#anyway hoping and praying for a SAG strike

[hardly-an-escape]

torn between my feral desire for any new Sandman S2 news/content vs my absolute dislike of anything resembling spoilers vs my deep fury that production is going ahead during the WGA strike

[nincompoopydoo]

PAIRING, BAGELS, REPEAT

— I’VE SEEN FIRE, I’VE SEEN RAIN ; PART 2 / ?

PAIRING: Bruce Wayne x reader

WORD COUNT: 1909

SUMMARY: Being laid off isn’t very fun but Bruce tends to find himself even more entangled in your life, including his alter ego—Batman.

A/N: I’m loving this series and if you are, feedback is appreciated. Thank you for reading my crappy stuff aka my daydreams <3

WARNINGS: Guns! Death threats! Crying! A mental breakdown!

MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

James Taylor’s Fire and Rain plays like a funeral hymn on the record player, echoing through your studio apartment. You’re sitting on the ground, back against the ratty couch with a pizza box on your lap. You take a bite of a BBQ Chicken pizza slice, furiously wiping your tears away as you replayed the events from six hours ago. From being called to the principal's office to only be told that you’re one of the non-tenured teachers to be laid off due to cutbacks. Gotham High was...a tough school. The students were mean to you because well, you're young and always gave them the benefit of the doubt. Plus, you taught English Literature and frankly, your students didn’t exactly enjoy the subject as much as you wanted them to. Nevertheless, you’re devastated. Teaching was a dream of yours, and it’s being taken away from you. You cried all the way back home, tried to call your mother but it kept going to voicemail. You must have called someone else, but you don’t remember and couldn’t care less to check your phone—the whole day went by like a blur.

Then, there’s a sound. An insistent buzz, it’s the doorbell. You furrow your brows, not recalling ordering anything else other than the large pizza from Domino’s. Yet, it doesn’t cease, and you’re forced to bring yourself to stand on your feet, instinctively flattening your tousled hair to make yourself seem somewhat presentable. Like, you’re doing fine and you have everything completely under control. Maybe, you did call your mother, and she’s at the door. You’re hoping she is although she’s going to kill you for the mess.

Another buzz and you’re toddling across the wooden flooring and towards the doorway. It’s starting to become infuriating by the second, like a house fly don’t won’t stop bugging you. Considering the mood you’re in, it doesn’t take much to tick you off. Swinging the door open, you expected to see the radiant face of your mother but to your surprise, it’s not.

It’s Bruce.

Shit.

You haven’t seen him in two weeks.

You nearly choke at the sight of him in a slightly crumpled oxford blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair as much of a mess as yours and tired eyes staring down at you with concern. You note how Bruce is very charming, no matter how disarrayed he is. Meanwhile, you’re realizing the current state must be a little startling. Your eyes are probably bloodshot, hair still in a tangled mess and glaring tomato stains everywhere on your GCU t-shirt. This is such a low point for you.

“Bruce,” you say, voice raising an octave with wide eyes as you stare at him like he’s grown another head, “What are you doing here?” His frown is immediate, seemingly confused by your question. “You called me.” He gestures to his phone within his grasp. “It sounded bad even though I couldn’t make out what you were saying half of the time,” He chuckles and holds up a familiar looking paper bag “So, I got you bagels. Three of them. Thought you could use some of these.”

It takes a second or two for you to finally process what he just told you before your emotionally wrecked brain decides to do the most irrational thing ever—You just start sobbing. You’re crying so hard that it terrifies Bruce. He blinks, thoughts racing. The sight of you in complete misery strikes him like a punch to his gut and for the first time, he doesn’t know what to do. Not immediately. Yet, through glassy eyes, you manage to notice the way his face dropped and morphed into pure horror. Justification is key, you don’t want to weird him out and think you’re crazy. You wave your hand in the air dismissively, rubbing your eyes as you spoke between strangled sobs. “I’m sorry, it’s been a tough day and that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me all week.”

Oh.

Your words are a tug to the heartstrings, and it sends his head reeling but relief was all that overwhelmed him. Bruce would never wish to see you hurt, especially when it’s caused by him. Actions of affection were primarily reserved for those closest to him, but he never experienced the urge to be intimate and care so much for a person ever since his parents died. Yet, out of everyone, you’re the one that brings out the most in him. Moving closer to you, he reaches and pulls you in a hesitant embrace. You stiffened at the mere touch of his arms around you, unsure of what to do with yourself.

Sure, you had a fair share of intimate moments with the man but this, this was different. You couldn’t shake the thought of how something so warm felt so right, smelt right. Despite the fact you had been trying to suppress your feelings for Bruce, and this was doing the exact opposite of that, you can’t help but feel this was what you needed at the moment. So, you let your body sag, muscles becoming loose and you let yourself truly cry for the first time.

You end up inviting him in later, when your tears are dry. You eat two of the bagels, sharing the last one with him. You called a peace offering, a gift of appreciation, for the whole emotional massacre you unexpectedly shoved at him. He simply laughs, eyes crinkling with fondness. He thinks you’re beautiful, especially when your hair is wild, laughing like you don’t have a care in the world. It’s what keeps him grounded, to know you’re raw and very real. The next thing you know, you end up shuffling cards of UNO until the wee hours of the morning—exchanging knowing smiles and Bruce trying to pick a Wild Draw card from the deck to get you to lose. But, he lets you win anyway.

He slept on your couch that night, still in his dress shirt. You must've peeked a glance at his sleeping form, squeezed onto the couch that’s clearly too small for him. Cute. You snap a picture before heading to bed. For blackmail purposes, of course.

-

You end up working a night shift at a burger joint called Big Belly Burger somewhere in midtown. Your first week comes and goes, and you’re starting to hate how your uniform itches and how the restaurant can get really filthy by the end of the day. Yet, it’s the kids from Cameron Kane High that come after school that keeps you going because it makes you miss being a teacher even though they tend to leave a mess after a meal.

Thursday comes and you’re exhausted. Even so, you’re thankful it’s a slow night. You’ve done all your cleaning duties earlier on and Lucie, the manager went out to buy a pack of cigarettes from the convenience store around the corner. Hence, it’s just you, slumped against the counter, devouring a Triple Belly Burger.

You’re half way through the burger when you hear the door swing open. Expecting to see Lucie, you turned around to see two men brandishing handguns your way. “Everything from the register, now!” The taller masked man shouted, gun gesturing to the cash register. Your eyes are wide, and you can feel your chest heaving. There was no way you’ll be able to fight them. Not two of them with guns pointed at you.

The burger drops from your hand and so does your heart. With trembling hands, you slide the drawer of the cash register open and begin pulling out dollar notes. From the corner of your eye, you spot your phone on the counter, close enough for you to make an emergency call. Your eyes scan the two men wearily and with every ounce of courage you had left, you managed to unlock your phone, pulled up the messaging app and texted the first name on the list: Bruce Wayne.

help, was all you managed to say.

To say your luck ran out was an understatement; you were never lucky anyway. One of the robbers must have caught on to what you were doing and just as the call goes through, he snatches your phone away, throws it onto the ground and shoots it.

So close, yet so far.

You don't know if the message got through.

The muzzle is now inches away from your forehead, and you hear the cock of the gun. “Don’t you dare pull somethin’ funny like or I’ll blow your brains out. Give us the money, now.” It was in that moment, your tears give way and your life flashes before your eyes. You pray for a miracle, a savior.

Then, you see him.

A looming figure appears by the doorway and your breath hitches. It’s Batman, looking like a Goddamn angel. The robbers seem to realize this too, guns quickly directed towards the vigilante. He launches batarangs to the pair of men and immediately disarms them. In a flash, he knocks them out, unconscious bodies dropping to the ground like dead flies.

You stare at him in awe although he’s very frightening and intimidating but Batman...just saved you. Now, this is a story you’re going to be telling everybody until the day you die. He approaches you with caution, and you instinctively take a step back. Then, he calls you by your name like it’s second nature. You stare at him with blank amazement, brows raised.

“You know my name?” Your voice dwindled; It’s so soft and timid you hardly hear yourself. Despite the mask, the vigilante looks like his brain just short-circuited for a moment. He clears his throat.

“...Bruce has mentioned you.”

You ignore how his synthetic voice makes every hair on the back of your neck stand and the familiarity that struck for a split second when he said your name because you’re too wrapped up with the fact that Bruce has discussed about you to his other ‘best friend’ as one might call it. Brooding over this lump of a thought, the corner of your mouth twitches. “He did?” you say with a hint of affection. It’s hard to read the man under the mask, whoever he was but you’re certain he looked taken aback by your response. Maybe, it was the way you delivered it—the longing in the very core of the expression. You may have outed your feelings for Bruce to...Batman.

This doesn’t get any stranger than that.

“Yes,” he replies curtly, and you hear the police sirens afar. “Are you hurt?” Like the true caretaker of Gotham, he wants to be sure you haven’t been injured. You shake your head, lips pressed together. The whaling of the police sirens grow louder, lights of red and blue flashing before your eyes. He appears like a shadow against the glaring lights from the police cruisers and before you can blink, he flees with a muttered ‘Goodnight’ and disappears before the police come flooding in and does Lucie. The poor woman looked at with frantic eyes as soon as she glimpsed the two men on the ground, groaning in pain.

The glint of the batarang on the floor captures your attention, you smile at this.

You may or may not have taken it back to your apartment that currently sits proudly on the bookshelf in your living room.

You’re so telling Bruce.

TAGLIST:

@raineeace

[de-profundis-ad-astra]

Fury, Oh Fury - Part 2

Rating || M (Strong language) Characters || Ben Miller, William Miller. Word Count || 5.1k Taglist || (Starting out tagging some mutuals and people I remember from the previous taglist)  @firefeatherx​ @mylifeliterally​ @mandoplease​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @skylyknightly​ @havenforafrazzledmind​ @beatriz-silva-00​ @veuliee​ @veuliee2​ @oldstuffnewstuff​ @dindisneydjarin​ @lilacyennefer​ @dignityneeded​ @agirllovespancakes​​ @xjustmenobodyelse​​ @oscarflysaac @jaime1110​​ @goldenhour-goldenboy​​ @pascalz​​ @briskywalker​​ @herestherealproblem​​ @givemethatgold​​

Author’s Note || No matter how hard I try to keep this project on a backburner, it keeps kicking and screaming to be told. I had most of part 3 written before I put this fic on hiatus, and I’m hoping to have it written before the end of the year. I just need to get through this week and then schools have two weeks off for the holidays. I’m hoping to carve out some time for writing, then.

District Two’s training academy hides behind the façade of a retired school house.

Upon its decommissioning almost thirty years ago, district leadership descended upon the ramshackle building—and thus began its transformation. Training for the Hunger Games is not condoned by the Capitol. But what they don’t know won’t hurt them. While the exterior of the campus remains dilapidated and unassuming, playing every bit the part of a forgotten relic of a bygone era, its interior has its own story to tell.

Old equipment was cleared out. Tables in the lunchroom replaced with rows of sparring rings. The courtyard converted into a range for archery, javelins, throwing knives, and various ranged weaponry. The sagging, cracked walls refurbished and belied with the latest survival equipment and handheld weapons.

Children who display a prowess for fighting—and more importantly, a potential for victory in the Hunger Games—are selected to attend this academy. Training begins at age eleven, and continues until age seventeen, when one is selected to volunteer at the next reaping. These future tributes are up before dawn and smuggled into the academy before the first shift of Peacekeepers hit the streets, and are not let out until late—most days not until after the sun sets.

But the most notable feature of District Two’s training academy is not its staggering array of swords, daggers, maces, spears, every kind of armament under the sun. It’s not the skill with which District Two’s future tributes can wield these weapons. It’s not the way these future tributes can fire an arrow with devastating accuracy by age fourteen. It’s not the cleanliness of what appears to be a retired, collapsing school. No. It’s none of these things.

The standout feature of the academy is the first thing most people see upon entering the building. In the antechamber of the academy are three words emblazoned on the back wall, above the district’s crest.

Honor. Duty. Victory.

And this is the academy’s most notable feature. Painted and upkept with more care than several entire districts see.

It started out—in the early days of the academy—as an unofficial mantra of those who passed through. As time passed, and the academy produced more and more victors, these attributes were prescribed to every tribute.

Honor. Even being selected train, even if it did not guarantee participation in the Games, was considered the highest form of flattery a child in District Two could receive. Second only to being permitted the option to volunteer.

Duty. Once selected as a future volunteer for the Games, it was a job treated with upmost care and respect.

Victory.

Well. That part seems self-explanatory.

--

Future tributes from District Two weren’t exempt from training. Not even on reaping day.

Yes, the day was shortened to make sure everyone was present for the event, but the morning was still packed full of running, exercising, sparring, and survival lessons.

Ben had seen plenty of footage from the outer districts of how this day was observed there. It was a quiet, somber affair—the reaped tributes treated already as corpses at a wake. Families and friends shut themselves in, closed their doors and their blinds, held each other, and prayed that, however their loved one died, it was as swift and painless as the Capitol would allow.

But this was the Hunger Games. A hope for such things is, at best, a feeble one.

In District Two, the air buzzes with energy. Something pure and raw and not quite human. Of course, the knowledge of who will be any given year’s volunteers is kept under lock and key, so bets are placed, wagers made, on who they think will go into the arena based on appearances alone. Those who are selected to offer up their lives try to keep from puffing their chests a little too much, those who did not make the cut hide their disappointment behind polite smiles and kind words.

When the tributes are shipped off their families open their doors to friends and neighbors, who offer up gifts and well wishes. Parties are held for every event possible: the tribute parade, interviews, the start of the Games, and then then it simply did not stop until a victor was crowned or, in the worst case, the tributes were killed.

Then, and only then, did families shut their doors and their blinds, the shame of their tributes failing to bring home another victory outweighing their grief for the loss of a child.

At least that was what they said.

--

Of course, District Two cannot have an eighteen-year-old volunteer step forward at every reaping. To allow that would be to bring down the might of the Capitol if they ever caught on. District Two has worked hard to earn the favor of the president. They’re not about to risk, especially not something as high profile as the Hunger Games.

Some years, a fourteen or fifteen-year-old is selected, some years no one is selected, and the odds dictate who will be traveling to the Capitol that year.

After all, it’s may the odds be ever in your favor, right?

To find out that a district had taken the odds into their own hands, become masters of their own fate. If word of that got out about that… well. It certainly would not be a civil affair.

It was certainly an interesting thing to be said of a nation built upon that exact principle. The Capitol founded itself on this exact principle—built themselves from the ground up because they dared to carve their own path, even if that meant stepping on others. Who was to say they didn’t rig the reapings, anyway?

So for District Two to return the favor would be a horrific slap in the face.

If they ever got caught.

--

“NICE JOB, MILLER! If you go any slower through the next obstacle course maybe I can retire with my pension by the time you’re through!” Ben’s trainer, Alistair, screams in his face.

Ben keeps silent, his face blank and indifferent, his eyes straight ahead. He’s not looking at Alistair. He’s looking through him. Who knew tuning out Will’s lectures about training would prepare him so well for taking his trainer’s abuse?

“Go through it again!” Alistair snarls, and Ben peels back to the start of the obstacle course, hearing him scream “FASTER! I will stick my foot down your throat ‘til your shit’s on my shoe if you don’t hustle, Miller!”

Ben throws himself onto the rope net. He climbs.

Ben catches the rest of his team when he reaches the top of the rope wall. Alistair has them all doing pushups until he finishes the obstacle course, and Ben throws himself down the other side of the wall, gritting his teeth. He makes it through the course faster this time, and Alistair lets the others up. He trots them to the next course.

After the obstacle courses, it’s close quarters combat training with the squad of sixteens. Ben is convinced they’ve set it up this way just to show them how it feels to lose—to use that motivation to throw themselves into a fight willing to do whatever it takes to win. This is the Hunger Games, after all, it’s all about how ruthless you can be.

Ben looks forward to sparring drills the most. From the moment he set foot in the academy two years ago, he’d proved himself fast, faster than most others, even those much older than him. The trainers had capitalized on that. Now, at age fourteen, he can mop the floor with any squad except the eighteens.

Ben makes friends with another boy in his group named Ramsey. They share a brand of indifferent camaraderie usually reserved for teammates that only get along in the field. Ben’s had to swallow so much pride over the past six months alone following Will’s victory that he’s surprised he hasn’t choked to death. Ramsey’s strength is with a strange sort of sword-spear hybrid the trainers call a yklwa.

In close quarters combat, he’s a whirlwind, the weapon a mere extension of his hand. He takes down whoever steps into his path while hardly breaking a sweat. God helps whoever tries to run from him with the yklwa in his hand.

Ramsey says he’s named his yklwa Carmen. After a recruit in the fifteens he’s hoping to get together with.                                                

--

Will takes up woodworking after his Games. His home in the Victor’s Village is covered in them. He starts small—bowls and cutting boards at first are rough to the touch. As he hones in on this newfound hobby, his hand grows steady, smooth, until he’s crafting shelves with intricate details carved into the side panels, whittling animals with striking detail that seem to stand guard in their respective rooms. A particularly haunting interpretation of the cougar mutts he faced in the arena adorn the shelf above his fireplace.

