prefer blades, which J has an easier time avoiding due to an instinctive desire not to be stabbed with them, but which leave more memorable scars. The rest of his skin has the slightly-crinkly texture of a burn scar; Francis was quite emphatic about the fact that whatever marks his body had before the incident at the chemical plant, the acid burned them away. This includes things like fingerprints.

– he can’t taste most food. Spicy things help, but once in a while the capsaicin comes into contact with a spot on his tongue or the insides of his cheeks where the nerves haven’t all died and it burns like acid in an open wound. Sweets are more reliable.

– when he’s as fully recovered as he’ll likely ever be, J can see about thirty feet in front of him before things start to lose focus; focusing on things in general makes his head hurt, especially when his eyes start vibrating with the effort of adjusting in tandem. He got a fifteen-dollar pair of glasses from a corner store one time but always forgets to put them on because he can see well enough in most circumstances not to need them until he does (and, well, he usually carries a pair of binoculars anyway for Reasons). He was lucky not to lose his vision completely; he still doesn’t produce tears the way he’s apparently supposed to, and sometimes forgets to blink as much as he should and then wonders why his eyes hurt so much.

– Harley says there’s no way to tell which cognitive effects are of biological origin and which were impacted by chemical damage short of an autopsy. (DNA analysis could indicate certain predispositions, but she was very clear about that not being sufficient for diagnosis.) Mania is only diagnosed in contrast to a pre-existing personality baseline, which they don’t have; J doesn’t generally hallucinate unless something else interesting is causing it, and doesn’t really experience the negative affective issues, so schizophrenia and the Cluster A disorders are out despite a tendency toward hyperactive apophenia and disorganised thought tangents – Harley’s said that in circumstances with a clearer medical history, she might propose ADHD, but given that nonvital medications aren’t reliably within their reach and that J and his friends have practice compensating for his distractibility and unorthodox processing, it’s more useful as a reference paradigm than a concrete diagnosis. (Jon looked vaguely disturbed at the suggestion that he synthesise amphetamine salts given the possibility of exacerbating the Jester’s symptoms, perhaps permanently, but agreed that it was worth experimenting with under controlled conditions with J’s consent. All they really did in the end was make J more whatever-he-is for about four hours, which might be useful under certain circumstances but was a bit too extreme even for Gotham's motley collection of vigilantes to deal with regularly.)

– traumatic amnesia, the fact that the Jester struggles to recall more than bits and pieces of a prior life that doesn’t feel like it belonged to him, means that J’s medical history is at most a best-guess approximation – which means that he once got shingles for a month because it turned out he’d never been vaccinated. He hadn’t even known that was a possibility. Francis and Harley ganged up on him to make sure he got the entire panel of booster shots as a precaution after that.

– no one tells you that leprosy actually affects the peripheral nervous system, and that the more well-known symptoms are usually a result of infected wounds that go unnoticed due to loss of sensation. The implications of full-body nerve damage due to chemical burns are left as an exercise for the reader. (Upon discharging him a second time after the Jester broke out of the clinic mid-recovery from The Chemical Bath Incident, Francis slapped an enormous tube of combined-antibiotic ointment into J’s hands with instructions to perform a complete physical exam no less than every two weeks for the rest of his life, preferably with assistance.)

[tegary-blog]

12+75 for your prompt list please?

A note before we begin: in this ficlet, I am writing for a pansexualgenderfluid character. As a cisgendered lesbian myself, I do not have the samebackground or experiences that a person who identifies like Loki would have.Please, please shoot me a message if I misrepresent anything.  There are also some ignorant questions addressed at Loki and biphobia(from other characters) addressed at Thor ahead.

12 + 75: Roommate AU & Bedsharing

It’s half-past two o’clock in the morning whenLoki is awoken by the door to his apartment closing. Thor isn’t exactly beingloud, per say, but the old, rickety, 1960s era foundations of the building theylive in make it so that you can’t hardly breathe in the front entryway withoutmoving something in the bedroom hallway. Pulling a pillow over his head, Lokigroans and rolls over. His temples are still vaguely aching from the couple ofeight-packs he split with Val a few hours prior, and he squeezes his eyes shutwith every intention to just go back to sleep.

That is, until Loki remembers what exactly it isthat Thor’s been up to.

About a week ago, Thor had come to Loki whilethe former was trying to finish up a paper for his Philosophy of Law class,wringing his hands and nervously asking Loki if they could talk. Loki had held one finger up, finished his lastcitation, and shut the lid of his laptop, gesturing for Thor to take a seatacross from him on the couch.

“What’s on your mind?” Loki had asked.

“I think I’m bisexual,” Thor had blurted.

It had been silent for a few moments, Lokiblinking widely while Thor’s face explored the color spectrum between baby pinkand fire-truck red in a span of about ten seconds. Of course, Loki wasn’tput-off. Far from it, in fact. Loki had first come out as bisexual during hisfreshman year of high school, before learning about pansexuality and realizingthat term more closely fit his own sense of self-identity. And once Loki’scounselor had explained to him what genderfluiditywas? Loki felt as if he’d finally fit together the parts of himself thathad been standing in sharp dissonance all of his life.

