#because i cannot look at my protocol any more for at least a day?

[buckets-and-trees]

Hi Aspen, Cedar trees has been seeping into my mind lately (not that I’m complaining, but I’m blaming ovulation). Can I ask what a day in the life looks like for our dear couple? Do they ever run into each other doing their own independent tasks in town? Does reader ever watch Steve with his guards and become enamored with seeing him train/in charge?

Nonnie, I adore this ask!

A day in the life is a pretty odd juxtaposition between routine and a "plot of the week" kind of life. Running into him, depends on the day - but of course you love him more and more. As king, for Steve there are far more out of the ordinary things that crop into his days, whereas for you there are routines, ceremonial bits, and things that only change more based on the season, especially the first year of your marriage.

However, once the two of you came to the initial understanding that your marriage was more than just a political alliance between kingdoms with Steve acquiring someone to be his queen, Steve made some changes pretty swiftly to daily protocols so the two of you could grow together as a couple.

Title: A Shift in the Morning Routine Characters/Pairings: King!Steve x Queen!Reader Word Count: 1100

Content/Warnings: established relationship, reference to morning sex

Additional Notes: I've got so many head cannons that I want to build into more moments with the Cedar Trees AU, (including 2-3 more asks from @stargazingfangirl18 and @gifsbysimplysonia) but here is at least one.

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Not everything changes overnight, you are still new to the kingdom, your role as queen, and growing in familiarity with the people, the land, and your responsibilities, but the new intimacy of a deeper connection and commitment that you and Steve pledged to each other unlocks a wholly different sense of security that trickles steadily into your bloodstream in a way that make the days warmer, brighter, and bearing the duties you have becomes more natural. They were not impossible before, nor difficult, you had been raised and prepared since birth to be ready to become someone’s queen, but the sense of belonging that breathed now between you and your husband – that you were husband and wife – shifted things fundamentally.   

But there are things that do change specifically in your patterns and behaviors. The first thing to change is having breakfast brought in for you both any night the king sleeps in your chambers, and because there is so much protocol and support from palace staff around you, the palace notices quickly that it seems that the king is spending every night with you. There are a few - a very few - who raise an eyebrow at this behavior. Those few seem to think that surely if the king has taken such a liking to his new queen, that's all well and good, but he is the king, why not invite you to his quarters? But no one dares question the king, and much of the palace see his growing devotion to you as only another sign of his very good and kind heart, his capacity to care only showing consistently now in another form.

The servants do know not to bring breakfast until the two of you ring for it though.

Except for unexpected emergencies, the two of you are not to be disturbed until the king has had time with his queen and the two of you are in a state of decency, donning your bedclothes or robes as appropriate.

After a few weeks of this, there's a morning where the king's private secretary is getting antsy while he waits to give the king his first briefing of the day, and Lord Barnes diplomatically intervenes.

"My King," Bucky bows his head in deference that appropriately reflects his respect for Steve's position as king and their tie as friends since schoolchildren before Steve inherited any title. "Coulson doesn't want to disturb you, but he is growing more concerned we will fall behind on your majesty's royal itinerary if he cannot brief you soon ahead of this morning's audiences with the delegations from Vanaheim and Malibu."

The soft sigh Steve lets out is short and you're certain only you can hear, though you know Bucky has seen the affect his arrival and announcement have had as his face reflects warmth, a bit of mirth, but also the duty and responsibility to keep his friend in line with his responsibilities as right hand.

The two of you had lingered much longer in bed that morning, for the pleasure of both of you (twice for you, the second time with Steve). You reach for his hand where it was resting on the corner of the table, slipping your fingers into his palm and brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “I would be a poor queen if I kept you here any longer then.”

Now Steve actually huffs. “You are not keeping me, I choose to breakfast with my wife, and I am not yet finished taking my nourishment for the day.”

You tilt your head and grin. “A kingdom cannot wait on their king all morning.”

“If I may,” Bucky interjects, and you both turn your attention to him, “Coulson could brief you as easily here as anywhere else.”

Steve nods and a wide smile spreads over his handsome face. “Bring him in, Buck.”

Your heart warms and flutters, the two of you holding each other’s gaze for another moment, and he reaches for more bread.  

When Lord Barnes returns with Coulson behind him, Coulson stands with only a little apprehension at the end of the table, but Bucky takes a seat across from you, to the right of the king, and begins to fill a plate of his own with breakfast.

“Your majesties,” Coulson addresses with a bow.

“Coulson,” Steve nods.

“Shall I start with the reports from the borders of the kingdom?”

“Are updates in regard to the delegations not more important than the border reports?” Steve questions, his brow furrowing.

It was fleeting, but you see the slightest of a glance to you and your presence, and your stomach hardens with guilt.

Coulson takes a breath to respond, but Steve holds up a hand. “I see. The queen’s insight may be valuable as we hear what you have to say as she is no stranger to royal politics.”

That hardening melts away at his words.

“Indeed, she may often prove to be invaluable in our efforts here in the coming days but as we move forward, as well, given that there are parts a queen may play that are wholly unavailable to a king.”

Bucky does not look up, but you see a relaxed grin on his face, and as you turn to gage Coulson’s reaction, you see his own previous apprehension had dissolved. “I would agree, your majesty.”