It’s not until after he returns from his victory tour that Ben asks Will to train him. It’s over dinner, one of the evenings their father works late. Will brings home stew and a loaf of bread filled with seeds from the market that they eat on the floor before the roaring hearth. They tear off chunks of the bread and dunk them into the rich, savory broth.

“Why?” Will asks simply. He doesn’t look at Ben. He looks straight ahead at the fire, the dancing flames casting dozens of patterns of shadow and light across his face each second.

Ben pulls his legs up towards his chest, Will’s lack of enthusiasm making him regret bringing it up in the first place. “’Cause…” he says, unsure how to say it without provoking his brother to anger. “The headmaster at the academy keeps tellin’ me that if I keep it up, I’ll be able to volunteer in a few years. I want… to be ready.”

“You don’t get enough training there?”

Ben folds his arms on top of his knees and hides his mouth and nose in the crook of his elbow. “If you teach me, I’ll be even better—I’ll be able to win,” he mumbles into his sleeve.

Will’s eyes drift away from the fire, a muscle in his jaw feathering as his mouth tightens into a thin line. He sighs, rubbing at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Okay,” he says at last.

Ben, sensing the hesitation, backpedals, “You don’t have to.”

“No. I want to.” Will gathers up the remains of their meal and carries them into the kitchen. “If they’re going to ask you to volunteer like you think they will—I want to make sure you’re ready. I want you to come home.”

Ben doesn’t follow him into the kitchen, the weight settling in his chest too heavy to move. He just wants to be as good as Will was, he thinks. He wants to bring pride to District Two like Will did.

When he looks through the doorway into the kitchen, Will stares out the window, at something only he can see.

The next week, Will starts carving weapons.

--

The sword is merely an extension of Will’s arm when he knocks Ben on his ass for the fifth time and levels the dull point of the blade with his throat.

They’ve cleared out one of the (many) spare rooms of Will’s home and repurposed it as a sparring ring. Ben and his father were extended an offer by Will to live with him in the home. Due to the nature of their father’s work, he elected to remain in their house inside the district. Ben bounces between the two, though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t prefer Will’s house to their father’s.

Ben’s tailbone groans as he slides over the carpet away from Will’s sword. He’s fashioned it almost exactly after his weapon from the arena, every detail down to the carvings on the hilt crafted with extreme accuracy from memory.

“You’re stuck in the moment,” Will advises, flipping the sword around and pressing the tip into the ground between and slightly in front of his feet. He leans into it, the wood barely creaking against his weight. “You gotta anticipate, Benny.”

Ben groans, “It’s hard to anticipate when I’m too focused on not getting my hand cut off.”

He’s forgone a weapon during this session, choosing to focus instead on how to disarm an opponent. If he faces another tribute with a weapon, if he can get it out of their hands, he will earn the upper hand and put the odds in his favor.

Maybe it’s a trait that came from the arena, but Will seems so much more in his element here. He’s relaxed, lines no longer weathering his crushingly young face. His movements smooth, steady, his reactions unlike anything Ben had ever seen before.

How can he hope to go up against anything like that in the arena?

“Come on,” Will’s voice softens when he extends his hand. “Let’s try again.”

--

Ben keeps his focus on his own rhythmic, controlled breathing, sucking air into his lungs and letting it out in a smooth, measured pattern as his feet pound into the concrete of the track. He ignores the soreness in his legs, the tightness in his chest, his thighs begging him to stop and his lungs pleading for more. He ignores the others in his squad running in stride with him, focusing only on keeping the pace. He tunes out the pain, the people around him, and the world around him.

It’s just him and the road.

“Hey, Ben,” Ramsey’s raspy voice huffs next to him.

Ben stays silent, his blue eyes fixed downwards at the patch of the track he would job over five seconds from now. He breathes a slightly deeper breath than before, his concentration irked by Ramsey’s attempt to get his attention.

“Ben!” Ramsey snaps.

Ben closes his eyes, actively putting all of his effort into focusing on the task at hand. He centers his mind on the impact of his shoes against the concrete and his own deep breathing that makes a whooshing sound in his ears. He might fall behind or run out of breath, and if Alistair catches them talking, they’re in for all sorts of hell.

“I’m talking to you, dickhead!” Ramsey hisses, pausing between breaths.

Ben remains nonresponsive. Whatever it was, it could wait until—

A flash of pain sears across Ben’s backside, Ramsey’s hand smacking against his ass as hard as he can manage. Ben fumbles on a step with a yap of shock and hurt. He sucks down a massive amount of air and losing all semblance of pace he had with the others, only to receive a grunt of “Move!” and a shove forward from the boy behind him. Ben sprints ahead to get back into place, his face hot with embarrassment as he clenches his teeth and tries to regulate his breathing.

“Jackass!” he snarls at Ramsay, who cocks a playful grin and breathes through his mouth.

“You know better than to neglect me,” Ramsey pants, keeping up the pace. “I refuse to be ignored.”

“You’ve got a dick punch headed you way for that,” Ben croaks, his ass still aching as he tries to keep running the last half-kilometer.

“Whatever,” Ramsey replies with the vaguest shake of his head. “Anyway, did you do the homework last night?”

Homework is a rather loose term, but they were occasionally tasked with assignments to complete at home. These assignments ranged from practicing an advanced hand to hand combat maneuver, building a snare designed to catch a rabbit, or successfully waterproofing matches. The particular assignment Ramsey referred to had to do with reading about how to identify poisonous plants.

“Kinda late to be asking about that now, don’t you think?” Ben pants.

“That’s why you’re my friend,” Ramsey explains, “When my girlfriend keeps me out too late to do work, you bail me out.”

Ben grunts and cuts a glare at Ramsey that would have burned holes through almost anyone else.

“I know you’re jealous that she gets all my attention, Benny—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Besides, we can’t all be dating some carefree, rich daughter of the mayor that loves to spend all your money.”

Before Ben can respond, a harsh voice calls, “Kick it in! Last hundred meters!”

Ramsey and Ben begin to suck in deep gulps of air along with the rest of their team, holding all of the oxygen they can and sprinting down the last section of track in a final burst of speed. They lean forward and tear down the concrete, ignoring the lightheadedness and the dull throbbing of their leg muscles as they pump their arms and struggle to stay in formation, the soles of their shoes pounding against the surface of the track.

The burning in Ben’s chest and stomach intensifies, the tightness of his body worsening as the end comes into sight.

“You better get across the finish line before I say times up or I’m gonna shove my foot up each and every one of your asses!” the voice roars.

Ben, Ramsey, and the rest of the squad picks up the pace, stomping their feet into the concrete and rushing across the finish line as a group, the last one just barely crossing before the voice cries, “Time’s up!”

The squad trots to a stop, and begins stretching against the wall of the indoor track, lined up single file in order to get out of the way of anyone else using the track.

“So, listen,” Ramsey whispers. “Back on topic: what was the homework from last night?”

“I thought you needed to copy it,” mutters Ben.

“Well, yeah. But I have to know what it is, first!”

“It was just reading,” sighs Ben. “Identifying poisonous versus edible plants.”

“Do you think they’re going to quiz us on it?”

Ben shrugged, indifferent.

“Quiz you on what, Miller?” a harsh voice behind them asked.

Ben and Ramsey cringe and do an about-face, knowing what they would see when they turned around.

Even though Ben had reached an impressive physical height for fourteen, Alistair still holds a few inches over him. He and Ramsey stand tall, staring straight forward as Alistair comes up to them with an acid frown on his face.

“Listen up!” Alistair roars. “Miller here thinks that just because his big brother’s a victor of the Games, that entitles him to a free ride around here! And Ramsey here is so in love with Miller that he can’t keep his hands off his ass! Both of them have disrespected you and me! They had the chance to do this because you aren’t motivating them enough! Therefore, I am going to punish all of you for what one of them has done! The rest of you will run while these two spar in the ring. If Miller wins, He’ll watch the rest of you do a switch run for a half an hour! If Ramsey wins, he’ll watch while the rest of you do a switch run for half an hour! Understand? Go!”

Ben and Ramsey both receive murderous glares from the eight remaining members of their squad as they take off down the track, once more in formation.

“Do I personally have to shin-kick the both of you to get you moving?” Alistair barks.

Ben and Ramsey walk past Alistair, staring at the ground, across the track and into the center field, in which was a platform boxing ring with holographic boundary lines on all four sides. Protective gear and gloves rest against the sides of the platform. Ben and Ramsey unzip the jackets of their track suits, underneath which they both wear plain white tee shirts, and slip a pair of gloves over their hands and headgear over their ears.

“Let’s go!” Alistair barks. “Your fellow cadets are paying for every second you waste!”

“Damn it, Ramsey,” whispers Ben. “I knew this would happen.”

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy here?” Ramsey asks incredulously as they walk up the stairs. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” Ben snaps as they pass through the holographic boundary lines, traveling to the center of the ring and facing each other. “We’re in this situation because you refuse to be ignored!”

“Well then maybe you shouldn’t ignore me all the time, I might say something you need to hear,” Ramsey responds icily.

“Like what?”

“Like, maybe if you pull that stick out of your ass, you might learn to have some fun, instead of just being an asshole most of the time,” Ramsey shrugs, putting up his fists.

“Well, according to you, Ramsey, everyone’s got a stick up their ass, so maybe you’re the one with the problem,” Ben comes back coolly.

“Oh, for fucks sake…” Ramsey growls, taking a swing at Ben’s head.

Ben bends backwards, avoiding the punch, then steps forward and jabs at Ramsey’s side. He lets out a gasp of shock, then nails Ben in his cheek with another quick swing.

Ben stumbles backwards, a dull stinging igniting in his face, though his headgear had absorbed most of it.

“Do you always have to be so goddamn responsible all the time?!” Ramsey snarls. “You always have to be right and you always have to have everything follow your rules!”

Ramsey steps towards Ben to deliver another blow, only to have Ben sidestep around and slug him in the stomach once again. Ramsey clenches his stomach, looking up as Ben knocks him in the forehead with a hard right hook.

Ramsey flies backwards, falling on his ass, stunned.

“You’re not responsible at all! How do you expect to live up to anything that your family wants for you if all you do is fuck off?!” Ben barks.

Ramsey looks up at Ben, getting to his feet. Ben stands at the ready, his fists up to protect his face. Ramsey swiftly strikes at Ben’s face, a hit that is blocked but still distracts him enough for Ramsey to drive his other fist into his stomach. The wind flies out of Ben’s lungs as Ramsey delivers an uppercut to his bottom jaw, whiplashing his neck and throwing him back.

“I don’t worry about it!” Ramsey spits. “You could stand to do the same. You worry about things that aren’t in your control. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the one preoccupied with my family here!”

Ben grits his teeth through the intense stinging in his jaw and neck, his anger fueling his rise to his feet. He leaps forward and strikes one, two, three times at Ramsey’s head, punching into a block each time but not caring. He steps back just in time to avoid another shot at his face from Ramsey, then back forward to hit the other boy in his upper chest.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about!” Ben yells, punching again and again at Ramsey’s defenses, driving him further back. “You don’t know what I’ve been through and you don’t know what I’ve got to deal with.”

Ramsey grumbles and shoves upward into Ben’s elbows, pushing his arms up and pulling his left fist back. Before Ben can bring up a block again, Ramsey’s fist smashes into Ben’s jaw, twisting his head to the side as Ramsey’s right fist punches into Ben’s shoulder.

The dull throbbing pain in his face and the taste of blood in his mouth make the fall backwards almost unnoticeable, until the reverse polarity field at the boundaries of the ring throw him back into the center. Ben stumbles forward and landed on his knees.

“You’ve got to deal with living up to someone, Ben. I know how it feels,” Ramsey sympathizes, not attacking. “But you can’t torture yourself over things you can’t change and how you think someone would judge what you’re doing. You’re not and you can’t be just like Will!”

Ben glares up at Ramsey, lashing out with his leg and sweeping Ramsey’s legs out from under him. Ramsey falls onto his back with a rough thud and Ben leaps across the floor on all fours as Ramsey tries to get up. He puts Ramsey into a chokehold, compressing his neck in the crook of his arm, causing Ramsey to gasp out in panic.

“Well what choice do I have?!” Ben hisses into Ramsey’s ear.

Ramsey gags, and then taps the floor.

Ben releases his friend and stands to his feet as Ramsey collapses to the floor of the ring, coughing. Ben breathes hard, looking down at him, and extends a hand. Ramsey takes Ben’s hand and he helps him, still breathing raggedly. As Ramsey massages his neck and looks at Ben with a mix of pity and disappointment, Ben noticed Alistair standing at the edge of the ring. He disengages the polarity field and steps into the ring silently, the holographic borders flickering off.

Ramsey doesn’t wait for Alistair to say anything. He gives a sloppy, two-fingered salute, then takes off running down the stairs of the ring to join the rest of the squad.

Ben wishes he could feel more pride at his victory when Alistair turns to him.

“Best get going, son,” says Alistair, quieter than usual. “Reaping is in a few hours.”

Ben just nods numbly and exits the ring.

--

The last time Ben found himself standing in a roped off section of the square was eleven months ago, holding his breath as Will was declared the victor of the Fifty-fourth Hunger Games.

Now he stands in a clump of other fourteen-year-old boys, the space tight and claustrophobic as they await the start of the reaping. It’s one thing for a district as large as Two to cram as many people as they can in the square; it’s another to do so in the height of summer. Sweat rolls down the back of Ben’s neck and into the collar of his button-up shirt.

He’s been out here longer than many of the district’s children. He arrived early with Will, who has earned a spot on the stage with Two’s other victors. His chair is front and center, almost directly between the two massive glass balls containing thousands of paper slips and to the right of the mayor’s chair.

Ben’s name is in there three times this year. The thought is a small comfort, even though the odds are entirely in his favor. His heart throws itself around his ribcage, his throat tight. He catches Will’s eye over the heads of the teenagers standing closer to the front of the crowd, and he gives Ben a short, assuring nod.

They’re not going to pick you, Will had said while getting ready that morning when he noticed the way Ben’s hands trembled for a grip on his comb. And if they do, someone will step up.

He’s right. District Two’s favored boy to volunteer this year is an eighteen-year-old named Bromius who doesn’t know how to back down from a fight.

Though he stands directly in the middle of the crowd, Ben is sure he can feel the prying eyes of spectators around him. Him, the younger brother of a victor. It’s only natural for them to wonder if he will follow in the footsteps of Will and volunteer for the Games. He’s sure more than a few wagers are being placed in his favor today.

To Ben’s right, the crowd shifts, and Ramsey shoulders his way to Ben’s side. “Hey,” he says. “How are you doing?”

Ben reigns in the urge to grimace when another bead of sweat drips down his back. “As okay as I can be.” No matter being though this twice before, no matter how much he expects having to step forward and step on that stage one day, he can’t seem to quiet the anxiety that roils in his stomach. He still watches Will, but his attention has been drawn by another victor seated behind him, a pretty girl who won seven years ago, if Ben remembers correctly. They’re both smiling. Ben’s just glad Will can still smile. A handful of Two’s victors have come home, but he’d never seen them smile again.

Ramsey claps him on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Besides, you’re not going to volunteer for another two years at least. I wouldn’t be surprised if they asked you to go in when you turn sixteen.”

Why is everyone so insistent that he’s going to be fine?

The thought is chased from Ben’s mind when feedback from the microphone on stage squeals through the speakers. The mayor waits for the sound to ebb before launching into the same speech he gives every year. By now, he has it memorized. Some of the boys around him quote the speech along with the mayor with dramatic voices and giggle to themselves.

As always, they are reminded of the origin of the Hunger Games, reminded of—no matter how much they may be in favor with the Capitol—they will ultimately be at their mercy by sending in their children to their prospective deaths. The only difference this year is that Will’s name has been added when the mayor reads off the list of past victors. He feels a small swell of pride at that.

District Two’s escort is introduced. Terra Evervale, a woman who’s allowed the fact that she has worked with so many victors get to her head, makes a brief statement about how much she’s looking forward to introducing the district’s next victor to the spoils of the Capitol.

Ben keeps his eyes locked on Will, who has made sparing eye contact with him through the procession. With so many cameras on him, he needs to appear alert and engaged. Now he watches Terra as she announces that this year, they will begin with the boys, and crosses the stage to one of the glass balls.

She plunges her hand deep into the ball, rummages around for a few seconds to build the anticipation. By the time she removes the single slip of paper, almost everyone in the square is holding their breath. Ben feels his fists clench, his vision blurring around the edges.

Will watches, his expression cool as Terra crosses back to the microphone. When she breaks the seal and pulls the edges of the paper apart, he has the perfect vantage point to read the name before she announces who the male tribute will be.

Will’s blue eyes go wide, his mouth falling open slightly; Ben can see his breath catch. He finds Ben in the crowd, as if he could call out a warning.

Ben reads Will’s expression, and knows with terrifying clarity whose name is on the paper.

“Benjamin Miller!”