Of course, he’d been extremely lucky to receive thesupport he had from his family: Fárbauti had sat down theday Loki had come out to her and gathered every resource she could on the topicof pansexuality and genderfluidity, devouring them all within hours. Loki hadawoken the next morning to his mother making pancakes and asking what pronounshe’d like to be addressed by that day. And when Loki had sheepishly asked herto teach him how to apply makeup? She’d spent hours showing him, over and over,until Loki could successfully reproduce a winged eyeliner that was so sharpthat it could probably kill a man.

Loki’s father and brothers had taken a bit more time. Helblindi and Býleistr had all types of questions when Loki hadfirst told them: isn’t that just beingbisexual? Does that mean you want to be a girl? But Loki had taken time toexplain to them what it meant, and how he felt, and he’d come away feelingfairly good about the conversation. It took them a while, but soon, the pairwould ask for Loki’s pronouns for the day before beginning their incessantbrotherly teasing. For his first Christmas after coming out, Loki’s brothershad collaborated on a sign for Loki’s door with Velcro attachments where hecould post his pronouns each morning.

Laufey…is still getting a hang of things. Mostof the time, Laufey will use Loki’s pronouns, but he still occasionally messesup and misgenders him. Loki doesn’t usually have to do the correcting, though: Fárbauti or Helblindi or Býleistr will usually hop in with a “it’s she today,dad,” or “he, remember, dear.”

Thor’sparents were not so accepting. At least, his father wasn’t. Loki had never metThor’s mother, though with the tales Loki had heard about Frigga, he’d wager aguess that she would love Thor no matter what. Odin, on the other hand, was astereotypical machismo father-type. All he cared about was his son’s footballprowess and the girls Thor dated. It’s all he ever asked about. Loki remembers conversationsThor would have with Odin on the phone during their freshman year: “Yes, Dad, I’mstill staring quarterback.” “No, Dad, I’m seeing another girl now. Her name isMelissa.”

As soon asOdin had left on move-in day, Loki had unpacked his pansexual pride flag,started to hang it up on the wall above his bed. Across from him, Thor hadstilled.

“What’sthat?”

“Oh, this?”And the skin at the back of Loki’s neck had prickled. “It’s a pansexual prideflag. Got it off the internet last year.” And he’d continued to hang it, butthis time, a bit slower, hyper-aware of the fact that Thor’s gaze never lefthis back.

All of Loki’s worries about having a phobicroommate had disappeared soon after, though, as Thor was quite possibly the friendliest person Loki had ever met inhis life. He was constantly inviting Loki to hang out, or bringing him schoolgear that he’d gotten from the athletics department, or asking him to get pizzawith Thor’s group of football friends. It was there that Loki had met his bestfriend Val, a gymnast who wore the school’s mascot suit, and Val’s friendBruce, an awkward Biochemistry grad student.

And after waiting a whole semester to come outto Thor as genderfluid? The other man had simply smiled, nodded, and opened hisarms for a hug.

Which is exactly what Loki had done for Thor.

The big oaf had crashed into Loki’s arms,holding him so tight that Loki feared he might be strangled to death. But he couldfeel that Thor was shaking, and Lokihad just held him, rubbing his back in soothing circles and promising thateverything was going to be okay.

Which leads him back to the present, in whichThor has just returned from his first date with another man.

Loki is out of his bed in a second, ignoring thesmarting protest at his temples as he hurries out of his bedroom and down thehallway. Skidding to a stop at the entrance to the living room, Loki throws hisarms wide.

“How was—it…?” And Thor’s face tells Loki allthat he needs to know. His eyes are downset, mouth turned in a grimacing frown.He’s taken off the leather jacket that Loki had picked out for him and iscarrying it dejectedly at his side.

“Thor?” Loki asks quietly, taking a stepforward. It takes a moment, but Thor does eventually look up to meet his gaze.His blue eyes, which are usually so full of light and laughter, are dim, dullin the light from their one standing lamp.

Loki has never felt the urge to murder so strongly.

“He said…” And Thor’s mouth works wordlessly fora moment. He brings an arm to wipe across his face, and Loki realizes thatthere are tears in his eyes. “He saidI couldn’t have both. That I had to choose…”

Loki frowns, not quite understanding. Slowly, heapproaches, placing a gentle hand on Thor’s shoulder.

“Pardon?”

“It started out well. Then I mentioned Jane, andhe…he…” Thor sniffles, and it’s like a dagger straight to Loki’s heart. “Hesaid ‘oh, you’re one of those’. Hesaid I couldn’t have both men and women. That it was selfish. That I had topick just one.”

Loki had been worried about this. Though, as apansexual, he didn’t experience it in quite the same way, Valkyrie had told himonce about how she and her then-boyfriend had been confronted at a prideparade, told that they didn’t belong. It’s why Loki had been so damned careful when he was helping Thor searchthrough Tinder. And the man they’d agreed upon had seemed fine enough—he wasThor’s type (skinny and with a mop of curly black hair. Huh. Loki had assumedThor would be more interested in bigger men), and there wasn’t anything in hisbio that jumped out to Loki as a red flag.

“Thor, Thor no,” Loki murmurs, cupping Thor’sbearded cheeks in his hands. “Look at me. That guy is an asshole. You don’thave to choose. You are completely valid as you are—don’t listen to anyone whotells you that you’re not.”

The watery smile Thor gives him in return breaksLoki’s heart all over again, and he drops his hands to take a hold of one ofThor’s arms.