“Moving forward, if the queen should not mind, I would like you to deliver the morning briefing to us both while we breakfast. Come in straight away with the day’s food, Coulson.”

Steve squeezes your hand. “Do you object?”

A show of trust, of valuing your opinion, of seeing you as an asset as his queen – it is the furthest thing from your mind to object. “I serve this kingdom without reservation, my king.”

“One could not ask for a more dutiful or beautiful queen at my side.”

Those blue eyes bore into yours.

You know he means those words.

The full silence in the room only hits you when Lord Barnes clears his throat.

“Start with Vanaheim, Coulson, I meet with them first, correct?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

Over the weeks that turned into months and years, you grew to like Coulson very much, and after that first day when Steve stated his trust in you, Coulson never showed any hesitancy in you ever again, and, in fact, became one of your most staunch champions in the kingdom.

READ THE NEXT PART: WINTER SOLSTICE read more of the Cedar Trees AU

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[alienoresimagines]

Dying for more crumbs of your "I was made to protect you" Bodyguard/Royalty AU if you're willing to share!

Nonnie!! 🥹🫶🏻 I swear this AU was on the backburner because I couldn't find what I wanted to do with it but your ask really kickstarted it so thank you 🥹❤️ As crumbs, here is my humble offering of John and Gale, twelve years after their first meeting, when they are safe and well in love ❤️ Yes, we're starting backwards but take this as a guarantee I won't kill off any of them 😂 As for the main fic, an outline is starting to be formed and I hope I'll manage to get a few chapters done before uni starts 🥰 But really, none of this would be here without you, so thank you 🥹💕

Also on AO3

Our love, for eternity | Buck x Bucky (Royalty/Bodyguard AU)

John cannot remember the first time someone took his hand to press a kiss on his knuckles. Maybe when he was five, and his father could no longer protect him from the incessant requests of the Council to have him properly introduced to Court? He doesn’t remember much from it, too overwhelmed by all the noise and the crowd present, his only wish to hide himself behind his father’s legs but no longer allowed to, at least not in public. 

Almost thirty years later and he handles it much better, has learned to thrive on the attention and emotions of a crowd, even though he’s man enough to admit his father’s steady presence will always comfort him. Still, despite knowing it is part of protocol and that it is truly the least he can do, letting hundreds of nobles fall to their knees in front of him to bring his hand to their lips isn’t exactly on his pros list of being first Crown Prince and then King. Every day, he understands a bit better why his father chose to pass on the throne to him two years ago to live in a small cottage with Red and who knows how many horses the two men had managed to get their hands on since then. He’d gone to visit the two men just yesterday and they looked happier than ever, and John cannot deny that the idea of a small retreat in a house near the beach with Gale sounds like heaven. But alas, not for another twenty years at the least. 

He can do twenty years. With Gale at his side, he could do eternity as King. And really, when Gale is the one kissing his knuckles, the entire affair is much more tolerable, not to mention enjoyable. It never fails to have John’s entire being buzz with warmth spreading from his chest whenever Gale’s calloused palm gently close around his to bring his hand to his face until the now familiar prickle of beard tickles his skin, soothed by the press of soft lips. It’s a gesture Gale loves, always making sure he holds John’s gaze when his lips touch the tender skin, eyes warm and soft, corners of his mouth turned up even as it rests gently against John’s knuckles. They could be reading side by side in John’s private chambers, loosely holding hands in the space between their two armchairs, fire gently crackling in front of them, and Gale would bring up their joined hands until he could kiss John’s knuckles, only looking up from his book once John could feel his breath fanning over back of his hand. 

In all the years they’ve known each other and amongst all the different things they’ve done with and to each other, few things have felt as intimate as Gale kissing his hand, no matter how many times he’s done it. Each one feels like a vow, full of more emotions and words than anyone could ever see behind the gesture. Many people have brought John’s hand to their lips- or their forehead, an alternative he prefers with strangers, he has to admit- in a sign of loyalty. But Gale always does it in absolute devotion and love, so sincere and raw it never fails to tighten John’s throat with so many emotions he cannot name until he almost chokes on them.

To all assembled in the throne room today, it is a common gesture meant to show utmost servitude to a monarch. To John, it’s timeless proof there is no one more devoted to him and his heart than the man currently kneeling at his feet.

There’s a reverence in how Gale does it. The gentle grip in which he holds John’s right hand, letting the curve of his fingers rest against his index as he brings it closer to his face, head bowed, as if they are the only two present. 

John’s hands aren’t as soft or slender as other women’s in Court. They’re calloused and rough from sword training, knuckles scarred with little cuts here and there. Gale still takes his time swiping his thumb over his knuckles, as though softly uncovering the skin. John feels like the most precious thing in the world, and he has to bite his lip to keep himself from smiling too wide. Then, to his surprise, Gale bows his head even lower until his forehead rests against John’s hand, windswept golden hair tickling the skin of his wrist. He lingers for a moment too long to be anything but on purpose, and John’s heart feels so full of love it might burst right out of his chest to leap into the waiting hands of the man kneeling in front of him. Despite the numerous scars on those war-hardened hands, none would be- and have been- as gentle and tender in holding his heart, of this John is sure.