[helaintoloki]

The Overlook Hotel

pairing: Dan Torrance x reader

warnings: language, some graphic imagery, possessed Dan, slight angst, fluff, about 2k in length

notes: I’ve wanted to write a Doctor Sleep piece for so long but was always hesitant because I knew my audience would be small. But what’s the point of writing anything if it’s only for the amount of notes you’ll get? anyway, this was created with components from the book, movie, and my own imagination. In the book Dan is legitimately Abra’s uncle by blood, but for this I thought it would be interesting if the reader was Abra’s mother and Dan was her estranged father. A lot of this is up for your interpretation so have some fun with it and enjoy! :)

The watchful presence of the spirits that reside in the hallways of the decaying hotel is the first sensation to strike you. A chill runs deep in your bones accompanied by the knowledge that you are not entirely alone in the Overlook. The musty smell of old wood and grimey carpets mixed with your own anxiety make you sick to your stomach, but you swallow down both your fear and the bile inching its way up your throat for Abra’s sake. You must get her somewhere safe, you must guard her with your life, and you must fulfill your promise to Dan.

You can understand now why little Danny Torrance had his apprehensions about this place. With its winding, disorienting hallways that never seem to go anywhere important and the lost souls that linger about

(“Great party, isn’t it?”)

in search of its new management, the Overlook is the bringer of nightmares and creator of evil. It takes and It destroys only to take and destroy again when It becomes understaffed. Well, you weren’t going to let It take Abra and you certainly wouldn’t let It take Dan. Over your

(his)

dead body.

But it isn’t until the hotel “wakes up” that you realize your lives are in danger. You wouldn’t necessarily say you have the shining because you don’t, just a natural instinct when it comes to your daughter and her father, and from your hiding spot in the hallway

(Both Dan and Abra refused to have you out there with Rose present. Stay close but stay hidden, that was the plan)

you could sense something was wrong. Abra didn’t have time to explain as she sprinted towards you, and you didn’t question it as she took your hand and guided you along with her. You trusted that your daughter knew what she was doing, and you had to assume this was all part of the plan.

“When I say the word, you two need to run. I’ll come get you both when she’s dead,” Dan had hastily instructed you whilst preparing for the arrival of Rose the Hat. With the axe still gripped tightly in his hands did he give you a hurried, sloppy, desperate kiss that was too rushed to convey just how much he loved you but had a long enough duration to blanket you with a sense of comfort. No matter what happened, you would be okay. That was the mantra you chanted over and over again in your mind as you navigated the maze-like hallways of the hotel.

After stumbling across countless horrifying guests of the Overlook and struggling to access safe passage among the many locked rooms, the two of you finally stumble across a suite with the door cracked slightly ajar: Room 237. Anxious glances are exchanged between Abra and yourself, but there isn’t time for any apprehensions the two of you may have. The room exudes violent energy, that much is certain, but so does the rest of the hotel. Your options are to stay out in the open and face whatever may come your way- and something is coming - or take your chances inside the suite.

“Inside, Abba-Doo,” you instruct calmly, but the frantic nature of the way you gently push her inside reveals your inner turmoil. You pray that Dan has finished Rose the Hat off once and for all, you hope she suffered and you hope her death was agonizingly slow because that bitch messed with your daughter and you will not tolerate such nonsense. Your hatred for the woman could easily be compared to that of Abra’s, her vengeful smile always at the forefront of Dan’s mind. It scared him to know his own daughter, the sweetest little girl he’d ever met, could be so spiteful. It almost reminded him of his father in a sense, and that just made his stomach sink with guilt.

(If Dan had a dollar for every time he’d hoped and prayed to his higher power to make sure Abra hadn’t inherited any of the bad Torrance genes, he could buy the three of you a nice house along the coast of California.)

You shut and lock the door behind you, though you’re not sure what good it will do at keeping the spirits out. They know this place better than either of you do, and they’re probably laughing at your pathetic attempt to protect yourselves right this moment.

“Mom?” Abra calls quietly, voice lilting ever so slightly. Her wide eyes are faced towards the bathroom, body unmoving and skin paling significantly at what sits before her.

You smell it before you see it, the decaying flesh, the mold and mildew collecting not only in the tub itself but on her corpse as well. The sagging skin of her arm leaves brown droplets of water on the bath mat below her as she ploddingly pulls back the shower curtain. It’s her undead smile that makes your knees weak in a way that almost forces your legs out from under you, a smile full of rotten teeth, a smile that conveys her intentions to harm the both of you. Instinctively do your arms wrap around Abra’s shoulders as you pull her close to your trembling form, eyes never once leaving the woman in the tub as she begins to rise from the murky water.

“Abra, if she takes even one step out of that bathtub, I want you to run,” you breathe shakily, glancing around the room for any item you could possibly wield as a weapon. Maybe you should have stopped by the kitchen and grabbed a knife, but there hadn’t been enough time.

“He’s coming,” Abra says suddenly, her muscles tense underneath your fingertips and her eyes tightly shut. “Mom, you have to remember that it’s still Dan. He’s still in there, you can’t forget that.” There are tears in her eyes now, voice trembling as she pleads for you to understand.

“Abra, what are you talking about?” You urge uneasily, but your question is answered by the sounds of shouting coming from down the hallway.

“Where are you, you little pups?! Come out and take your fucking medicine!”

“No.... Not Dan,” you utter helplessly. “Oh god, please not him.”

“Y/N!” He shouts louder now, prompting an unsolicited scream to tumble from your lips. A hand quickly slaps over your mouth to silence yourself but the damage is done. Out in the hallway he grins wickedly, grip on the axe tightening as he limps towards room 237.

“Little pig, little pig, let me in,” Dan taunts menacingly, knocking the wooden end of the axe against the door. His voice is warped, coarse and rough and not his own. Though they come from his lips, those are not his words.

“Abra, get behind me,” you demand hoarsely, coaxing her to act as if you were her shield. She can feel you trembling against her, sense the rapid beating of your heart, and feel the anguish swimming inside of you as if it is her own. You don’t want to lose Dan, not now, not after finding him again years after you’d last met, not when you had just started to rebuild a family together.

The doors slam open so suddenly you nearly trip over your own two feet and land on the dingy couches behind you, Abra following close behind. The figure that stands before you is a shell of the man you love. He flashes a deranged grin your way while limping closer and closer to you both, and his grip on the weapon is so tight his knuckles are almost as white as the milky haze over his right eye. This murderous man is the same man who had held you close in bed just nights before

(“I love you, and I’m never letting you go again.”)

and he’s itching to hack you and Abra to pieces.

“There you are, pups,” he coos with false tenderness. “You bitches have caused me a lot of heartache, dragging me into your bullshit like I’m some kind of a chump!”

“Dan...” You step backward, and he staggers forward.

“You’re just two mouths to feed, two mouths to bitch and complain, two mouths who cost money and time.”

“Danny, please,” you weep, stomach summersaulting as you back into the couch with nowhere left to run.

“Well I’ve had just about enough,” Dan seethes. His shoulders roll back as he begins to raise the axe, and he intends to make you his first victim. “It’s time to take your medicine, y/n. Let’s see if you can handle it-“

“You’re a false face!” Abra blurts, causing Dan to momentarily falter. “You’re not my dad.”

“Who else would I be?” The monster jests with a condescending smile painted across its lips.

“You’re the hotel.”

“Masks off then,” it replies unbothered. “Step aside child, your mother’s about to get what she deserves.”

“Maybe you should think about where you’re standing before you try to hurt us.”

“Abra,” you whimper, hands gripping almost painfully at her shoulders. Tears stream steadily down both of your faces, but her voice is much more relaxed and steadier than yours. “Abra, what are you doing?”

“The body you’re standing in, the face you’re wearing, that’s Dan Torrance. My father.”

“Dan Torrance,” the Overlook cackles mockingly.

“The man who stopped by the boiler room as soon as he got here.” The laughter stops abruptly then at her revelation, and for the first time tonight the Hotel is afraid.

“You little brat,” It seethes before swinging the axe forward. A scream escapes you as you yank your daughter back, but the blade halts its slice midair as the fog over Dan’s mind begins to fade. He falters with a moan, allowing Abra to gently guide the weapon away from endangering you both.

“Abra?” Dan groans, his voice now his own.

“Dan!” You all but cry, immediately throwing yourself into his arms. He wastes no time in pulling you desperately close to his body, his nose buried into your hair and his bloodied hand coming to cradle the back of your head.

“I told you both to run,” Dan scolds gingerly.

“We couldn’t leave you,” Abra admits in a trembling voice only to be pulled into the hug by her father. “Not when we just got you back.”

“My girls,” Dan all but sobs, “I’m so sorry for everything. I could never hurt you, I could never lay a hand on you. You don’t deserve this.”

“All that matters now is that we’re together,” you sniffle, a tearful smile gracing your features as you rest your hands upon his cheeks. “And from now on we always will be.”

Both Dan and Abra understand it’s not that simple, but at the moment neither of them care to voice their concerns. It’s been years since anyone has had a happy moment in this dastardly hotel, and Dan intends to savor this time for all its worth. His father hadn’t been able to escape his inner demons, and he hadn’t been able to protect his family; the Overlook hotel had consumed Jack Torrance.

But it wouldn’t take Dan. Not without a fight.

*note: the gif used above is not mine !

[saintjosaphime]

Wishful Thinking|| Morgan and Josephine

Just your average run to the witch supply store.

After being in White Crest for so long, one would naturally develop a curiosity for things that weren’t quite within their realm. And although Josephine understood that her abilities were gifted through magic and used powerful magicks, she found herself quite interested in the more...mortal versions of it. There were so many kinds! Alchemy, elemental, summoning, healing! It was absolutely fascinating. And it was with this mindset that Josephine found herself at one of the local magic shops-- a real magic shop, not the magic shop downtown that sold “energized crystals” that were just painted quartz-- perusing the shelves for anything that caught her eye. But halfway through her shopping, something else caught her eye, something much more interesting. A someone, technically. 

She’d walked into the shop with a bit of a sulk, but it wasn’t her saunter that gave her away-- no, it was the waves and waves of sadness and angst rolling off of her. Buried deep underneath it all, an anger. One that Josephine felt herself all too eager for. It was a familiar anger. The kind she dealt in. Someone close to this woman had wronged her, and by the way her curls sagged on her head, it was someone she had cared for very much. Josephine put on a grin. She sidled around the corner, pretending to be occupied with something or other, before reaching out as if to grab the same thing this woman was reaching for. “Oh! I’m sorry, you go ahead,” she said, giving a pleasant smile.

Morgan was just going to pick up some good basics for her supply box--now that she and Cece were out in the open about the whole magic thing, she could grab more than just what she could hide under the bed or in her thermos. Just a run, like going to the supermarket, and maybe if she’d managed to go right after classes it would have been, but now it was past five. The sun was already quitting on the world for the day and the working witches were strolling the aisles with their families. It was stupid--everyone had a family, even if it wasn’t alays a good one--but something about Mom, Dad, and Screaming Baby made the boards that held up her soul threaten to give. And maybe it was creepy, following the sound of stroller wheels over an aisle and becoming super fascinated with some mugwort she did not need, but Morgan couldn’t help herself. The kid was in a princess elsa onesie, kicking her little feet and grasping clumsily for rune stones she couldn’t reach. She was crying. Aren’t you going to do anything? It’s not that hard, just fix it. Fix it. And in came the dad, some ritual urn on his hip, scooped up his little bundle of hope and gave her a good rock. Enjoy it while it lasts, kid, she thought. The girl looked up from her Dad’s shoulder and flashed a toothless smile.

Morgan turned away and reached for the glass phials she's actually come for. Too much. Way too much. Time to get home, grade papers, and find out whether it was going to be a cuddle and fuck the pain away kind of night or the stare into the dark and pray for sleep kind. 

There was a woman’s hand next to hers, brushing close. Morgan jumped back. “Sorry!” she said. “No, I didn’t see you. You can, um, go ahead. I should’ve been paying attention. Really.” Her smile was big, even pleasant, as she insisted, but her arms locked tight around her chest, holding herself up until the exchange could be over. 

Oh, this was much worse off than Josephine had originally thought. The way the other woman held herself, the jerk when they’re hands touched, that look on her face that said ‘Please just let this be over’. It bothered Josephine. Whoever had done this to this poor woman, they deserved to suffer. A frown furrowed Josephine’s face, unable to stop the involuntary motion. “I don’t mean to pry,” she found herself saying, pulling a phial off and holding it out to her, “but you seem a bit...down for the wear.” Hmm, was that saying still a current one? Sometimes her age showed, but perhaps this woman, so distracted by her pain, wouldn’t care nor notice. She tilted her head. “Everything alright?”

Morgan tried to keep the horror of being recognized out of her eyes as best she could. “What?” She said, laughing incredulously. “No, I’m--I was just distracted. Thinking too much, you know?” She did not want to take the phial from the lady, it seemed charged somehow, like admitting she needed pity, or wanted it. Here she was, flying into regular panics over balancing her life so everyone stayed at an even distance, and the Universe, her parents, who the hell ever had tripped the curse back when, hadn’t given her even half that consideration. “I’m okay,” she managed, smiling again as best she could. “T-thank you though.” She checked her view of the cash register-- the family had just taken their spot in line. Baby girl was sucking on the rim of the urn like it belonged to her. Fuck the universe. “It’s nothing serious,” she said quietly. “You’re kind to ask, but I’ve got it.” She plucked the vial up quickly and shifted her gaze around the store, looking for somewhere else to be. 

Josephine tilted her head in concern. Someone in denial was always harder to get through, but she literally couldn’t walk away at this point. The pull of her burden was too strong. She followed her line of sight. The family standing at the register. So it was likely her parents that had dug this deep pit inside of her. Josephine could relate, and it made her angry, a brief flash of it crossing her face. “Must be nice, right?” she said, knowing that she, too, used to look longingly at happy families, talking in public, eating together, doing simple things like walking through a park or getting groceries. “I hope she realizes how good she’s got it.”

“Oh god, right?” Morgan said back. It was just so true, it slipped out of her like air. “If she’s real lucky she’ll never have to figure it out.” And that hurt. Morgan didn’t know who she’d be at all if this hadn’t happened to her, if she’d never been given a reason to even think something was off with her life. But that wasn’t going to get her anywhere to be and she shouldn’t be dumping this out loud on random strangers. She turned back to the woman, looking her over carefully for the first time. “I’m sorry--who are you, exactly? I mean--do you always strike up conversations with sad people?”

“Oh, sorry,” Josephine said, giving a slight smile. She couldn’t make it go any bigger, both for the ache inside of her and the ache coming from the other woman’s heart. “My name’s Josephine. And no, not usually, but…” she glanced around, then back to Morgan, “it’s hard to watch someone suffer without at least trying to help. I didn’t mean to drag stuff out...but I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t relate.” She set the offered phial down into Morgan’s basket before reaching up to grab her own. “But we can talk about something else, or pretend this never happened, if that’s what you want.” Turned to look back at her, putting the phials in her own basket. 

“Josephine,” Morgan repeated. That sounded like something. “Guidance counselor Josephine?” Oh, no. Not another one. Between Remmy, Cassie, Blanche, and whoever else she was forgetting, Morgan had all the absurdly kind people near her that she could bear. If she was really as kind as all that she would just run, maybe even be rude, and let Josephine get on with her life. And what was the point of convincing her about her sad story anyway? She was normal, wasn’t she? “I spoke with you online! Briefly. I meant to show and see that the community part of White Crest was all about, but Valentine’s Day turned out to be pretty rough, mostly. I’m Morgan, by the way. I um-didn’t think I’d be running into you here. Color me at least a little surprised.” This wasn’t really the muggle-type place to shop now that she thought about it. She scrutinized Josephine a little more carefully. Was she somehow...not normal? 

“Morgan!” Josephine said, a little brighter. So she’d been right. And she liked being right. “You can just call me Josphine, though, Guidance counselor Josephine was my mom.” Her face soured at the mention, though, because her mother was anything but a counselor. Her mother was a scourge on Earth. The only good thing she’d done was give birth to Josephine and MJ. She snapped back from the thought. “Why? Because I seem so normal?” she gave a flashing grin, before shrugging, “I guess I’m a little too good at it now, but I’d rather not lose my job because someone called me a witch on main.”

Morgan sputtered. This was a lot, and Josephine’s being a witch didn’t really mitigate her concerns over her being too upsettingly nice to be around for long. “--Okay, kind of, yes. Not that I don’t understand! Hunters are real and humans, normal ones, can be really horrible with things they don’t understand. I get flack sometimes for naming my crystal shop a witchery, but I just can’t bear to be completely closeted about everything. But it’s a balancing act, you know?”

“You have your own shop?” Josephine asked, genuinely curious. She supposed she could understand that. Josephine hated it as well, but growing up black and queer in the 60’s didn’t exactly allow for an leeway in not hiding. “I can get that. I do. But perhaps it was my experience that showed me that hiding, while sometimes unbearable, was safer than being out.  In any sense.” Gave her a glance. “I’m almost jealous of you. It’d be nice to just be out about...what I am, but secrets have kept me alive and so...I’ll keep them.” She gave Morgan a tight lipped look. It would be hard to pry into her in a public place like this, but she couldn’t seem to pull herself away. The draw of Morgan’s resent was too strong and too familiar. “Hey, looks like the counter is open,” she pointed, as the family with the little girl made their leave. “Ladies first,” she offered, smiling somberly at Morgan.