“Come on. Come with me.”

He leads Thor down the hallway back to his room,carefully ushering him inside. Turning to give his roommate some privacy, Lokidigs around in Thor’s closet (it’s an absolute mess. Loki makes a mental noteto offer to help Thor organize) for a pair of sweatpants and a white v-neckt-shirt. He holds them out behind him and feels Thor take them from his hands,turning back around only when Thor murmurs okay.

“Do you need anything? I think we have chocolatesyrup in the fridge, I could make some hot chocolate…” And Thor shakes hishead, stares down at his feet for a moment.

“Thor?”

“This…is going to sound silly,” Thor says aftera moment more, still not bringing his eyes to meet Loki’s. “But I really don’twant to be alone right now.”

Loki blinks once, twice.

“Alright.”

Negotiating space on Thor’s tiny twin-sized bedis a battle, and Loki ends up closest to the wall with his back pressed alongThor’s front. After deciding that their positioning won’t do at all (he cannot get aroused right now. Not afterall Thor’s been through tonight), Loki flips so he’s facing Thor’s chest. He’snot actually sure if this is any better, though, as now he’s getting deepinhales of something that’s a mix of Thor’s cologne and the cheap shampoo theyboth use and something that is so uniquely Thor that it sets Loki’s heartracing.

Loki’s proud of his self-control, because hedoesn’t jump when one of Thor’s arms comes to wrap around Loki’s shoulders,holding him close. They just lay like that for a while, until their breathssync.

“Loki?” Thor asks into the darkness.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

[omnical]

I Sing the Body Electric... (1/?)

( Next )

Summary: All her life, forensic pathologist Dr. Angela Ziegler has dabbled much with the dead. After a bout of self-realization, she decides it was time she learned how to deal with the living.

And maybe ask her colleague out for a date somehow.

Genre: AU, Romance. Dark humor. Oh, and ghosts and psychics (anyone a fan of pushing daisies?)

Characters/Pairings: Angela, Lucio, Fareeha (mentioned), Pharmercy

Rating: T, mentions of body gore and third party violence, dark humor.

Links: AO3

Victim died from a singular sharp force: a penetrating wound to the head, resulting in cranial injury.

Left side, approximately 1.53 inches superior to the left orbit.

No murder weapon discovered in the crime scene.

Angela hummed, tapping her lip with the pen.

She paused the voice recorder and wrote her thoughts down on a yellow notebook, leg bobbing, her mind sinking deeper into concentration. By her elbow, a steaming cup of coffee remained untouched, and a nine-hour-old, empty sandwich wrapper laid crumpled up in a ball. Empty coffee cups littered her desk, alongside a mess of sticky notes with crucial thoughts written on them, such as: ‘the nasal cavity?’ and ‘lentil soup’.

Her uniform smelled freshly of antiseptic and murk from the examination they had performed earlier today. It sunk into her skin, her hair; lingering under her nose. Nothing she wasn’t used to, but being used to the smell did not mean she wouldn’t enjoy a long, hot shower back home. Finally, wiping biscuit crumbs off her wobbling keyboard and cracking her long, crooked fingers -- Angela got to work threading the details together. Her peering blue eyes did not break away from the notes and sketches she accumulated, as she typed down her meticulous observations regarding the case. And after what felt like hours, Dr. Ziegler sat back stiffly, curled hands hovering above the keyboard as she skimmed through her official autopsy report, eyes straining from overexposure to the monitor light.

She needed a few more moments of scribbling and typing and biting her pen. Playing the recorder again, keeping it on repeat; she listened to the sound of her voice, crackling and interspersed with static:

Body was found by janitorial staff at 1:30 PM.

According to the man in question, he was lying face-down on his desk, his pose suggesting a struggle, which explains various points of discoloration on his skin…

Blunt force trauma found on abdomen… bruising prominent beneath the left rib –

Where was his position when he received that bruise again?

Angela hummed, her thumbs tapping a random rhythm on the keyboard's space-key.

Once she reached the end of the tape for the third time, marked by a soft ‘click’, afternoon had already come and gone, her desktop monitor the only light bathing her in blue. She hid the recorder in the drawer, her free hand busy alternating between drafting a few rough sketches on paper, and typing exact details on the autopsy report. The doctor took a moment to grab a folder for Case #765 on top of a pile, opening it and flipping over to the photos of the crime scene: dried blood splattered outwards in every chaotic direction on the victim’s mahogany desk; his leather writing pad askew, probably because of how the body fell upon its expiry. She pinched her pen idly between her nose and upper lip, noting how neat the rest of the victim’s desk looked otherwise. She wondered what Satya would say about that particular pattern of blood. It looked like a bunny rabbit.

“Doc Ziegler?”

Cutting herself off in the middle of her thoughts before it drifted too far, Angela reached out to grab her coffee cup, not minding its ice-cold contents, and re-read her notes during their Internal Examination. Angela could only imagine what kind of weapon the murderer used. Or get an idea of what it was, at least, after seeing the results of the death blow herself. This seemed like a tricky one.

“Doc?”