It’s been two weeks since they’ve seen each other, the longest they’ve ever been apart since they first met, twelve years ago. Neither of them had been particularly willing, but a foreign delegation had specifically asked for Gale to be their escort back home and nothing could have justified John’s refusal; the kingdom is more at peace than it has been in years and Anglia’s relations with its neighbors always need to be strengthened.

To know that Gale had missed him as much John had missed him, enough that he’d chosen to be bolder than usual almost as though he couldn’t help himself? It sends bursts of warmth through John’s gut, golden light flowing through his veins until he feels warm all over, toes curling in his boots. Twelve years and the strength of his love for Gale still threatens to knock him off his feet.

Gale lifts his head, locking eyes with him, and though John needs to be careful of the emotions playing on his face, Gale has no such limits, his back to the rest of the room. Warm and fond and longing, cornflower eyes look up through blond lashes, the smile Gale doesn’t let curve his lips beside the faint upturn of the corners of his mouth dancing in the depths of blue. Then, finally, his lips kiss John’s knuckles in a lingering press, his beard a sweet tickle on his skin. John’s missed the touch so much that his knees feel weak upon feeling it again after two weeks of being starved for it, and a small sigh escapes his lips. Gale must hear it because he wiggles his eyebrows teasingly when he lowers John’s hand with a last caress of his thumb, and it’s all John can do not to pull him up and kiss him senseless, feel the softness of pump lips and the rough but pleasurable burn on his chin and cheeks.

The moment it is appropriate enough for them to go, John is crowding Gale in a secluded alcove until all he can taste are Gale’s kisses. 

“Your Grace,” and oh, how John had missed that deep voice, the way it rumbles through his body in a shiver that goes down his spine. Heat stirs low in his belly, the familiar flames of arousal only stoked by Gale’s intense gaze as John pulls him up.

John is taking him to bed in the following hour, midday and reports be damned. 

Despite this promise to himself, he can’t help the urge to feel Gale close to him, so with an arm around his shoulders, he brings him into a brief hug, clapping his hand on Gale’s shoulder a few times to mask the way he turns his head just so to bury his nose behind Gale’s ear, inhaling deeply. Nobody would blink at this display of affection, the Court well aware of John’s easygoing nature and affectionate ways with friends. 

Too soon, Gale starts pulling back and John reluctantly lets him, for a moment missing the boldness of earlier but recognizing the longing in Gale’s eyes, knowing it mirrors his. 

“You missed me?” Gale chuckles, shakes his head as he steps back to a more appropriate distance. His eyes don’t leave John’s face, as though carefully studying any change that might have happened in the two weeks they’d been apart.

“Like a stone in my shoe.” 

Even if John cannot pull him back into his own body, hold him there with an arm around his shoulders, this is something they can do. The easy banter and fond teasing they both know all the hidden messages of. It’s there, in the warm blue of Gale’s eyes and the smile that pulls at his lips. John is sure it shows in the way his eyes crinkle, how he can barely stop his arms from reaching out again. But nobody will blink at the lack of honorifics or at the fondness coloring Gale’s tone, too used to seeing them attached at the hip when they can be, or Gale always half a step behind John in times of duty. People will smile and write about the unbreakable bond between a King and his Shield, once again proving how Royal and Shield are closer than soulmates, never knowing how true those words are. 

My Clegan fics

[electricbluebutterflies]

Jess x Leto #3 “I’m a complete failure”

Sequel to righteous fury, content warning for very vague talk of assault // mid-era, PG-ish, also on ao3.

The worst possible thing has happened.

The worst possible thing – there is no doubt in his mind about this, several days later. For the rest of his life he will be haunted by what he saw, and to think that he was lucky enough to only deal with the aftermath of-

Someone wanted him unstable. Mission accomplished.

He gets to deal with the outside world and protect his partner in what minimal ways he still can. Enough of the guard saw… enough, but the public statement is only that she was deeply hurt and recovers in seclusion and from that-

Skies, he doesn’t know how she runs damage-control in his favor near-constantly, he has to do it to defend her honor about once a decade and he can barely even do that let alone-

She stays in a certain guest wing until further notice. If left unsupervised and given more of a choice, he expects she’d go right back to her usual spaces and damn those already haunted walls even further with this-

He only blames himself. Whatever security protocol went wrong that will be found in the coming days was at least a piece of paper he should’ve looked at better when it crossed his desk. He is aware of the weight of his responsibilities, above all else to protect his family and if he couldn’t manage that then-

He should leave her be. He should give his wounded partner whatever space she needs. But the fear of it all is too great, and-

He is aware that the only other human contact she has is when someone brings her meals she barely tries to eat. Their son, usually the only companion she allows, is being kept away from the situation for now; Leto supposes he’s probably screwed that up too but one crisis at a time and-

“You look troubled.”

At least the sharpness of her mind is still present. If she says what she feels, that is far better than the formality he’d expected she would revert to, and the lack of coldness is at least-

“I wronged you.”

“You did no such thing.”

And there it is. He’d learned not to admit any feelings of guilt regarding her years ago; he knows she forgives too much, but they politely do not speak of it to maintain their balance, and-

“There should’ve been some way of-“

“Even you are not perfect.”