“Etsy shop,” Morgan clarified, bracing herself for whatever kind of way Josephine wanted to feel about it. She held Josephine’s glance and felt immediately abashed. Oh, so not a witch. Something with a lot more risk involved. Fae? Wolf? Zombie? Morgan wasn’t sure if it was her place to ask. “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “About whatever...happened, or came after you. You’re a really kind person and you didn’t deserve that.” She smiled back, plucked up a bushel of dried herbs from another shelf and made for the check out line with a mumbled thank you.

“Esty shop? That’s admirable. It’s hard to make a living off small businesses like that,” Josephine commented truthfully. She did admire small business owners and operators. It took much more gusto and determination to do something like that. “Oh, nothing came after me, except life, I guess. It came after me and my sister and it took things from me that I can never get back.” She stuffed one more thing into her basket. “Being queer didn’t help.” She followed Morgan up to the counter. She was itching to ask her, itching to tell her, that she could probably solve all her problems, if only Morgan would let her. But it was still too early and they were still in too public a place. “I’m sorry, too. For whatever’s making you...hurt right now.” A subtle hint, maybe Morgan would take it.

Morgan laughed dryly, “Oh, I don’t. I also work for two departments in the College of Arts and Sciences at UMAC, adjuncting. And then, after taxes, I kinda get by.” She laid all her things out in neat stacks and took out her very real card to pay with fresh, real, deposited funds. “No, it definitely wouldn’t have,” she said quietly. “We’re about the same age--” Unless she was some 200 year old fae. “--Maybe. And it was hard even for me.” Josephine would’ve grown up alongside the same broadcasts and speeches as she had. Read the same headlines. Seen the same arrests. The same bodies. She leaned in between making small talk with the cashier and asked, “Was I really that obvious?”

Josephine gave a small chuckle. “Typical. I wouldn’t say I make a killing, either, but I’ve learned how to manage my money better because of it.” She watched the stuff Morgan was buying with curiosity, but didn’t say anything. She doubted Morgan was close to her age, unless she was really good at illusions, and by the ingredients in her basket, that seemed unlikely. “Hmmm,” was all she said to that, giving a nod. They weren’t fond memories or fond times, but they were events that had led to the world being the way it was now. When Morgan whispered her question, Josephine softened her expression. “No, not really,” she said back, just as quietly, giving a bit of a rougher bite to her voice, “I’m just really good at telling these things.”

Morgan knew by now when someone was trying to supernatural code at her, but she was not especially gifted at deciphering it. She wanted to ask Jospehine to just tell her before she made some weird gaffe about the wrong species, to say whatever she wanted to ask of her in return. Because Josephine did seem to think she knew something. She lingered after she paid for her things, her canvas shopping bag held close over her with leftover nerves. When Joephine finished, she walked out the store with her, checking there was no one else within hearing. “I’m really bad at the guessing game,” she said. “I’ve learned about at least five new supernatural species in the last month so I may not even know what you’re trying to say, so can you just...say?”

Morgan was forward, Josephine couldn’t deny that, but she imagined the wear of her sadness was making things harder to give an effort for. Sighing, Josephine shrugged. “It’s a big world out there, isn’t it?” she said, holding her bag loosely. “I’m sure it can get daunting at times.” But Morgan was trying to be genuine, and Josephine was sure, by her own description, that it was unlikely she’d know what species Josephine was. “I’m going to tell you this because you seem trustworthy, but also because I believe that I can help you.” She paused. “But, I’m going to ask for discretion in return, of course. You understand, right?” she asked, looking over at her as they shuffled along. She waited for confirmation before continuing on. If Morgan did end up telling someone, it wouldn’t matter too much. But getting on the bad side of an Erinyes wasn’t the brightest idea. “I’m something called an Erinyes. I’m...magical in nature. But I promise you, this isn’t any sort of “baby’s first illusion” magic. I use my magic to...help people. To grant them the opportunity to stand up to someone-- or something-- that’s wronged them.”

Morgan kept her eyes focused on the dimming sky ahead of them in case they actually were trying to bug out of her face. Erinyes were real now? As in furies? What did she smell or taste like to Josephine that made her want to talk? “Make that six new species,” Morgan said, swallowing for composure. “I uh...I should probably tell you now that just about everyone I might have any feelings that strong about are dead.” She slid her gaze sidelong at Josephine, as if the new revelation between them might change how they were seen. “This is normally where I insist you don’t want to hear my sad little story, partly because I hate telling it sometimes, but since that’s the only reason you talked to me, you should know there’s nothing to be done about it. I’m a dead end.” 

Josephine didn’t like that answer. “I think you massively underestimate my power, Morgan,” she said flatly, but kept her same demeanour, same composure. “No one with feelings as powerful as yours could be a dead end.” She turned her head enough to look at the woman walking beside her. “But I won’t pry. Your story is yours. And your narrative is yours. But I’m guessing if you’ve ended up in a place like this, you’re at your grasp’s end. So what harm could trying, do?” She turned her gaze back to watch the sidewalk in front them. “For what it’s worth, though, that wasn’t the only reason I talked to you. It might’ve been the initial draw, but...I talked to you because I know how you feel. That pain inside of you....” she was quiet for a moment. This wasn’t something she’d shared with anyone in a while. “I know that pain first hand. It’s why I do the things I do, now. So that one will have to feel this way, if I can help it.”

Morgan took her time down the street as she tried to take all this in. She didn’t know much about furies and now was a terrible time to be finding out. She was afraid, damnit, but only because she didn’t know what she was up against. And because she had been seen, really and horribly seen, out of nowhere. Without saying anything. She listened, forcing her breath to steady as she walked. Oh. Oh no. She stopped, not quite able to face her. “I am really sorry, if you actually felt like this. If someone—if the people who were supposed to take care of you didn’t do that. But what’s happening to me is magic power, and…” How to put this? She didn’t share this with strangers. But hasn’t she been saying she wished for help a little less personally invested? But Josephine was kind. She chose to work with high school kids. She was one more absurdly kind person Morgan couldn’t shake her awareness of. “I just need a minute!” she said, and plopped herself onto the nearest bench. 

Josephine stopped when Morgan did. She didn’t sit on the bench with her right away, but stood by her, contemplating her next move. The power inside her told her to push and pry and make Morgan take a deal. She deserved it, after all. To be free of this pain. But the person in Josephine told her it wasn’t going to be so easy. Morgan’s problems were dead, which meant Josephine couldn’t wrap her own hands around their necks to watch their life drain, but souls in the ether were still prone to punishment, even if it meant reaching through planes to rip their back down to suffer for all eternity. She could do that. But only if Morgan let her. Only if Morgan accepted her help. Finally, she sat. “Take your time,” she said quietly. She turned enough to look Morgan square in the eyes, burning with something that she didn’t often let to the surface. “But whatever magic has cursed you, it’s nothing compared to what I can do.”

Morgan tapped her fingers over her chest. She’d just been saying it would be easy if she didn’t know the person willing to help, if she didn’t have to care or worry. If she could see them more like her piles of sand and glass, objects to be weighed, negotiated, exchanged. Not wronged, not used, exactly, but balanced. So why was she scared? Why not seize this right now?

Because it was easy. 

Too easy for someone like her.

How many times did her freshman students bemoan the idiot heroes who said yes to the first spirit who offered everything they ever wanted? Why is he so dumb? They’d ask. You don’t get things free. So how long before it bites him in the ass? 

And Morgan would explain, kindly, ideas beyond common sense and consequence. Why is a good question. What would make you do something like that? How bad would you need it, what’s worth the denial it takes to say yes to something like that? But those were ideas. This was her.

“I--think there’s more I need to understand right now,” she stammered. “What do you get out of this? Hypothetically, you fix my life, or you make it worth dying with a curse on my shoulders, but what’s the cost?”

As Josephine waited, she took the time to look Morgan over properly. She was a smaller woman, cozy in her dressings today. She had curls which probably sagged more today than most, and little creases around her eyes were forced smiles had worn away at her. Josephine looked down. Age wasn’t a thing that she’d ever have to worry about wearing on her, and sometimes she felt pity for the people who were already being dragged down with it. Morgan didn’t look too old, but she had mentioned going through some of the same times Josephine had. It was a stab in the dark, but she couldn’t be any younger than 35. What could have wearied someone like this by only their 30s? So early in life, even for a mortal. “Must there be a cost?” she said evenly, leaning back and tilting her head to look up at the sky. “Must there be some ulterior motive on my end?” It was a fair question. And while there technically was, it didn’t change the situation. She glanced sideways to look at Morgan, head still leaned back. “If you must know, granting these...opportunities is what fuels my power. It’s how I feed, I suppose you could say. But I choose to believe it’s because this is my duty to the world. And while I can take in return for those who ask a lot, I don’t have to. Duty is more important than material gains.” She looked back at Morgan. “But do not misunderstand me, Morgan-- I can not fix your life. That’s up to you. What I can do is grant you a wish that can change your circumstance. Rid you of something that looms over you, or destroy someone who has wronged your heart. That’s what I can do. And I can do it all with a snap.”

Morgan sagged back on the bench. “I’m a cosmically screwed alchemist,” she sighed, rubbing away at the worry wrinkle on her forehead. “I know about cost.” And then Josephine went on. Not about kindness, but duty. Stars above, did every supernatural femme in town have a secret pledge to something? Was that what she was missing from her life? Morgan smirked and held herself a little more loosely, turned to look at Josephine, smiling in her small, soft way, her first and last line of defense with the world. “Sorry. You just reminded me of someone. In a good way, mostly. And I do appreciate you not proposing the sun and stars and a fresh start or an insta-happy-ever-after. But I can’t be any more of a game for the universe than I already am. Can you magic promise me to disclose the fine print or something?”

“Sure,” Josephine said, “there’s usually a cost for everything. On a human level. But that’s not exactly what we’re dealing with, now is it?” She gave her a look, noting the small smile, the wall, the lock, the key all in one. She leaned forward again, turning on the bench to face Morgan more. “I hope it’s a good reminder. I can’t promise bind like fae can, but you can look at me here and now, in the eyes, and I can tell you that I will disclose anything you want me to. I’m not malicious, my powers aren’t evil-- they’re a gift. Divine, if those such things truly existed. I was born into obscurity and found my way into becoming something that truly has the power to right wrongs and change the world. I’m not out to hurt you, Morgan. Just the opposite. I help. I help those who can not help themselves, not for lack of trying, but lack of circumstance.” She held out her hand-- a symbolic gesture this time. There were no deals behind this handshake. “Promise.”

Morgan looked, tapping her fingers still, breathing deep and silent. She didn’t have any duty or grand principles. Once it had been her family and what they needed, what was best for them. Then it was just her. She tried to make fair bargains with the universe, but the universe always held back, and she always kept a half useless card up her sleeve, just in case she lost her hand.  But at least this was magic. Magic, for all its mystery, was bound by rules. Magic couldn’t play dirty, just the ones who used it. And this was just for full disclosure, right? If she could spot the trap, if there was one, she wouldn’t have to fall in. If she really wanted, she could stay at her safe remove between all options at once. Cassie, the Vurals, Blanche, and Remmy to one side; this to another. Just a little longer. Slowly, Morgan took Josephine’s hand. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. We--don’t have to do this right now. Or right here, at least.” The dark was closing in, and the shadows were stretching on the ground like monsters. “I don’t know how, uh, hungry you are in any sense, but we could always...do something less horror movie than sit on a bench in the dark. Unless that’s your thing! In which case, there are at least more picturesque choices.”

“I keep well fed here,” Josephine said simply, as Morgan took her hand. “So you can take your time. I didn’t come to you out of desperation, I came to you because your pain touched something familiar in me.” Josephine smiled sweetly at her, withdrawing her hand. “We can go wherever you want. I don’t mind the dark, but sitting on a bench at night isn’t technically my favorite thing to do, no.” A tease, to help lighten the mood a bit. “You can take your time.This is a big decision, and it should be made right. We can go somewhere else. Or we can get a drink and go for a walk. The ball is in your court, and I like to think I’m a pretty open gal.” She stood, held her hand out to Morgan again, this time in a gesture to help her up from the bench, a kind smile on her face and in her eyes. “Or we can go our separate ways while you think. Like I said, there’s no rush. I’m good at other things, too. Of the not talking variety.”

Morgan gave a breathless, flustered laugh. Was Josephine--? She hadn’t even been flirting. She had, in fact, been costing through a spectacular variety of anxieties this whole time. She fussed with the ends of her hair and smiled a little wider. She had a preference for how she spent her nights, of course, but there was plenty of room around Deirdre for a little fun. Fun, and maybe even a way out of her mess of a life. “I’ll...keep that in mind,” she said. Waited a moment, still breathing. “Where do you like to drink anyways?”

Josephine just smiled. “Just an offer. Not too many older queer women around here,” she answered. “Not that we’re old, of course. My favorite bar is Dell’s, but that’s mainly because it’s close to home and work. The Magic Circle and the Seven Selkies are nice for when you’re too tired to pretend to be normal anymore. They’re more our kind of scene than Mary from accountings kind,” she said simply. 

“Oh, I know,” Morgan said, getting up with Josephine’s help at last. “Until you, I was starting to think I was the oldest queer woman in town.” She held herself against the night air and began to walk beside her. “I’m kind of surprised I’ve been able to meet anyone here who I can really connect with. The world is so big and somehow so small at the same time. But, anyway,” She was getting off the beaten path with that way of thinking, and no one liked a date distracted by someone else. She drew herself up and mustered some cheer, “Put a cocktail in my hand and I’ll give you my story.”

“The world is smaller than we think,” Josephine answered. “Oh, I doubt that. I’m sure there are even some older than me. But unless you remember President Eisenhauer, I think I’ve got a couple decades on you.” She flashed another grin. “This town is special like that. It draws in a certain type of person.” She lead them down the sidewalk, feeling the brisk air cool her skin as the sun dipped ever lower. “Well, we’re right nearby the magic circle, and it seems rather fitting, considering,” she said, “Drinks on me.” She moved to open the door, giving a bit of more playful smirk this time, “I’ll even pay, too.” 

Wow, that was old. “Nope, Reagan baby,” Morgan admitted. “You wear it amazingly. “ She curtsied with appreciation as Josephine opened the door. “You’re too kind, Josephine.” But not so much that Morgan wouldn’t happily let her. She went and found them a booth tucked away in the back and let the stuffed backing swallow her a little. Maybe don’t think too hard about it, she thought. Maybe just...see what’s possible. She reached up to help Josephine set the drinks down when she appeared and took a good gulp. “Thank you for this,” she said.

“Ah..that asshole,” Josephine said with a knowing nod. “And thank you. I think so, too.” Immortality helped, as well. She followed Morgan in and watched which booth she tucked herself into before going up to the counter to order them both an old fashioned. They needed something strong for this, and Josephine’s tolerance was higher, anyway. She took the drinks back and set Morgan’s down. “Hope you’ve got a high tolerance,” she said, sliding into the booth opposite. Held a hand. “No need to thank me. I don’t do it for the thanks,” she said, a smile brimming on her face. She couldn’t help but get excited about granting a wish for someone like Morgan. Her pain and resent would fill Josephine up for weeks. That was thanks enough.

Morgan shrugged. “Moderate enough. So--” And Morgan worked her way through the bones of the story. She went down the list of so-called accidents and sudden losses. She explained about her mother, how she’d had to be asked, point blank, after the funeral, because Morgan was sure she had done this just by existing. And how she had died hiding something else: that she had come here before. That she had a whole life that would never be known now. She explained about Agnes, and Sean. When she was done, she rewarded herself with another gulp of her drink and steadied her breath. “So, I’m carrying some shit someone did however many hundred years ago on my shoulders, but I didn’t ask for any of it. All I ever wanted was a nice life. So what, hypothetically, could your magic do for that?”

It was quite the explanation. And quite the curse. But Josephine was positive, if spun in the right way, she could easily rewrite a few chapters of history here and there to get rid of the curse. If that’s what Morgan wanted. It would change her entire life, after all, and that was a big thing to swallow. If not that, then perhaps a different spin on her current situation. She could give Morgan the power to dispell the curse herself, or maybe give her the chance to take revenge on the one who cast it in the first place. Drag their soul up from the ether or whatever new form it had taken, and smash it into a rotting corpse for her to pummel. “Well...it depends on what you want my magic to do for you. The caveat, I should say, is that my magic works by...fulfilling retribution. I can not simply wave away your curse because that’s where your pain lies. But I can reach into the ether and find the soul of whoever cursed you and send them to eternal suffering. Or rewrite their history so that the inciting event never happens. The list goes on.” 