Now if she were to make a guess, it would have been an extremely sharp knife with a serrated edge or…

Angela blindly grabbed for her pen, cocking her head when she realized, during her feverish thought process, she had lost the blasted thing somewhere and could not for the life of her remember where…

“Yo, Dr. Ziegler!” Angela blinked rapidly when Dr. dos Santos’ face appeared in front of her peripheral vision, her blurry sight sharpening until she could see the quirk of his eyebrow and his amused smirk up close. “Busy?” After a pause, a few seconds spent allowing her mind to buffer as she forcefully snapped herself back into reality, Angela jumped in her chair and uttered a small and startled ‘oh’. Her speeding thoughts halting violently in its tracks, not unlike a race car screeching out of the road in a rabble of chaos. She blinked again and, similar to the spread of colored dye blooming in water, her mind began to consciously feel the kinks and aches in her bones ignored for too long. A beat, and she realized her stomach had also released an embarrassing rumble on top of it all. She sent Lucio a sheepish look.

“Doctor, I’m sorry, I -- ” Angela shoved her skewed glasses up her nose, “You startled me.”

Lucio shook his head and rested hands on his hips while he regarded his frazzled mentor. There were biscuit crumbs dotting the corners of her mouth, and her blonde hair stuck up in several different directions all at once. Her clothing was rumpled and frayed, high heels pushed to the corner of her desk, leaving her feet covered in wrinkled stockings, and -- there were coffee stains on her shirt. He sighed, wondering who was really looking after who, in their professional relationship.

“So,” he said, elongating the word into a drawl, “Please tell me you ate lunch?”

Dr. Ziegler cleared her throat, “Yes, of course I had lunch.” she said, wiping crumbs off her chin. “I had something hot and soup-like almost an hour ago, and – “

“I don’t think coffee counts as ‘lunch’, Angela.”

Angela groaned in defeat and closed her eyes, watching bright spots dance beneath her eyelids as her body melted into the chair like putty. She breathed in deep, then stretched her legs out with an exhale. “Just finishing up on some paperwork, that’s all. You know how I get carried away sometimes.”

“How about all the time? And I think ‘carried away’ wasn’t exactly the term I was looking for. Try ‘workaholic’, or ‘perfectionist’.” Lucio leaned his hip against Angela’s desk, crossing his arms, and peering down at her with a mock frown, his neon green headset bunched up around his neck. Even if Dr. Lucio dos Santos was many years younger than her, and technically working under her, Angela hunkered down into her seat feeling much like a child under the watchful eyes of a parent. “When was the last time you took a ten-minute break, young lady?”

“I am not working too hard,” Angela groused. She sat back up in her seat with a grunt, feeling her back and neck pop. “This is just regular me, doing my regular me things,” She shot him a look. “Mom.”

“Don’t give me lip, young lady, you know you’re wrong about this,” Lucio said, “As your colleague, you know I respect and look up to you. But as your friend? You gotta start taking care of yourself, Angela.”

Angela huffed through her nose and began to get her hands busy, stacking the mess of reports which covered her desk into a neat-ish pile, and actively trying to avoid the look Lucio was giving her. “Just be glad I am out of my funk, Dr. dos Santos. I am happy, motivated, and ready to take on the next seventeen cases.” Even the smile on her face felt fake. “Bring it on.”

“Uhuh.” Lucio wryly glanced at the mess of documents under her desk. “Angela, I’m sorry I gotta tell you this, but you have got to get a hobby. Doing something other than work might help you more with this midlife crisis thing.”

“I am not having a midlife crisis thing. I’m not that old, doctor. And–” Angela raised her eyebrows, denial written plainly across her face, “I do have a hobby,” she said with a shrug, “It just so happens that my hobby is related to my work.”

“Your hobby is dead bodies.” Lucio muttered.

“Solving problems. Discovering the unknown.”

“… About dead bodies.”

“Now, if you would kindly excuse me,” Angela threw her entire weight into tossing a giant, teetering stack of documents on the floor next to her feet with a huff. “I was, in fact, about to go and take my break.” she said, dusting her hands together, “Want to have lunch with me, doctor? It will be my treat.”

“It’s seven-thirty in the evening, Doc.”

“Oh, well, time flies I suppose.” Angela said, opening one of her desk drawers, then absentmindedly shoving Jim Jam wrappers and empty coffee cups inside. As if that would make her trash disappear in the morning.

After six months working in King’s Row Forensics Department, the terrifying sight of Dr. Ziegler’s desk hygiene was common enough for Dr. dos Santos to see. He learned early from older residents how futile it was to drag Dr. Ziegler away from a job, and Dr. dos Santos no longer stared at her and her atrocious, self-destructive habits in awe. Their student-mentor positions didn’t stop Lucio from chastising her about her work ethic, especially after witnessing drawn shadows prominent under her eyes everyday, and her smudged make up only completed Angela's usual look. Now one of Lucio’s many fears was finding Angela Ziegler in their morgue someday.

However.

Dr. dos Santos peered at her above the rim of his glasses, and noted the glow about her cheeks with a raised brow.

"Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen you this excited about solving a case since…”

“I am always excited about solving cases.”

“But where was that Doc Ziegler who was ‘tired of it all’ and who ‘wanted to do something new with her life’?” he asked, “Someone who wanted nothing to do with ‘death and dead stuff’? Don't give me that look, you know what I'm talkin' about."

"Lucio--"

"Where was that Angela Ziegler who was planning to quit and maybe try being a football coach or a field medic or something?”