He wants to say a hundred things, every bit of the blame he has felt in these days, horror that may not be his to carry and yet-

“I’m a complete failure. If I can’t protect you-“

“Do you think for a moment that I have blamed you, even indirectly?”

In a less tense moment, he would make some comment about how she’s had no trouble blaming him for a spectacular array of things over the years, but… not now, not in this barely-lit room where she sits perfectly still on the edge of a bed while he paces, not with the tension he feels that he cannot fix as he’d like, not-

“Forgive me if I take your pain as my own, but-“

“You have shown me who you are in this time, and I-“

He knows how rarely she is overwhelmed by her emotions, and how often he has seen her sadness in these days. He could never fault her for that, but it is still strange to watch and not be sure if she would allow-

“I still-“

“Don’t.”

He can almost feel the power of her, too close to a line she swears she does not cross, and his own guilt is nothing against her fury, and-

“Give me one good reason not to.”

“Because I am still alive, and my body heals, and my mind will follow.”

The fact that she is in such condition at all has made him burn since it happened, and he has already learned to hold that back in her presence, to keep from anything that might look like he is angry at her. If anything the opposite, if anything a brutal reminder of just how deeply he loves her and-

“Tell me what you want and I will-“

“Sit by me for a moment. Let me-“

He does, and it is too easy to let her fingers wrap around his wrists and find the right pressure points to take the edge off if not… her abilities do have their limits, but-

It is strange, he thinks, that she is willing to touch him at all. It is stranger still that she leans her head against his shoulder and he can feel the worry in her skin and-

“May I hold you?”

“Please.”

Her body still feels right, curled up against his. The state of his heart has not changed for a moment, and there will be life on the other side of this, and-

“You should stay,” she murmurs. “I will feel better if you stay.”

“Anything to calm you.”

“This isn’t just about me. I know you don’t…”

“And I could not ask you for-“

“We have to go back to normal eventually.”

“I still won’t have you hurt yourself because of me.”

Her fingertips move, tracing patterns on the little strips of skin where she’s pushed his sleeves back for access, a mirror of so many times he’s tried to comfort her in similar ways and-

“I cannot see how asking you to keep me warm in the night could count as-“

“A presence out of your control-“

“And how many thousands of nights have I closed my eyes next to you and been fearless about it? I do know you. You would not-“

“Still-“

“If you do not want-“

“I would keep you safe. Above all else. And I have failed, and-“

“You have been patient with me since. I would never ask for more.”

She should, he thinks. It is not the way of her, but if ever there was a time for her to become everything she is feared to be…

And she won’t. It is brave enough for her to press her lips to his neck, and he will allow whatever she needs, and-

“Don’t lose yourself for me,” she murmurs. “Don’t let this be more than it is.”

Too late, perhaps, but-

He’ll still try.

[blackjackkent]

The creche's infirmary feels several degrees cooler, somehow, than the surrounding structure. Perhaps it is the holes in the walls, the scars the githyanki invasion left in the monastery's flesh, or perhaps it is simply the imposing, alien-looking device that stands at the far end of the room, squatting like a giant bug waiting to strike.

Rakha stands at the edge of the plinth and studies it in silence for a little while. Just looking at it gives her an uncomfortable prickling sensation of up the back of her neck - remnants of instincts lost along with her memories.

This device is at least partly of illithid make. The pink-purple flesh interleaved between its wires and cabling and metal frame is most certainly the same as that which lined the nautiloid. She can smell the stench of it, that strange rotten-meat odor that is the first conscious sensation she has any memory of.

But the metal frame is githyanki. It is the same silvery metal lined with deep red gemstones which makes up Lae'zel's own armor.

"The githyanki have long studied ghaik and used what we’ve learned," Lae'zel said to Rakha some days ago, when they discussed the worms and the guardian's instructions to consume them. "The zaith'isk itself was devised from such knowledge." So this is not a surprise, not really.

And yet she cannot shake that feeling of unease at the base of her skull.

"Vertical incision from pineal eye to end of notochord. Intestinal coloration consistent with samples 231 to 259." The voice - soft, silky and cool - breaks across the silence and makes Rakha jump. There is a gith woman standing in the corner of the room, bent over some sort of scientific apparatus; she does not look up as she speaks.

"Do you have a question?" she continues with a casual, chilly disdain as Rakha turns to face her. "Or are you just going to stand there gawking?"

She is, Rakha can now see, studying a tadpole specimen which is hung suspended within the apparatus. Several layers of lenses bring the tiny creature into sharp focus, and Rakha feels her curiosity stir, pressing aside her disquiet (and the everpresent, instinctive desire to render the woman to her component parts, provided by the low growl of the beast at the back of her head).

Lae'zel, at her side, has noted nothing of the research, but is bristling with irritation at the ghustil's tone.

"I am a child of Gith," she snaps with all the dignity she is capable of. "Not discarded rat-flesh. Am I not due your respect?"

The ghustil turns and gives Lae'zel an appraising look up and down. "Perhaps. Perhaps not," she says with a faint shrug. "Let the istik with you speak, and I will decide what respect you are owed."