Sometime after Josephine made it clear she couldn’t wipe the pain off Morgan’s shoulders, her brain went quiet. Of course she couldn’t. Not even an old fury could save her that neatly. There was no cash-in system for all the suffering credit she’d accumulated. It couldn’t carry its own weight to buy her some simplicity and peace of mind. No, instead they had to break the world, or steal a soul just for the catharsis of the thing. And what would she have to give up for that? Her own humanity? Her life? For something that fundamentally screwed, would she have to Marty McFly herself out of existence? Or lose all the kind people she was trying to balance? How was this cost going to be any better than what she was doing already? Morgan stared into her drink, and even that wasn’t much for comfort. “I can’t do this right now,” she murmured sadly. “I thought I could, at least understand the basics, but--” she breathed, sniffled, and raised her eyes to the ceiling to keep them focused and dry. “I think I need to get home. I’m sorry.”

This didn’t bode well. Morgan’s silence was deafening to Josephine. She recalled the dozens of times she’d sat across from her sister in their room, or at the table, or hiding in their closet. And they’d just been quiet. Drowning in their own silence. Looking at each other wondering if it would ever end. Her heart burned with an anger unlike most at the thought and Josephine had to hide it behind a large gulp of her drink. “I understand,” she said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her card, the same one she’d given Dot a few nights ago. “If you change your mind,” slid the card across the table, “or just want someone to talk to, give me a call.” Then sat back and took another drink. Morgan wasn’t a loss, though. No, this wasn’t the end of this. Josephine would get her deal from Morgan, because she knew what kind of person Morgan was. And she knew what kind of person anger like that made people into. 

[godsdamnit-pixelberry]

doesn’t matter if i’m not enough (‘cause i’m young and in love)

Book: Desire & Decorum

Pairing: Annabelle Parsons/MC

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Comfort

Rating: T

Summary: MC is tired of playing the role of a refined lady. Annabelle finds and comforts her. Confessions ensues. A little angsty but with a happy ending.

Word Count: 2478 words

[also on ao3]

oh wow my first choices fic no pressure. so hallo, i would just like to say that annabelle parsons is a brave darling we should all stan and also that shitty aesthetics of annabelle up there is made by yours truly. that’s all, please enjoy and thanks for reading :))

set somewhere during book 1 where they haven’t talked about this ‘thing’ they have.

title is from the song ‘love’ by lana del rey

"Lady Clara, are you alright?"

You force your head to turn to the direction of the voice. Your eyes soften when you see Annabelle at the doorway of the balcony.

You take a deep breath and compose yourself, "I'm alright. I apologize for storming off like that, I only needed a breath of fresh air,” You wave her off. "You won't need to worry yourself, Annabelle."

"Of course," She replies, though her brown eyes tell you that she doesn't believe a word of that. "Would you mind if I join you then?"

You smile despite yourself, "I would never, your company is most welcome."

You don't say the things that matter. Like, how her company is the only one you look forward to in every social gathering your grandmother forces you to go. And perhaps if the heavens allow it, how friendship isn't quite the word you'd use to describe what you feel for her.

You let those words dissolve on your tongue, like you always do.

You turn back to the view of the dimly-lit estate, exhaling. She stands next to you and you have to grip the railing to keep your hand from taking hers.

A couple of minutes pass before she says anything, "You don't have to pretend, not in front of me."

Your shoulders sag and you sigh. Why does she have to be so perceptive?

"I don't- I’m not-" You try to deny, but she takes your hand and suddenly, the lie you've formulated in your mind disappears.

You feel the back of your eyes burning with tears you don't want to shed just yet, "It's just, I don't like this."

You feebly gesture to your surroundings. Annabelle doesn't question the vagueness of your statement and you have a feeling that she understands what you're trying to say.

"I don't like the parties, the competition between women to become the 'most accomplished lady' and be sold off to the first man with title who gives them attention, the suitors, Duke Richards," The name leaves a bad taste in your mouth. You despise the man and his inability to understand the word 'no'. Beside you, Annabelle stiffens at the mention of the name. You squeeze her hand and she squeeze back. "I don't like the way my grandmother dangles me in front of that wretched man like I’m some sort of mindless puppet and Countess Henrietta for trying to take my father's estate from me.

"I don't like it here," Your voice breaks and your vision blurs as the tears finally makes their way out of their sockets. The place, that weeks prior was a cause of your joy, now brings you weariness.

You feel so utterly defeated and Annabelle’s warm hand in your tight grip feels like a lifeline. You think about how Annabelle in general has been your lifeline your whole stay at Edgewater.

And you want to cry even more because the accompanying thoughts that came with that is not kind. It stabs your heart with the kind of pain you've only experienced when your mother, then later your father, passed away.

The implications of that makes fresh tears flow out of your eyes.

Annabelle has been quiet this whole time and you don't know what to think of that.

Finally, she speaks, "You don't like anything here?" She says in a quiet, horrified voice, as if she can't believe she didn't know.

"In all honesty, there's been only one good thing about this whole ordeal," You reply and you can hear your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

She swallows slowly, like something is clogging her throat, and you can see her glancing back at the party you two left behind. You follow her line of sight and see her eyes stop at a specific table where Mr. Chambers, Mr. Konevi, Mr. Sinclaire and Prince Hamid are sitting. Her eyes linger on Prince Hamid before she turns around again, jaw now clenched.

"What?" She whispers, voice sounding strangely exhausted.

You take a moment to appreciate her soft but firm hand in yours, the heat radiating off her, and her scent that is wholly Annabelle Parsons. You focus on anything your senses say is related to her - in fear that you can never be this close to her again.

Then you say it, "You."

One word, a simple word that will change your life for better or for worse. You pray to your mother and your father that it won't be the latter.

She inhales sharply and it's taking everything in you not to squeeze her hand even more. You’re afraid she might rip it out of your grasp and stalk off. Instead, you squeeze your eyes shut, maybe if you won't see her disgusted face directed at you, it'll hurt less.

You know it won't, but you are such a child that you hope it will anyway.

To your surprise, however, she stays put. You don't dare hope for hope.

You can hear her trying to speak but failing several times. You don't know what that could possibly mean for you.

"Do you truly mean that?"

Your eyes snap open and you turn to her sharply, heart in your throat. You’re taken off guard by what you saw, however.

She’s already looking at you, her soft brown eyes shining in the moonlight. Not with disgust or hate, but with pure, naked hope. Her hand is trembling in your grasp and you can't help but think about how Annabelle Parsons is the most beautiful woman in the world and how you're irrevocably in love with her.

"Yes," You whisper back. You hope against hope that you did not just single-handedly ruin one of the most important relationship in your life.

A mix of a sob and a laugh leaves her mouth, her hand that isn't holding yours wipes at her eyes that are suspiciously damp. All the tension that gathered in her earlier seem to seep out of her. In their place is absolute, unadulterated happiness.

The hope you'd tried to bury in the depths of your heart springs up once again. You have to swallow it down to speak. "Do you...?"

Annabelle nods her head at your unfinished question, tears now steadily running down her face. Despite that, her brown eyes are alight with so much joy.

Your breath hitch as the full realization hits you. Your eyes fill with tears again, this time - out of happiness.

"Annabelle!" You rush to embrace and she does the same.

"Oh Clara!"

You rest your head on the crook of her neck, breathing her in. You try to let the gravity of the situation sink in, but you still can't wrap your mind around it. All of earlier somehow feels like a dream and you've only just woken up, grasping at the barest threads left to make sense of everything.

But you know deep in your bones that it was real. Because well, if it wasn't, you wouldn't be holding on to Annabelle like this now, would you?

"I love you," You whisper. the words make you feel lighter. Like an unbearable itch that finally went away or perhaps, like a muscle that was stretched for the first time after a long time.

She tightens her hold around you, running the pads of her thumb on the skin of your nape – as if making sure you're real, this is real.

"I love you too, " She smiles, then takes a step back. For one horrible and pain-stricken moment, panic seizes your heart at the movement.

Sensing your nervousness, she takes your hand and squeezes it in reassurance. You relax.

"Clara, may the night and the moon be my witnesses, I promise this to you," She intertwines your fingers together, holding them up. "I will love you until the very day my soul fades from this world."

She holds your hand to her lips and kisses every knuckle, "Until then, will you be with me?" She asks, her smile nervous.

You feel your own lips curl into a blinding smile, "I would be a fool to deny the woman that holds my heart in her palm anything."

She grins back, "Is that a yes, then?" You eye the balcony door and see a servant who's closing the curtains.

"A million," You pull her towards you and catch her lips in a passionate kiss. At the same moment, the servant finishes closing the last of the curtains that allowed sight into the balcony, curtains that allowed an audience to your and Annabelle’s love for each other.

After a minute, you reluctantly pull away. The curtains may have been closed momentarily, but it certainly wouldn't stop any curious guest from peeking out the windows. Nor does it stop any wandering servants on the estate grounds from seeing you two.

All that are promptly forgotten though, when a few seconds later, Annabelle takes your face in her hands and presses your lips together for the second time. When you get over your surprise, you wrap your arms around her waist and pull her even impossibly closer to you.

You kiss her back, just as passionately as her. She playfully bites on your lower lip, you gasp, allowing her tongue to slip inside your mouth.

You tighten your hold on her, it's all you can do to stop yourself from melting when her tongue dances with your own.

She’s the one to pull away first this time and you - unable to help yourself - steal a few more kisses from her sweet, soft lips. Although, maybe steal isn't the best word since she so generously complied with your requests.

She giggles as you peck her lips repeatedly, "You are insatiable!"

"Only for you, my dear 'Belle," You grin.

"Well, I would certainly hope so," She says, but the joking tone she's trying for isn't successful in masking the raw truth in her statement. She straightens up suddenly and avoids your gaze, still, you can see the plea in her eyes.

You blink, confused with her behaviour until a particular memory from earlier strikes you.

Annabelle’s eyes tracking the tables inside the room and stopping short on a table full of your most pleasant suitors. Her eyeing everyone from Mr. Sinclaire to Mr. Chambers. Then, her eyes narrowing when they land on Prince Hamid, your most forward – but kind – suitor yet.

The pieces form together in your mind and a surge of amused endearment flows through you.

"’Belle," You call out, delicately. "Were you perhaps jealous of a few gentlemen tonight?"

She turns back to you, eyes full of indignation. "No! Of course not! I was absolutely not jealous, I was simply... displeased at how they fling themselves at you at every occasion that arises." With every word, her voice loses volume. Her face is red and her eyes are wide, you stifle a laugh because it isn't every day that one could fluster Annabelle Parsons – a task she's usually the one to do – and you want to milk it for as long as you could.

"Right," You reply, amusement dripping off your tone.

She glares at you, which makes a burst of laughter escape your lips.

"Can you blame me?" She counters. "With how beautiful and talented you are, I fear it's only a matter of time before you pluck a handsome gentleman from your endless suitors and make him the luckiest man alive when you marry him."

Your heart breaks at the amount of sadness and conviction in Annabelle’s voice, as if she's absolutely sure you're going to do just that after you're done with her. Her use of present tense doesn't escape your notice.

You hate how defeated she looks, it doesn't fit her. Annabelle Parsons is a lot of things: strong, kind, intelligent. But, defeated isn't one of them.

"I’m not going to leave you," You declare, loud and true. "It pains me that you feel like that, Annabelle. I’m sorry for unintentionally inflicting that fear in you, it seems my acting is better than I expected. Perhaps I should consider a career in the opera if Edgewater doesn’t fall to me.”

"Acting?" She asks, still not looking at you directly.

You scoff, "Come now, you don't think I actually desire to be courted by men, do you? And in extension, by anyone who isn't you? I would soon rather tie boulders to my ankles and jump into the ocean than live to see the day I get married to some pompous brat who lacks the decorum and grace only you have."

She huffs out a tired breath, "I didn't want to get my hopes up. I didn't want to make a fool out of myself by thinking you feel the same way as I do. I didn't want to imagine what our future might be if you chose me, because then, it will give me hope. And hope is dangerous when you gamble for love."

You take her hands and squeeze them three times, "I choose you now, I chose you all those times before, and I will continue to choose you every day. We may be born in the wrong time, but that won't stop me." You wait until she finally looks at you in the eyes, before you say the next piece. "Because I’m in love with you, Annabelle."

Her eyes water and she lean in to kiss you deeply. When you part, she smiles at you with so much happiness it made you smile too, "I’m in love with you too, Clara."

Your heart soars at that. You rest your forehead against her and sigh in contentment.

Truthfully, you have no idea what comes next for the two of you. If anyone caught wind of the nature of your relationship, both of your names and reputations would be destroyed. Not to mention, your already flimsy hold of the Edgewater estate would be taken from you. You don't even know where to begin in finding a suitor who's willing to overlook your unusual preferences in romance. Travelling down this route would be equal to setting yourself on fire – it would only get harder and harder each day. There would be no getting better for the two of you in this path.

But, if it would mean you get to hold Annabelle close like this, then you're willing to do everything it takes – even go to hell and back.

If there's something you learned from your parent's tragedy, it's that you never give up on love. It may be reckless and others may call it stupidity, but you have to stand by the person you love. Because that's just simply how one loves.

You won't be your father, you will learn from his mistakes and hold on to Annabelle. Happiness skipped your parents' lives, you’ll make sure it doesn’t skip yours.

[siriuslyxpadfoot]

Well I just heard the news today It seems my life is going to change I close my eyes, begin to pray Then tears of joy stream down my face

The baby AU no one asked for with a lovely little Azkaban twist

OOC: This fic involved the canon character Fay Dunbar, but she has been aged down two years to be in the year below Ginny rather than in Harry’s year. Super brief appearances by Remus and Andromeda. @juniperthelionheart 

Sirius prowled through the halls, unsettled as he always was by how familiar it was but different at the same time. Most of the portraits were the same, but the people and even smells were not. In his human form, he may not have noticed it, but Sirius didn’t spend much time as a human anymore.

He paused, crouching down behind a tapestry near the Gryffindor common room portrait. If anyone looked too closely they would see him, but the only flag that would raise would be an illicit pet roaming the halls.

The portrait opened, and someone stepped through the portrait. Although his head was hidden, based on what he could hear, he was pretty sure there were two girls who had walked out, and they were moving rather quickly.

“Wait, Fay! Fay!” A male voice that matched with a pair of heavy footsteps came rushing through the portrait. “Dunbar!”

Sirius froze.

“No, Seamus. I don’t care. Whatever the excuse is, I don’t care.”

Seamus. That one was in Harry’s year; he’d figured that much out, and Sirius tried to focus on him, but it was hard when he’d heard her name. Had Jasper had children?

“But Fay—”

“Seamus, stop talking!”

The authority in her voice sent shivers down Sirius’ spine, and he popped his head out without even thinking. He froze at what he saw.

Of the two girls, it was clear which had been speaking, and Sirius might have gasped as a human at how much she looked like Juniper. Her face was softer, less angular, and her hair much darker, but the resemblance was still striking. Even as he tried to convince himself, Sirius doubted more and more that Jasper could be her father.

He watched frozen as she continued to argue with the Finnigan boy before turning on her heel and marching off with her friend. The walk wasn’t quite the same, but there was no doubt the girl carried herself like her mother.

Seamus watched her walk away, shoulders sagging with a defeat that reminded him of a young Peter. The very idea filled him with rage, and Sirius growled without meaning to. Seamus whirled around, a smile breaking across his face as he saw Sirius.

“Hey buddy,” he said, crouching down with his hand out. “Who do you belong to?” He make a clicking sound of beckoning that Sirius couldn’t stand, and since his cover was blown away, Padfoot took off down the hall. After rounding a few corners, he ducked into a passageway, mouth lolling out in a pant as he thought.

Juniper had a daughter. Juniper had a daughter with her own surname. Obviously she had to younger than Harry because Juniper certainly didn’t have a kid running around when they’d been together.

He squeezed his eyes shut with a whine, not wanting to think about that time. He’d been happy and naïve and lied to by Peter. The happy moments with people like James, Remus, Lily, and Harry hurt for everything that could have been if Peter hadn’t betrayed them. Thinking about Juniper hurt in different ways. He knew Remus now hated his guts. He didn’t know how she felt. He only knew she hadn’t been at the trial.

Maybe she’d been running into someone else’s arms in comfort. Maybe it had been a one night stand or maybe it had been common law, but clearly she’d found her way to someone else.

Because he hated himself and had for the past twelve years, Sirius began to do the math.

Harry had been born at the last possible minute to be in his year, and if she was the same, that would make her October-made. October of… He paused, going cold despite the fur covering him. October of 1981. November at the latest if she’d come early.

Sirius swallowed hard. It was possible. If it was an immediate rebound gone wrong, it was possible. He hated to think about what that would have put Juniper through, dealing with knowledge of what he’d supposedly done and a new baby from someone else.

But what if.

No, Sirius physically shook his head, fur flopping about.

Fay could not be his child. There was no possible way. Juniper would have told him if she was pregnant. The very idea that he could have a child filled him with a kind of dread Sirius had never experienced in Azkaban, and he thought he’d felt it all.

Sirius raised his head and let out a howl to get out his feelings.

As soon as he’d done it, Sirius knew he shouldn’t have, and he quickly dashed down the passageway to get as far from his own noise as possible. He could not get caught over something that might not be true.