“She is still here, and she happened to get a grip on reality after a lot of thinking.” Angela said, ducking her head, as if that would hide the dusting of red on her cheeks. “Besides, I am already finished with this case. The precinct needs it urgently tomorrow, and, you know…” she stumbled on her words.

“And?”

“I had to finish it quickly.” Angela finished lamely, her voice raising an octave higher as if that would make her sound innocent with her intentions. “Detective Amari was asking about it this morning, and I felt compelled to help her crack this case as soon as possible.”

Lucio felt both his eyebrows reach up his hairline. “Oh. I see. I see.” he said, a twinkle reaching his eye while he casually turned to check his nails, trying to appear more interested with its polish rather than the conversation itself, “Detective Dimples is an awesome source of motivation, isn’t she? Hoping to share a hobby with her, huh?”

“Oh, Lucio!” Angela almost jumped out of her chair, smacking his shoulder with a manila folder. “Don’t call her Detective Dimples.”

“Hey, you were the one swooning over her ‘smoky voice‘ and ‘beautiful smile’ a few days ago.” Lucio laughed, rubbing at the spot she slapped. “Admit it, doc, you’re too gay to handle another meeting with her.”

Angela exhaled, and schooled her features before she became too flustered; raking her fingers through her hair, and hoping the red flush now covering her neck down would fade before another nosy nancy came into the office.

Relax. You are a doctor. You are a professional.

She straightened up in her chair, and folded her hands together in her lap. “I wanted to make sure I handed it in right away, that is all.” she said, managing an impressive professional lull in the tone of her voice. “I didn’t want to make our relationship with the precinct worse than it already is. And secondly,” Angela’s brows pinched in annoyance, and pointed at her office with a sharp jab of her forefinger: “‘Detective Dimples’ stays inside this room, doctor.”

“Detective Amari’s bone structure and cheekbones are so sharp and prominent–“

“Lucio.”

“It makes me want to take up anthropology. Oh Detective.”

“Lucio!”

“Fine, fine, I promise I won’t bring it up again.” he said, trying not to double up in laughter, his poor attempt almost making him slip off her desk. “Professional reasons my ass, though, I know you’re her favorite in the lab. Always asking about you and your ‘thoughts’.” he waggled his eyebrows, “You should ask her out instead of doing this–” he motioned his hands at her vaguely, “Weird flirting ritual thing you’re doing. I doubt you can woo her by talking about dead bodies, Doc Ziegler.”

“I do no such thing, doctor.”

“You need to get out there and get a life. Any life. Get a hobby. Get some friends. Ask Detective A out on a sweet date. Live a little.”

“I do have friends. You’re my friend, yes? Sometimes I even read books.”

“Thrilling.”

“And the detective and I do connect, socially, but just as acquaintances and nothing more.” Angela said, pulling her fingers thoughtfully, “I am a grown woman, doctor, I have complete control of my life.”

“Last time you spoke to her, you struck up a conversation about bile.”

“Well, I thought it was fascinating.” Angela grabbed the rest of her documents and began to rearrange them in a tray next to her monitor, this time with less gusto, feeling herself hunch over as her mind began to conjure up depressing thoughts. “I don’t think I am her type, anyways.”

“Oh, nonsense.”

But it was true. Whether Angela liked it or not, why would anybody consider dating a frumpy, high-strung workaholic, who liked to open up dead bodies for a living?

Dr. Ziegler and Detective Amari were connected through their profession only, no matter what her feelings were. They barely did anything beyond striking awkward pleasantries and empty conversations with each other. Trying anything more proved too much for her to handle. She found it difficult navigating through compelling words above work jargon, while stuttering and pushing through her infuriating and terrifying feelings. Not even the universe was kind enough to let them to meet on different circumstances, thus, they only ever saw each other to discuss murder cases among... other things.

Angela’s eyes, tired and unfocused, turned to look back at the autopsy report, wishing she could get sucked back into its world, where things had more clarity and sense and nothing was embarrassing.

Angela wondered when speaking with the dead became easier for her than dealing with the living.

She checked the time on her digital clock, blinking when she read it was now seven-forty six in the evening. The lights from the city cast a glow over the smoggy horizon, and as Angela listened carefully, she could hear police sirens echo off from a distance. She wondered if it was going to be another case they would eventually find through their doors.

Another body, another life ended.

She felt a hand on her shoulder ground her, all teasing gone from Lucio’s voice. “You won’t know unless you try, Doc.”

EDITED (26/09/17): Just the pacing and switched some words :) Thank you!

[kalinara]

Do you think Rip is going to be written of the show ? I have this feeling that him and Amaya are going to be written off. Amaya's arc is probably going to end and she's going to go back and have her family and Rip is probably going to go off and time travel solo to try and make amends or something like that.

Short answer: No.  Not remotely.

Long answer:  If they were going to write Rip off the show, they had the perfect opportunity after Out of Time.  He had a perfect heroic sacrifice, a good bye message, and an open-ended exit that could facilitate guest appearances at any time in the future.

But they didn’t do that.  Instead, they made his disappearance a plot point.  They mentioned him in every single episode that he was gone.  And they literally put the metaplot on hold until he came back.

But really: If you look at season 2 as a whole, you can start to see how the entire season so far has been basically a fairly epic deconstruction of Rip Hunter’s character.