Rakha feels the curiosity drain back out of her, replaced by irritation and muted confusion. Yet another who treats Lae'zel's presence here as a joke, a bit of foolishness. How dare you?

Her jaw sets and she snaps the words out, equally cool. "I've got a tadpole needs removing. Can you help me?"

If not, you are no use to me... speak carefully...

The doctor does not speak further mockery - not yet, at least - but she does smile again, an expression that seems more sardonic than sympathetic. "You must be desperate, to seek my aid," she says. "Tell me - how long have you been infected?"

Rakha does not answer at once. She is busy considering these words, which are unexpected and do not parse easily.

You must be desperate to seek my aid.

Nothing about this situation adds up. She has been ignoring the warning signs because of her trust in Lae'zel... but they are starting to become inescapable.

Lae'zel spoke of this as the first line of defense, the immediate protocol. But the doctor's words speak of desperation. Coming here, in her eyes, is a last resort. Why?

"Longer than you'd expect ceremorphosis to take," she finally says non-committally, echoing the words she learned from Gale. "And with none of the symptoms."

The doctor's eyes narrow and her lips curl up at the corners, her smile strengthening and yet seeming to lose further warmth as it does so. She might as well be looking at another specimen for examination in her apparatus of lenses and dials. "Fascinating..." she murmurs, leaning closer to Rakha and examining her with sudden interest, close enough that Rakha can smell her, a strange antiseptic scent that does not match her surroundings. "So you're conscious of your infection but showing no signs of cerebral impairment. Either your tadpole is special... or you are..."

She trails off, straightens abruptly and makes a sharp gesture towards the alien contraption on the plinth. "Go to the zaith'isk. I will ensure you are cured," she says.

Rakha's jaw works. She does not like this woman. She does not like the way she is looking at them; she is sure it is the same expression that comes to her own face when the beast rises - hungry, single-minded, eager. She has given not the slightest look towards Lae'zel, nor acknowledged this as a matter of protocol as Lae'zel promised it is.

Something is wrong here.

"What will the zaith'isk do?" she asks sharply.

Perhaps the doctor registers her suspicion, because her smile takes on a distinct note of amusement - almost but not quite taunting, as if she knows as well as Rakha does that they are committed now, no matter how wrong this might seem. "It will relieve you of the specimen lodged in your cerebral cortex," she says calmly. "What else?" She laughs softly, an almost inaudible exhalation through her nose. "It will be worth it - I assure you."

Without waiting for Rakha's response, she turns and pushes past the group, walking towards the silent, waiting machine. "Even githyanki rarely experience the zaith'isk. You are very lucky... istik..."

[i-love-you-all]

Whumptober 20: It’s been a long day.

Breach has to come to terms with Sova’s death. Sad tremorbolt hours :)) Also, I said this on stream, but I think this would be a great intro chapter for a tremorheal fic where Breach has to finish mourning Sova and realizing that he’s gotten a lot closer to Sage along the way. Don’t really wanna touch the idea now, but it’s there in my brain lol.

~900 words, referenced death, mourning

“You should have this.”

Breach was handed a small wooden box. Without saying anything, he looked down at the simplicity of it.

“It was never meant for me.” She took another look at them, then turned to walk back into the house. Just before she closed the door, she took one last look at Breach and said, “Thank you for bringing him happiness.”

Fuck. That did it. He barely held onto his tears. The moment the door closed, he felt the first, warm trail fall down his face. Almost two years, and this was how it ended with Sova. There was no more smile, no more warm body on cold nights. Even as he rode on the train back to the city and on the flight back home, he was reminded that there was just… no more Sova in this world.

The missions. The stupid, fucking missions, that only happened because they fucked up the retrieval of that useless, dumb tablet that Brimstone thought they needed… That was the first time he had something taken from him so quickly. One moment, he was holding onto Sova against the side of a cliff, watching his face grimace as he bounced against the side of a cliff. Then next, he was being kicked in the side, and there was no more hand holding onto his.

It was just that quick, and he hadn’t even really realized the danger he was in because he just fucking let go of Sova. The kicks and punches didn’t do much to him, and he barely resisted. At least passing out then meant that he didn’t have to remember.

Sage was sympathetic, but a whispered apology didn’t mean much when there was nothing she could do. She wasn’t even on the mission and had argued quite ardently against it. For once, he wished that he had just shut up and listened to her.

Breach forgot all about the box for weeks. He closed himself off from the Protocol, and Brimstone allowed it. Only Raze kept calling him, trying to get him to eat, sleep, take care of himself. She wasn’t allowed in though, he made sure of that. All he did was stay in bed, thinking and remembering, before falling into a restless sleep without feeling any better the next day. It wasn’t until he finally got out of bed one morning to use the washroom. He stepped on a sharp edge, but he couldn’t even bring himself to swear or react to the sudden pain. It was the first time he felt something different in a while.

Sova’s grandmother looked at him with such… compassionate eyes for a woman who had never met him before. Curious, Breach carefully opened the lid, and to his surprise, he found a pile of letters. Already, he could feel the return of true sorrow, a mourning that surpassed the numbness that took over his body.

But he still read the letters. From the top of the pile to the bottom.