Throughout the year, Sirius stayed focused on his mission. Peter needed to die, and Harry needed to be protected. But he couldn’t help shadowing Fay Dunbar whenever the occasion arose. He learned she was a first year who was boggled by her best friend’s muggle devices and preferred caramel to chocolate. She didn’t have Juniper’s nose, and he spent an hour one evening in Myrtle’s bathroom trying to decide if she had his. It could be.

Peter remained his primary concern. Then Peter got away.

But Harry. Harry was everything Sirius could have hoped for and more. He had friends who were smart and brave, and Sirius couldn’t help thinking Harry was everything James and Lily could have wanted. He was amazing.

Sirius couldn’t be with him for now, but he knew Sirius would be there for him.

Even better, Remus had seen it all and finally forgiven him. Remus didn’t hate him anymore. Sirius went from having nothing in the world to his best friend and a godson.

And now he had nothing to distract himself from the issue of Fay Dunbar. He might have a daughter to add to his growing list of people left in his world.

While staying with Remus, Sirius worked up the nerve to ask about Juniper. She’d never gotten married, but after it all, Remus hadn’t been able to stay in contact with her. (Sirius tried not to begrudge him for it.) He confirmed that Fay was Juniper’s but couldn’t tell Sirius when she’d been born. “Spring, maybe summer,” was the best estimate he could give.

Driven to desperation, he reached out to Andy. After many tears—and a few conversations with his niece—Sirius finally asked what he’d been afraid to. She pursed her lips and said she’d do it. According to hospital records, Fay Dunbar had been born May 16, 1982.

Juniper was almost three months pregnant when he went to Azkaban.

In late June, Sirius finally found himself on her doorstep. It wasn’t until after he knocked that his heart seized at the thought of Fay answering the door.

Because of that panic, he wasn’t properly prepared to see Juniper for the first time in almost thirteen years.

For a moment, they stood staring at each other, neither breathing.

Finally Juniper spoke. “You came.”

“I came,” he said and had to take a shaky breath. “I’m here.”

They stared for a moment longer before Juniper moved so suddenly that Sirius had little time to react. He barely had his arms up in time to catch her. Once she was there, though, he couldn’t let go.

The two of them stood locked in an embrace on her front step for longer than Sirius could care to guess. When they finally moved apart, Juniper let out a nervous giggle. Sirius realized he still had his arms loosely wrapped around her waist. He thought about pulling back, but he was feeling selfish.

His voice was soft as he asked, “Does she know?”

He felt the shiver run through Juniper’s body. “You know about her?” she whispered.

Sirius nodded, not trusting himself to speak but trying anyway. “I-um, I saw her… At Hogwarts.”

Juniper’s eyes widened, and Sirius realized belatedly how threatening that could have sounded, especially when Juniper didn’t know the truth. Her child’s father was an infamous murder… who had found her at Hogwarts.

She nodded toward the open door. “Maybe you’d better come in.”

When Sirius hesitated, Juniper added, “She isn’t home. She’s at a friend’s. She won’t be back for a couple days.”

He followed her into the house, pausing in the doorway to look around. It clearly belonged to a teenager, but Sirius could see signs of Juniper anywhere. He saw a small box up on the fireplace, and Sirius moved toward it without thinking. “You still have it,” he said quietly as he picked up the music box. It had been his present to her on their first anniversary.

“How could I have gotten rid of it?”

“I figured you wouldn’t want to keep any evidence of your relationship with a murderer.”

They both stood still, not looking at each other as they both debated how to continue forward.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sirius saw Juniper look up, a familiar stubborn set to her jaw. “You’re not a murderer.”

“You’re not even going to ask?” Sirius said and immediately wondered why he seemed determine to pick a fight.

“I don’t have to,” she said. “I’ve always known you aren’t.”

He turned, arms opening as he moved toward her again. They stood in a hug again, and when Juniper let go, she kept one arm around him as she walked them over to the couch, both touching the other as they went.

On the side table was a picture of Juniper and Fay. Sirius picked up the photo, fingers tracing over the frame as he studied in. Next to each other, the resemblance was even more striking than he’d suspected. They even had the same smile. When he looked up at Juniper, he found her watching him with a strained smile, sadness heavy in her eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“I was going to.” Juniper looked down, and Sirius wrapped an arm around her again automatically, unable to stop touching her now that she was in front of him. “I actually knew… that night. I was waiting until your birthday because I’d only known for a couple days.” She swallowed hard. “It was going to be a surprise, part of your present that we were having a baby.”

“We were having a baby.”

Sirius could practically hear how the conversation would have gone, and despite wanting to stay strong, he felt tears coming to his eyes. He’d been fighting them off from the moment he’d laid eyes on Juniper, but knowing her plan was too much.

Juniper held him, letting Sirius bury his head against her neck as he wept, and she continued to speak quietly above him. “I almost told you anyway. I had enough Ministry friends that someone could have pulled some strings and let me see you or at least tell you. Riya talked me out of it, but I can’t blame her for it. You were headed to Azkaban for life. I was never going to see you again. It… I was afraid it would hurt you more.”

“It would have,” he choked out. Sirius stayed there another minute, and despite the silence, Juniper let him.

When he finally sat up, they locked eyes, saying more in that moment than the entire time they’d been talking.

“Tell me about her,” Sirius requested. “Tell me about Fay.”

Juniper smiled, her face lighting up with a kind of love Sirius wasn’t used to seeing. “Her full name is Faydra Siriana Dunbar.”

“Siriana,” he repeated, tears returning to his eyes. He was able to hold it together enough for her to continue, although he continued to cry through her explanation of Fay’d stubborn spirit—“inherited from both of us, I’m sure”—her creativity, the natural ability she had a broom, and her natural ability in charms. Sirius’ smile grew the more she said about their daughter.

“She sounds perfect,” Sirius said, reaching out to brush a strand of hair out of her face. He hesitated, but Juniper never had given him an answer for the question she’d asked outside. “Did you tell her about me?”

Juniper looked down, and that look told him everything he needed to know. Sirius drew back, although he knew he was being unfair. Juniper was completely within her right to have not told Fay, and he should have assumed as much when she hadn’t told him either.

“When you broke out last summer,” Juniper began, speaking slowly and carefully, “I almost told her. I… Part of me hoped you were coming here.”

Sirius ducked his head, flooding with shame all over again. He’d considered it. He’d strongly considered finding her, but he’d needed to deal with Peter and see Harry. As much as he had wanted to, Sirius hadn’t been able to consider the rejection that might come with seeing her.

“She knows now.”

Sirius jerked his head up, staring at her with wide eyes. “When did you tell her?”

Juniper shook her head. “I didn’t. She’s a smart girl. I didn’t have to tell her anything because she figured it out. When she was freaked out before school started and again at Christmas break, I told her she didn’t need to worry about you and that everything would be all right. I… I’ve been crying a lot. No, don’t feel guilty!”

Sirius’ eyes widened as she grabbed the sides of his head. “Don’t you dare hate yourself for that, Sirius Black! With everything you went through, me crying a bit isn’t something to dwell on.” She continued as though the interruption hadn’t happened. “She’s good at arithmancy and math too. Plus, I wasn’t exactly subtle on her name. We were on our way back from the train when the school year ended when she asked me pointblank. I couldn’t lie to her.”

Sirius took a deep breath through his nose, searching her face for any hint of how the conversation had gone. “How did she take it?”

“She surprised me,” Juniper admitted. “She didn’t make any accusations or bring up the rumors about your arrest and escape. She asked how we met, if I loved you.”

He rubbed the back of his fingers against her cheek. “I loved you. I never stopped.”

Her eyes shined, and Juniper tilted her head up to blink back tears. “I know,” she said, voice breaking. “I never stopped loving you either. And—”

She broke off, letting out a few shaky breaths against his shoulder as they embraced again. “I told her everything,” she said. “All the things I’ve kept bottled up for years I told her. I told her about your smile, about the way we were when we were together. I didn’t tell her we started off as…” She laughed, not sure how to put it. “I did explain that I was drawn to you and that we ended up together without meaning to. I explained that I loved you and that you loved me and that you weren’t the person that The Prophet made you out to be. I—”

Juniper stopped, pulling back to look him in the eye. “I told her that if she wanted and if you came to find us… that I wanted you in our lives.”

Sirius didn’t think, he didn’t analyze. He reacted on instinct, pulling her in for a tight hug. “You want me? You still want me?”

“I do,” Juniper said, and Sirius could feel against his shirt that she was crying again. He realized he was too.

Without pulling away, he asked, “What did Fay say?”

“She’s a little apprehensive,” Juniper admitted as she finally pulled back, her hands still firmly on Sirius’ arms. “She wants to know you, though. You’re her father, and if you’ll accept her, she wants to love you.”

“I do,” he said, voice breaking. “I want to. I- I already do. I already love her. I love her as much as I love you.”

“I love you too,” Juniper whispered.

The two looked at each other for a moment before Sirius leaned in, and Juniper met him halfway for their first kiss in twelve years.

As they broke apart, Juniper rested her forehead against his. “I could send an owl,” she said quietly. “I could ask Fay to come home early.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready,” Sirius admitted. “You said she’ll be gone a couple days?”

Juniper nodded without speaking.

“I could… stay?” Sirius suggested. “We could let her stay with her friend, and we get to know each other over again—get on the same page before she gets back.”

He shivered, afraid of what Juniper would say, even after all this, but she smiled and reached up to run a hand through his hair. It wasn’t as bad as it had been. Thanks to people like Remus, he’d been able to clean himself up, but he knew it wasn’t as nice as it had been once upon a time. Juniper didn’t seem to notice.

“I’d like that,” she said. “I want to know you again, Sirius. I love you. I want to be the family we should have been.”

Sirius pressed another kiss against the corner of her mouth. “I love you, Juniper. I want to be a family too.”

[flowerfan2]

Winter Song - Ch. 22: Width

Klaine, M, A03 Written for Klaine Advent 2017

A story that picks up where “A Lost Boy Comes Out” left off: after Blaine comes out (as a vampire), things aren’t as easy as he and Kurt had hoped they would be, especially when someone from Blaine’s past decides to get revenge. 

Chapter 22

It doesn’t take long after that for SHIELD to find Kurt.  Between the description Kurt gave them and the directional sense Wes got from speaking with him, it is only a few minutes before Daisy has identified a handful of likely locations.

There’s a flurry of activity in the room as agents file in and out, getting instruction from Daisy and last minute advice from Sebastian.  Blaine tries to tune it out, not really wanting to know how many armed men and powerful vamps are going to be storming into the place where Kurt is being held.  There’s too much potential for something to go wrong.  Hunter is still an unknown in many ways, and if things go sideways, it could be Kurt’s life on the line.

Less than an hour later, Wes takes Blaine and Sebastian’s hands again.  Blaine feels Wes’ power flow into him, and he channels it as they reach out to Kurt.

“Hi…”  Kurt’s voice in Blaine’s head sounds weaker this time. “You’re back.”

“We are,” Wes says.

Please, Kurt, hang on, Blaine thinks.  

“I’m doing my best,” Kurt replies, and Blaine starts, realizing that his thoughts truly aren’t his own at the moment.

 “Kurt?  What’s your condition?  Have you been injured?”  Wes asks, ridiculously calm, but Blaine can tell he’s concerned, too.

 “I’m okay… just really cold. There’s no heat, and they took my coat.”

 “It shouldn’t be long now,” Wes says.  “We think we’re right outside the building you’re in.”

 “Kurt – we’re almost there,” Blaine says, forcing himself to sound more confident than he actually feels. “You’re gonna be okay.”

 “I’m going to need you to do something for me,” Wes says.  “Are you still unrestrained?”

 “Yeah.”

 “When I tell you it’s time, I want you to get down on the floor and curl up against the wall?  Try not to breathe.  Can you do that?”

 “What’s going to happen?”

 “SHIELD’s going to pipe in some gas, and then come to get you,” Sebastian says.  “The gas will throw them off, maybe even knock them out, depending on how much of it they breathe.  It won’t hurt you if you breathe it, though, so don’t worry.  Just get yourself out of the way first.”

 “But Hunter doesn’t breathe.”

 “The gas is for the goons. Agent May is going to take care of Hunter,” Sebastian says, a proud note in his voice.  “Don’t worry about him.”

 Melinda May is one of SHIELD’s fiercest warriors, and a vampire to boot.  Blaine is pretty sure Sebastian has a crush on her.  She hasn’t been involved with Blaine and Kurt’s case up until now, but apparently it’s time to call in the big guns.

 “Kurt, it’s almost time,” Wes interrupts, as Daisy gives him a signal.  “Ready?”

 “Yes.”

 They all wait, watching Daisy, who is concentrating on her comms.  She finally nods.

 “Kurt?  Now.”

 *****

The headache from the bond breaking isn’t as bad this time, but it’s still a long moment before Blaine can see without spots in front of his eyes.

 When his vision clears, he sees Daisy focused on her laptop. Sebastian is sitting next to her, looking a little green.  

 “What’s happening? Did they find Kurt?”

 “Not yet, but we know it’s the right place,” Sebastian says.  “An old mafia haunt, apparently.  SHIELD’s been there before.  The strike team is in, and they’re taking down hostiles.”

 “What about Kurt?”

 Sebastian doesn’t reply, instead muttering into the comm unit.

 “Hang in there and let them work, Blaine,” Wes says, giving him a stern look.  But Blaine’s not much in the mood to be chastised.  Kurt is in danger, and it’s all his fault.  Wes can read him the riot act once his husband is safe.

 It feels like years go by. Blaine thinks he would pray, if he still believed in that kind of thing.  He realizes he’s praying anyway.

 “They’ve got him,” Sebastian finally says, glancing up at Blaine.  “They’ve got him now.”

 “Can I…?”

 Sebastian shakes his head. “He’ll be back here soon, Blaine. Come on, I’ll take you to medical.” Sebastian stands and holds out his hand to Blaine, although he’s still a little wobbly himself.

 Wes starts to speak, but Sebastian turns to him and cuts him off.  “Rain check, Wes?”

 The look on Wes’ face softens.  “Of course. Call my assistant, we’ll set up lunch in the new year.”

 In the elevator, Blaine sags against the wall.  “Thanks, Seb.”

 “Sure.  I mean, Wes is great and all, but I don’t think either of us need a lecture right now.  I could practically see him getting out his gavel.”

 “Not just for that.” Blaine puts a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, and catches his gaze.  “I’m very lucky to have a friend like you.  Kurt and I both are.”

 Sebastian looks away, but he’s pleased by the sentiment, Blaine can tell.  “Same here.”  They’ve been through a lot together over the years, Blaine and Sebastian, but nothing quite like today.  Still, Blaine means what he said.  He’s not sure how this would have gone without Sebastian, and his quick thinking.  Blaine’s darn sure that SHIELD didn’t come up with the idea to get Wes to help out.

 The elevator beeps, and they find their way to SHIELD’s medical center.  Blaine waits impatiently in a small reception area while Sebastian tries to find out what’s going on.  He’s momentarily distracted by the music playing in the background – Bowie’s Width of a Circle. Kind of an odd choice, but Blaine finds that he appreciates it more than the expected easy listening tunes.  At least someone exercised some taste in making the playlist.

 Sebastian returns, sitting down next to Blaine.  “They don’t know much, except that he should be here soon.”

 A few minutes later, a woman in a white coat comes out from the treatment area.  “Mr. Hummel is in stable condition.  You’ll be able to see him in a few minutes.”  

 “That’s all she’s going to say?  And how did he get by us?”  Blaine asks, looking at the door where he and Sebastian came in.

 Sebastian shrugs. “Emergency entrance?  Secret corridor?  Hell if I know.  I’ve only worked at this place for a few years.”

 “Just as long as it isn’t still infiltrated by HYDRA,” Blaine mutters.  

 “Hunter isn’t HYDRA. He’s not nearly clever enough.”

 “Fair.”  And it’s a good thing, too.  Blaine doesn’t want to imagine what it would have been like if Kurt had been kidnapped by someone competent.

 Not long afterwards, a nurse comes out and brings Blaine into Kurt’s room.  “He inhaled a lot of the gas,” she explains.  “But he’s been waking up for a few minutes at a time, then dozing back off.  It’s perfectly normal.  He should be more alert in an hour or two.  You’re welcome to stay with him.”

 About time, Blaine thinks, pulling the chair by Kurt’s bed as close as he can get and settling in.

 Kurt’s lying motionless, a small lump on the side of his head the only evidence that anything out of the ordinary has happened.  That and the fact that he’s in a hospital bed, wearing a gown with little red and blue Captain America shields on it, and a sheet pulled up to his chest.  There’s an iv in his left arm, so Blaine takes his other hand and holds it close.  He runs his fingers over Kurt’s knuckles, then brings his hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the palm.

 “Blaine?”  Kurt mumbles, his eyelids fluttering as he tries to open his eyes.  “Blaine?”

 “Shh, it’s okay.  I’m here.”

 “’m sleepy.”

 “I know.  You can keep sleeping, it’s okay.  You’re back at SHIELD headquarters.  You’re safe.”

 “Sing to me.  My song.”

 Blaine snorts despite himself.  “The one I was singing just before you got kidnapped?”

 “Mmm, yeah.  I like it.”