Out of Time gives us the baseline Rip Hunter: which shows us Rip Hunter as a Time Master: confident, capable, with more than a little bit of swagger.  This is a Rip who’s had some time to heal since season 1, and thus a glimpse of the man he was before tragedy ruined him.  This is the man that the pirates feared.  He keeps secrets from his team, and he basically tries to sacrifice himself to save them.

JSA through Chicago Way have done a really interesting job of deconstructing Rip through his absence.

JSA showcases Rip as a leader, by showing us how the team is floundering a bit without him.  There is no real question that Rip Hunter could have gotten the JSA to listen to him much faster than the team did.  Look at how he managed to recruit the team in the pilot, after all.  The man’s done this for a while and knows how to dramatically prove his case.  And Rex Hunter would likely not have blinked at dealing with a youngish, experienced male leader.

While the show itself usually showcased Rip’s flaws as a leader more than his strengths, Martin’s tenure as leader did the opposite.  It was easy to miss how, despite his secrets and tunnel vision and general inability to keep the team in line, Rip DID usually manage to keep them all focused in a crisis.  He was very good at taking clear, decisive action.  And he was also equally as good at taking criticism from the team and adapting his approach when he made mistakes.

Shogun showcases Rip as a Time Master, and his ability to remain focused on the overall goal.  Sara is a good leader who cares about her team and she shows that here.  But the way she dives into the protect the village/defeat the Shogun fiasco, without any real concern about what effect these actions might have on history, shows that she isn’t used to thinking of the timeline.

The man who spent the France mission focused intently on whether or not Louis XIV was conceived would never have been on board with any plan that led to the possible death of an important historical figure ten years early.  Admittedly, they might not have had a choice in the end, but we would have seen him checking the after effects, at least.

Compromised: set up a situation very similar to the second half of the pilot: Martin Stein fucking around with his past.  We saw how alarmed and intently Rip paid attention to Martin’s behavior in that episode, even finally repairing his relationship with Clarissa.  Now that doesn’t mean Lily Stein wouldn’t have still happened (Martin is a stubborn fellow after all), but Rip would have likely caught it sooner because he knew what to watch for.

Abominations and Outlaw Country: The team did really well here, (despite the loose end of the missing time pirates).  But the reason they did well, arguably, was because they were taught well.  

I don’t think Chicago Way is much of a deconstruction, but then they leads into the actual metaplot, and Rip’s return.

But then we have Raiders of the Lost Art and Legion of Doom, which gives us Phil Gasmer.  And Phil is amazing.  He’s bumbling and nervous and has no idea what’s going on.  But he’s brave, courageous, honorable and clever.  He tries to protect George Lucas, when supervillains attack.  He puts himself in direct danger to try to save the team that kidnapped him and insulted him to his face.  He wrote a screenplay that seems to be a love letter to his team.  And he managed to endure torture and terrifying experiences, and then still read a room well enough to spur his captors into mutiny.

Basically, Phil Gasmer is a deconstruction of Rip Hunter at the core of who he is.  So we can appreciate the man beneath the skills, experience and knowledge.  And bonus: a fantastic opportunity to exploit Arthur Darvill’s exquisite comedic timing.

And we have Turncoat and Camelot which gives us Rip Hunter with his experience, skills, and knowledge, but without his kindness, compassion, and spirit.  We get to appreciate exactly how scary a man with Rip Hunter’s abilities can be, if his humanity weren’t holding him back.

Everything that Broken/Evil/Legion Rip does is something that our Rip has always been able to do.  That capacity has always been with him.  And as much as people who hate Rip like to claim that he cares nothing for the team, that he’d stop at nothing to achieve his selfish goals…this arc proves how untrue that is.  If Rip were TRULY willing to stop at nothing for his goals, if he TRULY did not care about his team, it would look, well, like this.

But while Broken/Evil/Legion Rip is what our Rip could have chosen to become, it’s not who he is.  Eobard Thawne had to fundamentally alter our Rip, the core of who he was, to make this possibility happen.

So this arc deconstructs the man further: we now appreciate his abilities and how terrifying he can be, but we also appreciate his humanity, and the way that keeps him from ever choosing to be this man.  (And it lets Arthur Darvill show off his ability to play evil.  The man played Mephistopheles at the Globe, after all.)

And of course, the episode coming up will give us a look into Rip Hunter’s mind.  And presumably, will culminate in his return.

This sort of deconstruction arc isn’t easy and it’s not accidental.  This takes a lot of work to set up and plan.  And as much as we might compare them to monkeys at a typewriter, the fact is, they’ve always done a phenomenal job with Rip Hunter’s specific emotional arcs.  (I suspect someone could write a fantastic analysis of season one specifically from the perspective of the stages of grief.)  This is where they show their work.

I find it extremely unlikely that the show would put this much effort into deconstructing a character down to the fundamental elements, and putting it all on display for us, if they intend to jettison him by the end of the season.

[hamilton-wrotetheother51]

Chapter 1-2

And here is chapter 2 of my story! I included chapter 1 as well because I changed a few things (along with an important character’s name). I’ll be back by the end of May with chapter 3. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Earth

I’m on vacation in the Bahamas. It’s a Tuesday, right in the middle of June. I’ve always wanted to come here.