Do you even blink and wonder if this will be the last time you close your eyes? Sometimes I stare at you so long because I am worried that if I look away, my last vision will be without you. Maybe that is why I told Brimstone that I shouldn’t be on missions with you. I cannot stop looking.

I wish others could see you like I do. Your voice gets all rough and weak after yelling at Brimstone, and he gets the most angry with you, calls you all sorts of names. But he doesn’t know how softly you hold me because you think your arms will hurt me.

Sometimes I see how you look at me, and I worry that if we were to separate, or if I were to die, that you would have no one to do this with. I hope you find someone who treats you better than I do. These are the thoughts I have that I don’t want to waste saying out loud. I would rather use our time together for other purposes. Perhaps that is why I write these letters that you will never read.

Letters that Breach would never read. If only that were true.

He devoured every word on every page as he went through the words, one by one until he got to the last sign off and just…

He came to after putting the last letter down. As he read through everything, he realized now that he was back in his bed, curled up with his knees against his chest as he let them fall on the empty pillow next to him. One by one, all the thoughts that ran through that pretty, blond head on the pillow where he would never rest again.

I love you. A hundred times or more, he read those words and each time, he thought of a memory where he heard those words. But there was nothing now. Just words on papers in a box that he gently closed and put away. In the lamplight, he just looked over at the empty space in the bed. Even in the days after he fully realized that there was no one coming to keep him company, he still stayed on his half of the bed. Just in case.

Outside, a crack of lightning flashed in the distance, and the rolling thunder followed soon after. Just for a little bit longer, he kept the lamp on and curled up a little tighter under the covers, staring at the pillow and trying to manifest the man. But all that was left were the words that Sova didn’t have the time to say.

[shirophantomvox]

How Illumi, Hisoka, and Chrollo would react to their S/O in the hospital

Hi, anon! You are welcome to join my Discord Server if you are a fan of Hxh, Voltron, or both! I promise this is a safe environment! This is an interesting topic for sure! To the other anon(s), I am working on your request! This will contain both fluff and angst. I forgot to include Leorio in this, so I’ll include him in the next HxH post. You’ll have to forgive me, I have 2 more requests in my inbox and I am not feeling the best. I just got my second Covid shot and it is hurting like hell. Nevertheless, I encourage you all to get your shot if you can. I will be on this site one and off and I should be on it for real next week. I have run out of ideas to write and I began to think I was annoying people with my HxH content (no one said this I just assumed). This post has 1974 words. After these requests are finished, I plan on doing a character analysis for Leorio.

Anyway, let’s get into the post!

We’ll start with Hisoka this time.

Hisoka

In all honesty, this man has heard of a hospital (since he sends a lot of people to it after fights) but has never been in one.

The signs, floors, staircase numbers, and elevators all confuse him. He has only been in one once when he was a kid and has never been again.

He isn’t a social butterfly in this setting because this is a professional establishment and not a college party. Asking for directions takes quite a toll on him because of his established pride. You know guys act when they want to find a destination on their own and will go miles out of the way instead of just asking for direction.

He doesn’t talk to anyone; all he wants to do is find you and make sure you are alright.

He is the tallest person in the freight elevator. So tall that everyone at turns to look at him at once for at least 10 seconds and turn back around surprised.

“How tall is he,” one of the nurses ask.

“Tall enough to be my house!”

This annoys him. He takes out the Joker card and lays it against his thigh but realizes he cannot make any hasty decisions. His bloodlust was activated merely out of irritation and not by threat. You were on his mind and destroying these worthless humans wasn’t an option for today.

He approached the guest desk and waited for about 2 minutes before he was acknowledged.

“May I help you,” a smug receptionist asked. Wow, these people do not know who they’re talking to.

“I’m here to see y/n.”

“Y/n is in room 345. Go down the hall and to the right all the way down.”

This man nearly ran with a quickness! His jester shoes somehow made the floor shake as he ran.

You were awake, eating the horrible food the hospital provided and watching TV. It seemed like you were doing ok, but you had just been in a car accident. Your arms and right leg were still sore. It was so bad that you’d be fine with Hisoka carrying you everywhere.

When you two are alone in serious public places, he doesn’t play games or tricks. He is often portrayed as a ruthless man, but in settings like this, he places the jokes and games aside for later. When he enters your room, he is silent for 30 seconds. Much too long. He was shocked; he walked around your hospital bed, pulled up a chair, and stared at your cast. It had many names written on it.

“Yes, I am ok.”

“I apologize for not being there for you,” he began to say.

“Shh… it’s ok. This is life. It hurts like hell, but I’m a trooper!”

Admiring your cast and its multiple fonts of handwriting and messages, he grabbed a sharpie marker, wrote his name, with a heart and spade next to it. Surprisingly, his cursive was very neat and legible.

“I didn’t know you knew how to write in cursive! Why don’t you write me letters?”

“I see you every day and it hurts my hand.”

The doctor wouldn’t be in for another 1 ½ hours, so Hisoka used your thigh as a pillow as he took a nap. He had been up for countless nights thinking about you. He was screwing up so bad, Chrollo let him leave early.

“As soon as your better, we will fight again. I won’t go easy on you. You won’t be in the hospital but you get the jest.”