 Blaine clears his throat and swallows hard.  No one ever said that Kurt was easy to please, but he’s up for the challenge. He tries to bring back the feeling he had just the night before, when as far as he knew, Kurt was safely back in Lima, and Blaine’s only concern was pouring his feelings into his music.

 “This is my winter song to you.  The storm is coming soon, it rolls in from the sea.  My voice a beacon in the night, my words will be your light, to carry you to me.”

 Kurt slides back into sleep, but Blaine keeps singing.  If it makes Kurt feel safe, he’ll never stop.

[mephistophelianmusingsxo]

Colours

Death comes in colours; red, white and black. White being the sudden redemption you yearn for before all goes black; black being the eternal damnation and agony you feel for not making peace with the world while you were still in it and red; red is the anger. The anger at having to leave the world before you expected; before you were able to say the goodbyes, the farewells and promises that you would watch over your grieving family, never to leave them. Clinging on to a faith, a figment of hope that there is something after death and it’s not just that black eternal darkness everyone runs from, but can never escape. And if you’re lucky, you experience all; red, white and black, a murky brown. Not quite sure what anchors and unsettles you the greatest. It is a fact. You are going to die. However, uncheerful this may be, people find themselves hindered by the fear, the protestations when Death finally comes. When Death leans over you, you must be kind. It is fair. It gives you no favours so please do not ask for kindness, for forgiveness because it can offer you neither of those. You must find it within yourself to offer those to it. Then, once you do it blankets you with a dusting of white, silent wishes that you will find peace before it takes you. I feared for none, I prayed for none and I wished death to take me. Whispering it appealed to me, I had seen the colours. The changing of the day into night; it was not violent, it was not blustering, it was an ending; the final result. It arrived too early; I wasn’t quite ready to slip away yet. I would not be rushed nor pressured. In a single hour, I had passed a multitude of stages; denial, anguish and forgiveness. The thing I said I did not need. But I made it a point anyway. Death would suit me. Death came for me arms crossed, and tears frozen. Solemn in its standing it was the darkness before the dawn. Only twenty-nine years old and already my time was up. It was a beautiful thing in a way Death would finally become the saviour needed. Crashing into the fading sense of belonging in this world, I was struck with the same wooden club just previous, specifically designed for breaking bones. Gashes were made and bones were turned to fragments of a jigsaw puzzle, drawing a curdling scream from the confines of my chest. “Focus on me Jet! What are my thoughts? Tell me!” I didn’t know, I had no fucking clue. An arm hung out of its sockets and my ankle, I had no doubt was so unrecognisable I definitely wouldn’t be walking out of here, or at all. No more soaring for this metallic Kite. Passing of minutes echoed in my ears, there was no clock but I was sure I could hear a ticking. As each second passed my agony only heightened, coughing up the blood soaking my lungs, I croaked. I can’t, the pain. I- it’s too much; I had nothing left to give. I wanted to give up, to stop fighting and to allow Death to take my hand. My body was contorted in all ways imaginable, my muscles flexed and tore beneath my skin, my tendons rippled and snapped. I wanted to die. Thirty-six; thirty-four; thirty-two; Come on Jethro, die faster. This wasn’t the first time I’d been strapped to The Rack, its buckles already had my dried blood on and now my blood was repainting the ancient relics. I promised myself after that time, when I was sixteen I’d never visit here again. What happened that day because of me would never be permitted to happen again. Nobody else would be hurt because of me. I lay vertically drifting in and out of consciousness but for those times I saw clarity, he sat watching me. His white hair a beacon of the redemption I didn’t want, his musky leather jacket worn with years of hard excursions, it fucking reeked of memories and long long nights. “Oh stop your bitching Jethro. Focus on me for fucks sake.” I squirmed, wishing he’d just leave me alone to die. But that would be too much to ask. The lever cranked tightening leather bounds around my wrists and ankles, pain shot through every vein in my body stretching. Why couldn’t I pass out? Free myself from the suffering. The only way to stop this was to do what he said, but I couldn’t. I was riddled with misery; I couldn’t bring myself to think of anything but I had to try. Stab in the dark Jet. Like many times before. “Y-ou, you, think I’m an embarrassment, I- I’m a disappointment-” Anger drenched his voice, vibrating the walls and flooring until yet more of my joints popped and crack. “You. Are. My. Fucking. Son. You do not embarrass me, except you have, burying your fucking cock so deep in that Weaver whore. When will you learn, Jethro? They are disposable, we are not. But don’t mistake my blatant leniency for kindness. I will not hesitate to kill you. You think it’s only you to fall for a Weaver, only you to fuck one, must I say without protection; so willingly. Fuck. You’ve always been a pussy. You disgust me.” Nila…Nila. Nila was the life I needed, so vibrant, so full of love; she was the oxygen I needed to breathe, needed to survive, without her I would be nothing again. Sighing, I craned my neck to get a glimpse of the stars through the broken panel in the roof; the tips of my salt and pepper hair glistening in the moonlight shining through. Sweat that drenched my brow from the unthinkable affliction my body was relentlessly trialled through, glistening in the light from the moon, a twinkle of hope. It hadn’t left me yet. With Nila in my heart, I was safe; she wrapped me in a cocoon of security. Her forgiveness alone would mean I would die a peaceful man. The debts, the inheritance, my father, they didn’t matter.

I didn’t talk, nor move. I remained still, unmoving. I was weak. I was tired, so tired I wanted to sleep. If I slept, Death would come. It would place its hands either side of my sagging shoulders and lift me above the world where all I endured was splitting distress. No running, no fighting, it was all at my mercy. Patting my cheek, his gaze held mine. His emotions swirled in to mine and for the first time since he’d started this, I felt what he felt. He wasn’t terrified of the prospect of ending me, he was satisfied. At last he’d be free from the failure he had to raise. However, he didn’t enjoy it. He didn’t enjoy hurting his firstborn, he didn’t enjoy subjecting me to relenting hours of torture but he had to. Motherfucker. I hated him. I would make him pay. A sudden burst of life surged through my veins; I would feed off the hate, drink the vengeance and bask in the odium of reprisal. I shifted in the buckles, writhing as my mismatched bones jerked at the very movement giving way to another cry that whistled through the air; god how I wanted this over. I wanted Nila. I wanted to bury my head in her lap and forget about this, I wanted her touch to soothe every aching bone, every singing muscle and tendon. I didn’t care that my body was mangled and distorted in ways it should never be, I just wanted her. The side of the club delivered another remorseless blow to my gut, wrenching my body forward to bow against the restraints. “You know I love you Jethro. Just do as I ask and all this will be over.” Love? He wouldn’t know love if it hit him in the fucking face, he was a bastard, completely soulless. Choking on a laugh as blood filled my mouth, I spat. No. He doesn’t get to fucking ‘love me’. He doesn’t get to care. To rapture in adoration for his Son. My emotional rage penetrated, piercing the atmosphere striking Cut with an air of surprise. “Fuck you! You’re a bastard. I know you’d be satisfied if I fucking died, you wouldn’t have to raise your failure anymore. Fuck you.” I was right; he didn’t get to feel what he did. He didn’t deserve to. After all the wrong he’d done, that somehow he thought it justified enough to 'love’ his children. Cut stood, opening his mouth but no sound came out. Instead he smiled. A tsunami of wonderful glory eclipsed all I felt, he was proud. I had done what he wanted, what he asked and he couldn’t deny his overwhelming adoration at again “fixing” his son. That was his plan, it was never about me fucking Nila nor was it about the possibility that I would allow myself to fall in love with my toy, it was all about him creating the perfect monster, creating an heir that shrouded an air of mystery wherever he went. Yes, I would freeze and scorch the love I once felt, and once it becomes hard to distinguish the warm-skinned sensation - fire from the frost, my life shall have no future, just a past sealed away. There will become a vastness where only night will prevail and any light that rears its head will be snuffed out, because monsters do not get happy endings, they do not deserve the love of a woman, or in fact love in any form, for you see; monsters can never be a thing of beauty, no. Invisibility suits us best. It’s the first day in November, and today someone will die. As the sharp harsh wind howled against the barn doors, it gave reprieve to the sweltering fever ripping through my body. Gaining a slither of lucidity through the fog in my mind, everyone leaves something, someone it is a must when we die. I have thought of nothing more than the things I have not said, the things I now regret keeping to myself. It isn’t that I want to quit life, but indeed a need, and in doing so I will pretend that quitting laughter, loving, smiles and the soft beauty of falling ebony locks does not rip my heart from my chest and deposit it at my feet. Carve my name not on a tombstone but upon your heart, a legacy never lives etched on cold stone but in the minds of others. But what is a death if a man has no one to mourn him? It is the loneliest thing one can ever do, it doesn’t matter what has been done; good or bad. We all die the same. Utterly lost and alone, staring in to the black abyss and the black abyss stares back at you. Hope is above and never deep, it is what will visit you in the dreams when you sleep, so listen to me when I say, my love will be the compass through. Fear is old, poisonous, treacherous and it rises above all wrongs, but let one violation right all sins. Let my death be the righteous feat. Kes… Sometime at the eve of twelve, I promised it all to you; The Debts, the Inheritance, Hawksridge. Do not detest this like I have, do not wear it upon your shoulders like a burden. Grow with it, rise and mature. Become the man I can never, grieve in silent sorrow but never lose sight of the ending. Finish what I started, Kestrel. And if you feel you cannot because loyalty keeps you bound, do it for her. Let him kill me but not her, set her free. It is all I ask, for I know you’re far too honourable and maintained in fidelity. Honour me one last time. This is not goodbye, never a goodbye because saying so makes it forgettable. I am just fading, the corners of my consciousness blur further. A desperate murky line between living and once existing, if only I could reach out an arm, I would be touching it; it would engulf me and drown me like lapping sea waves. It is nothing like I imagined, had I been so foolish to think death would come for me peacefully? I am stuck, bound and weightless in a blackening void that only caterwauls my own misgiving penitence but alas, it is too late now to deny the kindness of offering. It was time, I had to step from hanging on the brink to accepting and embracing the perpetual slumber of lifeless torture. Stomping back in to view Cut roared; I couldn’t deny even though I hated him, I was glad he felt some kind of remorse. His gaze was frantic and his heartbeat sprinted across the dusty barn floor, a stark comparison to my own. Each rattling of a breath my heart slowed; each rise and fall of my chest my heart fought to pump the blood around my system. Good. Fucking good. Feel guilty you bastard. Summoned by some deep-rooted family bond, his fist slammed in to my chest, kick-starting a rhythm of normalcy to my heart. How long did it take for someone to die like this, minutes, hours, days? I did not care; I was in ecstasy and equally agony; possessed so by a coldness that I am in exile from myself and memories of her flood like tears like the ice through my veins.

[sly-punk1712]

Raising Clint Barton

Part 1

PART 2

PART 3

There wasn’t a thing on the entire damn planet that made him feel better than Nat. Even from the moment Coulson had picked them up. His favorite agent was giving the pair of them the cold shoulder, but Natalia was there providing a heat to his entire left side where she was seated poised as can be on the edge of a chair. Then she let her leg rest against his as he softly started telling Coulson everything. She would press her leg into his when his voice got soft and he started to falter. Telling Elliot had been a rush to tell. Excitement and discovery. Natalia had been nerve racking for other reasons. Both confessions were to strangers. but this was so much worse, so revealing, too personal maybe? Coulson didn’t interrupt or speak until the end of Clint’s explanation. Clint finished telling him everything and was praying he believed him like the others had. Coulson was a different animal than Elliot and Natalia. 

“I’ve got some friends in New York that might have some answers.” Coulson says finally. “Thank you for telling me.” His tone is soft and Clint wonders if he’s angry. 

His friends are the Charles Xavier and Hank McCoy. They run lots of tests on Clint and Natalia but the walkabouts are no mutation. and Natalia’s DNA is so warped they can’t really tell left from up. Coulson spends a few moments talking to the two professor’s while Natalia gets a phone number from a cigar smoking mutant that promises her a wild time if she gets any sorta leash at SHIELD. Natalia’s satisfied smile has Clint smiling a little too. Already making friends. hopefully she didn’t live up to her moniker. Black Widow. He chuckled. Coulson joins them and they’re headed back to DC.

“Charles tells me we’ve got a lot to talk about. “ He’s silent for a moment before clearing his throat. “

Asset doesn’t mean what you think it means Clint. “ It’s the first time in a long time Clint can remember hearing Coulson say his name.

“SHIELD doesn’t own you. I don’t” He pauses. “I want to be friends. I want to work with you two.” He adds also speaking to Natalia. 

“We can do that” Clint shrugs. Coulson’s shoulders sag in relief. “Just be honest with us and We’ll be honest with you” He looks at Natalia and is glad she gives a curt nod. 

“I’m glad you came home Clint” Coulson holds out his hand and pulls Clint into his arms for a tight but brief hug. Clint is in heaven. 

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

The three of them spend the next few years becoming SHIELD’s best strike team. The United State’s best Strike team to be honest Coulson, himself and Nat, who’s now going by Natasha, often get loaned out to handle things beyond other agency’s capabilities. Their work puts SHIELD not only on the map but with the best databases the world has to offer. 

Coulson doesn’t badger Clint about walkabouts and takes his soul spotting into advisement. Clint doesn’t mention that he can’t see Coulson’s soul. Coulson let’s most things Clint and Natasha get up to slide. Natasha see’s Logan almost every weekend they’re not on a mission. So as a result Clint sees a lot of Logan. It doesn’t bother him and must not worry the mutant too much because he let’s Clint curl into bed with him and Natasha every night after they finish fucking. They don’t ask him to join and he doesn’t want to. They seem contented. Wild and Dangerous but good.

Coulson let’s Clint sleep anytime he can. No matter what job he’s supposed to do be doing, because the reality of it is Clint is never unaware of what’s going on. Other SHIELD operatives don’t like it as much when Clint takes to napping in their offices. Clint loves the startled double take the office admin do when they find him curled under the desk in their cubicles snoozing. The complaints get to annoy Coulson and Clint learns of his love of air vents instead. The complaints are many and detailed but Clint steals the reports from Coulson’s box most mornings before he can read half of them. 

Vent stalking is what gets them sent to New Mexico minus Natasha who gets to go play Malibu with Tony Stark. How was Clint to know Fury could see every spitball he shot at Hill’s back during that debrief. They were coming form the ceiling for goodness sake he thought he was safe! But even tho they’re getting separated and a lame ass job Coulson privately tells him his grouping was excellent. 

Phil spends a lot of time officially telling them boring reprimands and such and unofficially telling them his real thoughts. He never mentions the brief hug or Clint’s desire for him. It’s awful. Clint doesn’t mention it either, He knows what it’s like to be called on by someone you don’t want and could never bear the thought of making a move on Coulson that would make the handler uncomfortable. That’s the official reason he gives himself. Nat and Logan say it’s because he’s a coward. and well, that’s true too.

New Mexico is a weird haze of bizarre-o he hopes Coulson will bury so deep he gets out of all the paperwork. Firstly Thor, or “Donald Blake”. His little B&E stunt, his general descriptiveness, his cute little science friends, his not as cute Asgardian death robot and possibly most confusingly his completely White light soul. Clint never seen souls that matched besides gray and black. This white pulls his mind back to an underpass almost two decades ago. He feels old, tired and confused. Then in a swirl of magic tornado the blond is gone before Clint can get answers.

Darcy Lewis however is not gone. Clint meets her for the first time when he’s awake and knows without sleeping she’s going to be incredibly important in his life. 

For all intents and purposes she’s the exact opposite of him. She’s well educated, comes from a good home. she laughs too much and loves to freely. She’s all curves and knitwear and he’s hard lines and military battle gear. But he notices her anyway as she runs mid battle back toward the danger into town. 

Clint sees her out of the corner of his eye, swears and runs after her. She was headed in the direction of danger but ducks into a building just shy of the chaos. Clint doesn’t have time to decide if she’s safe or if he needs to go after her because she’s running back out followed by a herd of animals. It was the pet shop. She’d run headlong into an intergalactic battle for a pet shop. He’s wide awake but he wonders what colour this sweet soul will be. 

After the battle Darcy finds Clint at the bar, one of the few buildings left standing. It’s packed on account of today’s events. When she enters the bar a cheer goes up. 

“It’s Pet Shop girl!” Someone shouts and a large portion of the townsfolk at the bar raise a glass to her. Clint chuckles at the tipsy antics and raises his glass too. Darcy spots him and floats threw the people to shimmy onto the stool beside him. 

“So how was your day dear?” She jokes. Clint snorts and admires how Darcy seems to lounge on the stool like it was a sofa instead of a rickety, in need of reupholstering, stool. 

“Good met a pretty girl. She’s a hero, saved some pets” He grins back. Flirting with Darcy is easy and Clint can’t remember when’s the last time he felt so complete. Natasha is a piece of his soul, like a missing link that fits into his chain. Darcy makes him warm all over and want to hum. 

They drink until closing time and then walk to Darcy’s trailer together. 

“Come to bed Clint” She invites. Clint obeys. It’s weird that they don’t fuck but he likes that she just wants to lay soft kisses on his arms and chest and settle down for sleep. 