I’m sitting on a lonely beach eating a hot dog, a new food for me. I brush my curly black hair out of my face and gaze at the sunset. I notice a familiar teenager around my age in a t-shirt and sunglasses approaching He sits under my umbrella beside me and examines a purple shell, dusting off the sand.

“Hi,” he says. He’s pretending not to talk to me, even though the closest people are a quarter of a mile down the sandy stretch. “I don’t have much time, so—"

“Well. Kane East. Haven’t seen you since Pluto’s rebellion,” I say fondly.

Kane seems startled as if he forgot we’ve met before. It wasn’t that long ago. But then he pulls himself together and gestures to the sun, shielding his dark brown eyes with his other hand. It’s especially hot today. “They’re ready for you, Aeryn. They’ve been waiting for months now. It doesn’t take but fifteen hours to get there, you know. What’s taking you so long?”

I sigh dramatically, putting down my empty plate regrettably, the hot dog finished. “Oh, I don't know. I like it here.”

Kane shifts in the white sand, obviously frustrated.

“Right.” He squints at the clear blue water reflecting the orange and red sky. A dolphin leaps and the sun sinks lower and lower, revealing more colors. I can tell he’s surprised at how beautiful the sun is on Earth.

Kane leans over and scribbles lines in the sand absentmindedly. “They made a good choice, sending you instead of me. Earth is so different. I keep forgetting they’re not as advanced as us. And space traveling gives me the worst headaches.”

I’m surprised. He doesn’t give out compliments lightly.

He sighs and sits up, combing his sandy blonde hair back with his fingers. “Can you send the signal to get me back?” he asks. “I still don’t have my license.”

I nod, understanding. It takes a lot of responsibility to get your ST -- space travel -- license when you’re my age. I was lucky. You could say the force is strong with me. At least, that’s what Maryanne thought when she was teaching me. You’re special, she told me. I don’t see it.

I’m about to send the message from my military-grade watch when he says, “Will you try to come soon?” Once again, I’m taken aback by his unexpected words. I hate the feeling of loss of control when I’m caught unawares. It makes me feel dangerously vulnerable.

I force a smile. “I’ll try my best.” Except I know, deep down, I can never go back.

But before I get into all that drama, let me explain the sun. Here on earth for years to come, they still won’t have figured out how to land on the sun. It’s quite simple, actually. Only once their scientists saw it was basically a ginormous ball of fire, they didn’t even try. But the fire is only a front. Behind is another planet. No green aliens and UFOs. Our planet is actually very similar to Earth. A little smaller, a lot less crime, a few less plants, and a few more colors. We’re also about a thousand years more advanced.

One might think it’s very hot or bright all the time, but we have a traversable barrier between the fire wall and our planet that keeps out the heat and light. We even have a generated sun like yours, except lab-grown and, like a lot of things, smaller. Also, we figured out a way to modify its gravity so it wouldn’t pull our planet too close to it and we would stay safely in the middle, all without affecting Earth a bit. We've even established a small community on Pluto. Like I said, we’re advanced.

A few of Earth’s so-called “UFOs” were our spies. Well, not so much spies as rather scientists from the Studies of Earth Association (or SEA for short) checking out the planet every six months or so to make sure it was okay. That's my job. Of course, I'm not the only one, but I'm the youngest to officially join in over thirty years. Kane is second, as he's almost a year older than me.

To get past the fire you have to have specialized equipment out of a certain material Earth doesn’t have yet. All you have to do to make this material is to find anything that’s flammable or will melt under heat – which is anything really, though we’ve found aluminum works best – and make a reverse molecule in our (again, incredibly advanced) labs. This makes any material made of these molecules virtually indestructible in any situation concerning extreme heat. Don’t worry, lab-grown molecules aren’t that far away. Our planet is called Bische, by the way. It’s pronounced exactly how it looks.

Anyway, after I promise Kane I’ll come back, I say, “Good luck.” I press a button on my watch and talk into it. (It’s like a telephone, but in watch form. Do you have those yet?) While we wait for someone to take Frat back, which usually takes about ten minutes, I take a deep breath. This is the last time I’m going to see him. Suddenly, I realize he deserves to know the truth after all we’ve been through together.

“I can’t come back, you know.”

He says nothing for a long time. “I know.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Your uncle.”

“Oh.” I dig my toes deeper into the sand. “How’d you find out?”

Kane fiddles with his purple shell, turning it over and over in his hands, tossing it from one hand to the other. He’s nervous, but I don’t know why. “Everyone kind of assumed he wasn't the best guardian after...” His hands move faster and faster until he misses and the shell falls on the ground. He stares at it, refusing to meet my eyes.

I wasn’t expecting that at all. “After what? What do you mean, everyone?”

He pauses, then takes a deep breath. “He was on the news,” he continues, avoiding eye contact. “Aeryn, they think he killed Yasi Granger.”

I’m in shock. Yasi Granger? The actor and singer celebrity? Why would he do such a thing to such a person? How did he do it? He must have had help. But who…? Another realization comes to mind. I have no one now, except for Maryanne and Frat, of course. It’s a wonder anyone in Bische respects me at all with all my living relatives in jail for outrageous crimes.

Half of me is surprised and disgusted. Yasi Granger? How could he? The other half is relieved. I’ll be able to come back after all. All that fuss, all those hours worrying, wondering, all that for nothing.

“When?” I ask, still trying to process what just happened.