Illumi

Illumi isn’t the type of man to overreact in these types of situations. When you both agreed to date each other, you knew you all were tough cookies. You were aware of the dangers of dating an assassin and he knew about the dangers of dating a bounty hunter. People hated you both and you targeted.

One night you both were caught in a vulnerable state. While you both enjoyed chocolate milkshakes at a laid-back 1950’s styled diner, two men were previously thrown out for fighting. While your back was turned one of those men shot your arm, causing you to carelessly throw your body to the ground due to impact.

While everyone else was screaming, Illumi jumped to the ground and tied his hair tie around your arm to temporarily stop the bleeding.

“Illu, why does it feel cold in here,” you managed to breathe out.

His heart dropped to his stomach for the first time in history.

“Don’t say things like that!”

Illumi is already horrible at displaying emotions, but all he could do is frown in fear. Once the EMS came barling in, he demanded that he ride with you.

Illumi hadn’t experienced anything like this since Killua had been injured when he fell from a tree.

You and he were separated when you were rushed into surgery leaving him alone in the waiting room.

When Illumi is stressed and cannot properly display how he feels, he tends to act in “odd” ways.

He begins to furiously turn pages in magazines or bother the receptions every 2 minutes about the status of your surgery. When the woman finally says that you’re still alive, he tones it down a little.

Illumi is open to conforming advice from strangers; he has been receiving it secretly from strangers. Since Silva was busy abusing him, he often found comfort from “the streets”.

He has a bad habit of pacing back and forth and fidgeting in his seat while horrific images fill his mind. All he has seen is pain and even though he was used to it, he didn’t want you to go through it as well.

While sitting in his seat (finally!) and head in his lap, doubled over indescribable sorrow, a little girl walks up to him with her hands folded and a doll under her arms. Illumi feels her presence and looks up. The girl’s curly hair covered her endearing eyes and her smile is wide.

“They’ll be alright. I just know they will,” turning around returning to her mother, the girl said with confidence.

On cue, Illumi placed his hand over his heart, smiling just a little.

He walked quickly to your room once you were out of surgery.

His speed walk mimics one of a soldier; his left arm in since with his right leg. His shoes echoed throughout the hall.

As soon as he enters the room, he shuts the door harder than usual and gives you a tight embrace. This surprises you! You’re lucky if he lays his head on your shoulder!

Illumi had been working out lately. He wanted to beat you in the “squish the melon” contest. He is very competitive and even if he lost, that doesn’t hurt his ego. Not in the slightest. Since it was just the both of you alone, he bends down to hug you tight, so tight that your face is squished against his.

This behavior is only surprising because he usually doesn’t coddle you even when you get hurt, but this time he realized that you could have died from the gunshot wound.

After that he kissed your forehead and almost simultaneously the doctor barreled in just missing the sweet moment between you and your beau.

Chrollo

When Chrollo is holding meetings with the Phantom Troupe, he always appears to be neutral. That is very important. A leader has to show strength even through the worst/hurtful times of their lives.

Chrollo had gotten a call from Nobunaga that you had gotten hurt on a mission and had actually gotten captured by the enemy. Phinks was able to get you back but you suffered horrible injuries.

This is protocol; they do this for any of the members. The troupe was oblivious to the fact that you and Chrollo were dating. They thought you were here to replace Uvo.

In situations like this, he is calm on the outside but screaming on the inside. Common sense will tell you if you are startled by the news you’ve just received and you begin to drive, you could cause more harm on the way to your destination.

Chrollo is very silent; he doesn’t call to check on your status or anything; he would rather see it for himself.

You were a trooper! After all, you are dating a dangerous robber.

Chrollo already knew what room you were in so he just went.

“I knew I should have kept y/n by my side. Y/n insisted on doing my dirty work that they almost died! How foolish could I have been?” He constantly cursed himself for letting his guard down with you.

He always gave you room to think and complete your own tasks but he can’t help his protective nature; one he has for the troupe but times 10.

His childhood friends had been shot by law enforcers, his home was horrific, and the last thing he needed was for you to be gone. You were keeping him afloat in society.

When he opened the door, Phinks was sitting in a chair, one leg over the other, laughing at a TikTok video.

Nobunaga on the other hand was watching the world news and seemed invested that he didn’t hear Chrollo enter the room. Once they both saw, they stood to their feet.

“Y/n is ok boss. They suffered a few cuts and burns, but they're breathing.”

Chrollo’s straight face remained as he stared at you.

Chrollo’s silence is something the troupe has internalized as a sign of anger, rage, or both. When he didn’t speak and just stared, everyone knew that their next mission was going to be a brutal one.

Chrollo is a man that isn’t afraid to express how he feels. He could cry right now if he wanted to and no one would dare laugh at him or insult him. After all, Nobunaga cried when he realized Uvo was dead.

Nobunaga and Phinks excused themselves as they saw him place his hand over his mouth.

Once the door closed, He pulled up the chair, grabbed your hand, and gently squeezed it. His warmth woke you up instantly and you turned your head. You winced in pain causing Chrollo to jump from his seat, moving to your right side so you wouldn’t turn your head too much.