He’s right. She’s an orange that takes his breath away. She’s that burnt sun color as the day fades into night. Every breath she takes makes the colour shine brighter and mix with his purple. They don’t match by any stretch of the imagination but somehow he feels more right in her arms than he ever has. 

They wake up before the sunrises and then they fuck. Only it’s not like any sex Clint’s ever had before. It’s sharper somehow more real. He presses into Darcy over and over until at the very end of it, his mind flashes to the Orange color of her soul. It’s renewal, the way the days fade into each other. Ending yesterdays mistakes. It’s the natural order of things on earth. He feels like this is his first time really making love and all those other times wash away from his heart, dripping off his soul and down in face in the form of hot tears. Darcy doesn’t mind he cries and he loves her even more for it. 

Coulson calls and he leaves Darcy to go report for work. She gives him a knowing smile from where she lays naked in bed as he gets dressed and Clint’s glad to know she won’t make it a big deal and doesn’t mind he’s leaving to go back to Coulson. He tells her he is, Just in case. 

“That’s okay Clint. I’m happy for you.” She says earnestly. Clint believes her and walks away feeling completely satisfied. 

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

“So what now?” Natasha’s head is resting on his stomach while he tells her all about his encounter with Darcy. Her legs are stretched over Logan’s torso and he’s running his large hands gently up and down her smooth legs. Clint wonders if her DNA refuses to let her grow leg hair he’s never seen her shave.

“I don’t know but I feel good, Nat. Like so good” He admits contentedly. “Maybe I’ll ask Coulson out. Feel good enough now. “ He mutterers. Natasha pokes him sharply in the side rolling on to her side to look up at him. 

“Lewis doesn’t have a magic vagina. You didn’t sleep with an all healing pussy. You were always worth it. Always enough” She snaps. Clint feels a little foolish and remorseful he said that out loud. Its how he feels but he hates to bring up that stuff with Nat, She doesn’t tolerate self hate. Well from anyone but herself, she’s the Queen of Self-Pity but even that’s in a strong bad-ass assassin way.

“Plus is Coulson really gonna wanna hear you finally got yer head outta yer ass by boning a steamy brunette?” Logan points out. Clint chuckles. No that probably wouldn’t be best, but Selfish Clint knows how easy it would be to roll into Coulson with all these good feelings he’s still feeling. Start at the top of a crescendo. 

Suddenly going to Coulson right now feels sour in his gut. He doesn’t want to bring Darcy high to Coulson for the first time. He wants to bring just himself. He wants to drag in Clint Barton and offer it up for Coulson’s approval, acceptance,  His love. 

“I get it. I needed Darcy and you Nat,” Clint rests a hand on Natasha’s head. “But I don’t need Coulson to be me. I want Coulson. and that’s why it’s better right?” Natasha’s eyes widen a fraction and she smiles. 

“Maybe it was a magical Pussy, it cured your stupid” She presses and kiss to Clint’s belly as he laughs.

[aeon-wolf]

Ascension - Chapter 13

Demos Educational Organization was like no other college Lena could have imagined. Instead of reading, math, and science, they were taught Ancient Greek, War Strategy, and Swordsmanship. Lena, shocked to find out her true parentage strikes friendships left and right at her new school. Her most treasured friendship of all, her friendship with one Daughter of Zeus, Kara Danvers. Follow Lena on a journey of self-discovery in an attempt to foil the plot of the Titans, and maybe learn a few things about herself along the way.

Or

A PJO inspired Supercorp series. Part One: Ascension.

Read it here on AO3

I.

Lena looked to the horizon and saw a slight glint in the distance. She squinted, looking towards the setting sun. As the sun dipped below the horizon and the moon took over the sky, Lena heard a rumbling coming towards them. She looked at the road and saw a car approaching them, the headlights bright in the distance. Lena frowned, it wasn’t abnormal for cars to be driving this late, but on a stretch of freeway in the middle of nowhere, it wasn’t common either.

As the car got closer, Lena saw it slowing down. She blinked before walking back over to the group, where they were all watching the car come to a stop next to their smoking piece of metal. Lena prayed that the Mist would obscure the car so to a human’s eyes it was fine and maybe had a flat tire or something.

A nice looking sports car pulled up next to them. Lena raised an eyebrow at the man who stepped out of the car. “Apollo.” She said, bowing her head slightly, recognizing her father from the last time they had met. The god smiled at his daughter.

“Lena. You called?” He said with a mischievous smile. Lena nodded, glancing at her friends who all seemed to be a little in awe of the sun god. Alex, Winn, and Maggie were all trying to keep their jaws from falling to the floor, while Mon-El and Kara kept their composure a bit better.

“Lord Apollo.” Alex bowed her head in respect. The others following suit. The sun god just laughed, waving them off.

“You don’t need to “Lord Apollo” me, Alex Danvers. Your mom might want respect like that from her children and their friends, but don’t mind me. You’re all my nieces and nephews anyway.” He chuckled. Alex looked a little… almost offended at Apollo’s nonchalant attitude about the entire thing, but knew better than to open her mouth of protest.

“You’re Lena’s dad,” Kara said nervously. Apollo turned his attention to the young daughter of Zeus, seemingly appraising her, looking her once over. Lena could see some scrutiny in his eyes, though she didn’t know what for. He gazed at her, his deep blue eyes trained on Kara. Lena unconsciously moved closer to Kara, a little protectively, grabbing the blonde’s hand in hers. Kara wrapped their fingers together, holding on to Lena’s hand a little bit tighter than she normally would. Lena could tell Kara was nervous under Apollo’s gaze.

But after a minute or two, he turned to the rest of the group, glancing over them, not lingering on any of them the way he had Kara, before turning back to Lena. “What did you need, kiddo?” Lena glanced over at their car.

“I was hoping maybe you had the time to get us to San Francisco. Or at least help us get to Lincoln, I could probably cover it from there.” She said, thinking if he could get them to the city, she could probably just buy a car there. Apollo leaned back against his car, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“You know, your,” He gestured in Kara’s direction, “dear old dad doesn’t want any of us interfering in this quest. He said it’s too dangerous for us to get involved, lest we risk breaking the treaty.” He informed the group. Lena felt her shoulders sag. That was what she was afraid of.

“But you wouldn’t have answered Lena’s prayer if you weren’t at least considering helping us.” Mon-El piped up. Apollo chuckled, nodding slightly in the son of Ares’ direction.

“Quite right Mon-El. Of course, you are right.” He pushed himself up, walking up to Lena, whose hand was still gripping onto Kara’s hand. He placed his right hand on her shoulder. “You know. Don’t tell your siblings, but you’re my favorite.” He said with a wink. Lena felt a slight tug in her heart. She had honestly never had a parental figure, even one as mysterious as Apollo tell her that she was their favorite. Lillian held a great deal of disdain for Lena. And while she was obviously Lionel’s favorite, he never really told her as such. It was more of an implied relationship. She felt a slight feeling of pride swell in her chest.

“So, what are you planning on doing, exactly?” Maggie piped up. Alex elbowed her girlfriend for being so casual in the presence of a god, even one as laid back as Apollo.

“I can get you as far as Las Vegas. Any further and well…” He trailed off. “You know, the Titans would figure out I’m helping you. As it is, your old man is probably going to be pissed off at me when I get back to Olympus.” Apollo said with a shrug. “Nothing I can’t handle of course. Small price to pray for my favorite kid.” He said, ruffling Lena’s hair. Lena cringed, letting go of Kara’s hand to fix her hair, pouting at her father.

“So… how exactly are we all going to fit?” Winn said, eyeing the sports car. It had even fewer seats than Alex’s and they were pretty cramped as it was. Apollo almost rolled his eyes, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket. He clicked a button on the remote dangling from his keychain and the car magically transformed to an SUV that would easily hold the six halfbloods plus Apollo.

“Any more stupid questions kid?” He teased. Winn shrunk down in size a little bit, nodding his head. “C’mon, get in.” He said, gesturing to the car, getting into the driver’s seat himself. Lena, Kara, and Mon-El climbed into the back, while Maggie, Alex, and Winn sat in the middle three seats.

“Buckle up, it’ll get a little… fast” Apollo said as the group fastened their seat belts. Apollo ignited the engine, the car roaring to life. In a flash, the car took to the skies. Lena sank down in her seat a little bit, her fear of flying coming into play. Luckily, she was sitting in between Kara and Mon-El, so she wasn’t next to a window. She just jammed her eyes shut, praying that it would be over soon. She felt a hand grab hers and a thumb stroke the back of her hand, trying to soothe her. Lena cracked her eyes open and glanced over at Kara, who had taken her hand and pulled it into her lap as the blonde looked out the window.

Lena smiled a bit at Kara, though Kara didn’t notice as she wasn’t looking at her friend. Lena observed Kara’s face, She was wistfully looking out at the sky and down at the passing landscape below them. They were flying faster than any plane could travel, though Apollo was keeping the speed to a tolerable level for humans. “Do you miss is? Flying.” Lena asked Kara. The blonde, who was still absentmindedly playing with Lena’s hand, turned to look at her friend.

“Hmm? Flying? I mean, I wish I had the chance to do it more often. Being a daughter of Zeus, you know. We belong in the sky.” Kara said with a sad smile. Lena nodded. “You’re still scared I take it?” She inquired. And Lena nodded.

“Yeah,” Lena admitted. “I feel like I shouldn’t be. But… I’ve never been able to get over my fear of flying. No matter how many plane trips I’ve taken in my life and there have been plenty.” Lena said with a shrug. Kara nodded.

“Maybe I can take you flying one day. Work on facing your fears?” Kara asked. Lena hesitated but slowly nodded.

“Okay.” She said. Kara grinned.

“Promise?” She said, letting go of Lena’s hand and extending her pinkie. Lena laughed, but nodded, wrapping her pinkie with Kara’s, the two shaking on it.

“Yeah, I promise.”

In the driver’s seat, with his eyes on the sky, Apollo smiled to himself at the two girls sitting in the back seat.

II.

Apollo made it to Vegas in good time, only one hour instead of the standard four. He touched down right outside a bus station on the outskirts of the big city. When the car touched down onto the asphalt, the six halfbloods got out of the car. Lena walked up to her father, a small smile on her face. “Keep that one close. She’s special.” He said, pointing to Kara. Lena blushed slightly but nodded.

“I plan to.” She said, biting her lip, looking at Kara who was chatting happily with Alex and Mon-El. “Thank you.” She said, bowing her head. Apollo chuckled, patting her on the arm.

“Don’t be thanking me yet... Just be safe. We wouldn’t want you falling into the Titan’s hands, now would we?” He said with a knowing smirk. Lena frowned but nodded. Apollo bowed his head slightly to the young halfblood before he and his car glittered and faded away. Lena walked back over to the group.

“You’re dad is so cool, Lena.” Winn gushed. “He’s super chill.” Lena shrugged, nodding.

“I suppose he is.” She said, not really sure what else to say. Thankfully, Alex stepped in.

“So, we’re here in Vegas a few days ahead of schedule. What do you say we grab a hotel for a couple days and regroup? Now that we’re so close to Mount Othrys, we should probably come up with a better game plan.” The group all agreed on that plan and made to the bus station to see where they might be heading next.

III.

As it turned out, the group grabbed a bus into the heart of the city and Lena managed to grab three rooms at one of the five-star hotels on the Vegas strip. Luckily for her, and the employees of the hotel, they didn’t hassle her over the request. And once she presented them with her black LuthorCorp card, they were all glad that they hadn’t given her a hard time. The group split up in the same way they did before, Lena with Kara, Maggie with Alex and Mon-El with Winn. Lena had gotten them all rooms closer to the top of the highrise hotel, affording them all a good view of the city. The group decided to call it night and start their planning in the morning.

Kara was sitting in one of the chairs next to the window next to a box of pizza that she and Lena had ordered, munching happily on a slice. Lena was opposite her, eating her own slide, albeit slower with Kara. The blonde was certainly a vacuum when it came to food. “You performed well today,” Kara commented after she swallowed her bite.

“Hmm? Oh. The fight. Thanks, I guess. I didn’t really do much. Just throw my powers around a little bit. You guys did most of the actual fighting.” Lena said with a shrug.

“But you defended yourself nicely, though!” Kara insisted. “Not everyone could deflect a blow from a Chimera,” Kara said, taking another bite. Lena just waved her off.

“Seriously Kara. It’s not that impressive.” Kara just shook her head but didn’t argue.

“You seem to be getting a better grasp on your powers, though,” Kara commented. Noting that Lena had been able to actually get her powers to work on command during their fight. She nodded.

“I… yeah. The first time, with the light shield, that was all instinct. But the second time, it was like… a heat bubbling up in the pit of my stomach. I just had to pull at it and harness its power.” Lena said, trying to describe the sensation to Kara. The blonde, for her part, nodded in understanding.

“It’s similar with my air powers. Hard to explain, but for me, it’s this… light and floaty feeling. Sort of like the air cushions surrounding me.” Kara said. Lena nodded, not fully understanding, but being able to follow her friend.

“It’s just so… weird.” Lena started. “I’m the only child of Apollo in history to have these powers. Why me?” Lena lamented. She had been wondering that ever since she had been claimed. Why was she different? Apollo had told her he hadn’t known why she had these powers, except that the Fates had decreed that she did. But for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out for what reason.

“You’re special. That’s why. Everyone has something that makes them special Lena. These powers make you unique. One of a kind. I’m sure you’re meant for something great in the future. This is probably only the beginning. And you know, I’ll be there with you, right?” Kara asked, looking over at Lena. Green eyes met blue, locking gazes for a few seconds before Lena nodded.

“Yeah. I know.”

IV.

The rest of the evening was fairly quiet. Lena went to take a shower first, Kara following after her. Lena grabbed a book from the shelf in their room and sat down in the chair she had been previously occupying. Again, it wasn’t anything particularly compelling, but it did pass the time. Kara eventually finished her own shower and convinced Lena to people watch from their window with her. “Oh look! It’s a couple kissing down there.” Kara said, pointing down at the street. Lena looked to where Kara was pointing, and indeed there was a young couple lip locked down below them.

The two made off hand comments about some of the people they watched. Even making up stories about why they were in Las Vegas and where they came from. There was a family exploring the strip and Kara said that they were there for some sort of vacation from their home life in Kentucky. And that the kids would have rather just stayed home, but their parents had dragged them along. Lena chuckled at Kara’s stories, but humored her and played along.

There was another man in a nice suit that walked the strip. And Lena said that he was some sort of businessman who was in Vegas on business, but he was taking the night out for some fun on the town. Maybe to get a little drunk. And after all, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

The two continued that for an hour or so before Kara began to yawn. “You ready for bed Kara?” Lena asked and Kara nodded sleepily. Lena nodded, padding over to the overhead light switch turning it off, the light from the bedside lamp now the only light in the room. Kara got in on the right side of the bed, Lena on the left. This time as Lena sunk down into the bed, getting comfortable, Kara snuggled up next to Lena.

The young halfblood stiffened a bit, but Kara draped an arm around Lena’s waist, laying her head on Lena’s shoulder and Lena relaxed. “I figured I would save you the trouble of migrating over to my side of the bed tonight.” Kara teased. Lena blushed slightly but nodded. She wrapped an arm around Kara’s shoulder, resting her head on top of Kara’s.

“Good night Lena,” Kara whispered before quickly falling asleep against her shoulder. Lena felt Kara’s breathing slow down, signaling Kara drifting off to sleep. Lena sighed.

“Good night Kara.” She said before closing her own eyes and allowing herself to fall asleep and unwind from the stressful day she had just had.

V.

Kronos sat at the stone table once again with his four brothers; Krios to his right, Hyperion to his left, Iapetus and Koios sitting across from him. “Apollo has sped them along on their journey,” Krios said angrily. “This is a direct interference Kronos. The treaty is technically broken. We should attack Olympus now!” He insisted. But Iapetus intervened.

“Patience brother. We are not yet strong enough to take on Zeus and the Olympians. We need her.” He said calmly. Krios just groaned.

“I still don’t know why you have such a fascination with this girl. She is nothing!” He hissed.

“Hold your tongue Krios. You have no idea what you are saying.” Hyperion angrily responded. Kronos held his hand up to silence his fighting brothers.

“Both of you, quiet.” Krios and Hyperion both sat back in their chairs. “I agree with Iapetus. We wait for them to come to us. Hyperion, you know what you must do. I a, relying on you to follow through.” He said dangerously to the Lord of the East. Hyperion bowed his head to his brother.

“I assure you, it will be done by the time the halfbloods arrive here.” Kronos nodded his head approvingly.

“See that it is. Because I will be very disappointed if you are wrong.” He threatened. Hyperion narrowed his eyes.

“I will not be wrong. She will join us. One way, Or another.”

So this is sort of filler but also not really. But yeah, Apollo answered Lena's prayers. Of course. And got them to Vegas.

They'll be staying here for the next couple of days to come up with a game plan. But you know, the longer they stay in one place, the easier it is to find them. ;)

This actually took me a while to come up with since plot-wise it's important, yet also not super important. Next couple chapters should be a bit more interesting. Also, I didn't really proofread this either, so sorry for any grammatical/spelling mistakes. I'll fix it later.