“She was found dead about a month after you left. Part of the reason I’m here was to tell you and to ask you to come back. They probably want to ask you some questions.”

“I… Yeah, I guess I probably should.”

Kane nods. I’m glad he’s giving me some space. I don’t care about my uncle, but it’s a lot to take in.

I send another message letting the employees at the port know I’ll be coming too. The sun finally disappears and the light starts to fade.

“You know what will happen, don’t you?” Kane asks me.

I nod. “Execution. Or he spends the rest of his life in prison.” I struggle to wrap my mind around the concept of no guardian. “Like my father,” I add bitterly.

Kane is quiet for a few minutes, but eventually decides to ignore that last comment. “He might not even have done it. He hasn’t been accused of anything yet. Not formally, anyway.”

I shrugged. “Whatever. As long as I don’t take the heat for it.” Suddenly our ride arrives. No one except us can see it. I’m still not really sure how that works. It’s like a small, invisible, very fast plane, basically.

I suppose the ride should have been silent, but instead, I start a conversation, and by the time we’re a couple of million miles on our way, we’re catching up on what we’ve been doing the past year. No matter what happens with Kane, I refuse to let my uncle ruin another friendship.

Chapter 2: Bische

After the long ride, the “plane” – we call it a cab, although the technical term is aero vehicle - zooms through the fire wall of the “sun” and lands in the large clearing beside Maryanne's place where I stay. But something’s wrong. Everyone in the port that sent for us was quiet on the radio. There was hardly a hello, even though I’d been gone for much longer than planned. I look at Frat for an explanation, but he looks confused too, and simply shrugs.

I think hard, but everything looks the same. We wander around Maryanne's house until we find her frying some eggs in her kitchen. It's past 20 o'clock -- and yes, we use "military time." Honestly, why do people on Earth make everything so complicated?

“Welcome back!” Maryanne hugs us both, then turns to me to size me up. “I can’t believe it’s you! I’ve been waiting so long! How was Earth?”

“Pretty nice,” I say, thinking of the delicious lobster, the warm white sand, and the gorgeous sunrises and sunsets. I temporarily forget my problems and reflect on the year. “The Bahamas were great. And Bische is so large there. It’s a wonder they haven’t figured it out yet.”

Kane seems distant, pondering and staring at nothing, unlike his calm stature during the cab ride. Does he sense the unknown misplacement too?

Maryanne serves the eggs on a plate with a spatula and asks us if we want some. Kane and I eagerly say yes, and she pulls out toast, turkey bacon, and orange juice. It’s a good thing she has food on hand, because we’re starving. The cab was short on food, and any trace of the hot dog disappeared long ago. While we eat, I tell Maryanne of some of the places I visited.

“Everything was pretty much the same as last year when I went,” I finish. “How has life been here?”

“The same,” she nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. She turns to Kane, looking eager to change the subject. “Frat, you’ve been quiet. That’s not like you.”

He shakes his head and blinks as if waking up from a strange dream. “Uh, it's nothing. What time is it? I’m getting a little tired.” He yawns for effect.

Maryanne answers, “Nearly 22 o'clock. You’d better stay here for the night. I’ll call your parents. Are they at home?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Kane replies, draining the rest of his orange juice. “Thanks. Where do you want me?”

“There’s an empty room down the hall. Aeryn, do you want to stay up a little later?”

“Nah,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ll watch TV or read in my room or something. Goodnight.”

She shrugs and starts putting away dishes. I walk to my room and Kane heads off in the opposite direction toward his.

. . .

I’m in the middle of watching a documentary about octopus the next morning when Kane knocks. I tell him to come in and he sits on my bed beside me.

“Have you noticed anything strange?” he says. I’m relieved he saw it too.

“Yes.” I turn off the television and face him. “Any idea what it is?”

“I thought about it a lot last night. I think it has something to do with your uncle and Yasi Granger.”

I frown. “Not to sound American, but deaths aren’t that uncommon.”

Kane shrugs. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

We are silent for a while. Suddenly I sit up straight, rigid with an idea.

“Uncle Hugh killed Yasi,” I begin slowly. Kane looks confused, but I ignore him and work on transforming my idea into words. “Are… are they happy she’s dead? Or that he’s in prison?”

Kane frowns. “What if…” He stops. “But it can’t. But if it is…”

“What?” I’m excited. I’d never had such a rebellious thought before.

Kane swallows and glances around, as if someone has planted hidden cameras in the room. “What if someone is hiding a secret in Yasi? A bad secret. And everyone knows except us. You’ve been on Earth, I’ve been on Saturn…”

“…And Uncle Hugh was the only one brave enough to do something about it. I think he had help, though. Famous as Yasi is? There’s no way he could have done it without someone, uh, smarter,” I finish.

Kane nods his head, following along. “Someone who knows things.”

We stare into space for a long time.

“I should have known.”

We spin in surprise. Maryanne is blocking the doorway with her broad shoulders. She walks over grabs our hands with her large ones in a firm grip. Kane and I are too surprised and scared to speak or resist.

“Come with me. You might as well know the truth.”

Maryanne leads us to the living room and pats the couch. We obediently sit down.

Her eyes dart around the room. Finally she leans in and says, “I shouldn’t be telling you this…”

Let me know how you like it! Reblogs are very much appreciated!