“I’m glad you're alive, darling. What were you doing putting yourself in danger? Feitan could have handled the beast!”

He isn’t trying to doubt your ability to fight, he’s just concerned for your safety. Even so, why would he insist that you join the spiders?

A tear dropped from his face as he silently kissed your hand three times. You smiled warmly and placed your right left hand on top of his.

“I am fine, boss. You need not worry. I’m a trooper, remember?”

He placed your hand against his dry cheek and continued to kiss it. You were his lifeline and he wanted to spend every moment with you.

[garc-i-a]

Why JATP Is Taking a While to Get Officially Renewed

Thought I would put my thoughts into words on the renewal situation. We know that the show was released on Netflix on September 10, 2020. As of today, it has been 242 days (10 May 2021). Julie and the Phantoms was released under Netflix Family, marking it as a children’s show on the streaming service. It was released in the middle of the second wave of the coronavirus (in the US) that has swept the world over. The show was created by Kenny Ortega, legendary choreographer and director.

To start off, we have to acknowledge that we ARE in a pandemic. Due to that, things have been touch and go in so many industries. That includes the TV/Film industry as well. The US and Canada, the two countries involved in making the show, have to follow the rules and laws related to COVID regardless of what people in the industry want. With that, we have to pay attention to what is going on with the pandemic to know how to go about filming. 

As of right now, Canada still has closed borders from the US to nonessential travel. To get into Canada as a foreigner you have to be going for a specific reason and follow all the Covid related travel rules. To read more about this, you can go to canada.ca and type in for traveling during the pandemic. Not to mention that for a lot of areas in Canada, they are still essentially in lockdown because of the now rising numbers in the country. Charlie’s home province of New Brunswick is still pretty restricted. 

Regarding vaccinations, although the United States has been slowly getting people vaccinated, Canada has had issues with getting vaccinations and don’t nearly have as many vaccinated. It is only just a few days ago that New Brunswick started administering vaccinations in the last few days. The vaccinations are only for people who are 50+ who fall into specific medical condition guidelines. For British Columbia, where the show is filmed, vaccines started getting administered the third week of April. It is believed there is a chance of getting all* adults vaccinated by mid June. My source for this information is from a native New Brunswicker and a CTV News article.

For the cast, getting vaccinated is paramount. Owen is already vaccinated. Madison’s dad is also vaccinated so it is likely she is as well or part way there. Now for people who are NOT vaccinated yet, most vaccines are administered in two doses. The doses are done about three weeks apart (I am partially vaccinated and my first dose was already done and second is next week). This knowledge is important as people need to be aware of the timing of these things. The amount of time between vaccines and for everyone in the cast and crew is essential for everything to go smoothly with filming.

One of the big things that I have seen a lot is the outrage at other shows on Netflix being renewed before Julie and the Phantoms. There is a two fold answer to this. To start off, we have to remember that because of this pandemic, things take longer to process to be extra diligent and that more money is be used to cover for reconstructions and accommodations due to Covid. Knowing these two things, let’s delve into the renewals of other shows.

Some of the other shows that have been renewed are Fate: The Winx Saga, Bridgerton, Ginny and Georgia, and Emily in Paris. The big difference between these shows and Julie and the Phantoms is the fact they are not in the Netflix Family category. They are considered content for adults or young adults. Netflix has different rules on their shows that are put out on the regular platform versus the family section. Netflix Family rarely posts when a show is renewed so far from its premiere date for the next season. So in that respect, Julie and the Phantoms wouldn’t be given a huge announcement for the next season’s renewal if it follows the pattern of Netflix Family’s marketing.

Tying into this the matter of where the rest of the shows are filmed and the backing behind them in regards to production. The Winx show and Bridgerton are filmed in the UK, Ginny and Georgia is filmed in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, and Emily in Paris is filmed on location in France. The reason that this matters is because these places have different rules for working during this pandemic, the vaccinations levels, and the threat of getting sick from Covid. These shows are also connected to larger properties or influential individuals*. Vancouver is a popular city to film in, of course, but it has been dealing with an uptick in cases as well as in a different province than Ginny and Georgia, and as such has their own rules. We cannot take into the likes of Riverdale or other shows that are filming right now in Vancouver. Lots of these shows were renewed and set to film already when the pandemic hit. They do not factor into things.

The last part of this is the production costs for making the show. As mentioned before, Vancouver is a popular city to film in. Due to the pandemic, it costs more to film because the need to have extra precautions, regular Covid testing, and etc. We know that there were shows that were initially renewed by Netflix but then canceled after the fact. The reason for this is that Netflix likely realized the cost to produce the shows would be too much and not in the best interest of the cast, crew, and any companies involved in the middle of such a huge reaching pandemic.

Compared to other shows in the Netflix Family section, Julie and the Phantoms has a high production level. I did some research on the Netflix originals in the section and the shows on there are either very low budget or have a backing from a franchise/company (ex. Baby Boss, Fast and Furious, Jurassic Park). Julie and the Phantoms does not have that. It is not connected to an established franchise or a large company. It is simply made by the likes of Kenny Ortega who does not skimp on anything in his productions. Kenny has stated that he is not willing to let the grandness of the show suffer because of the pandemic. The show has many crowd scenes and dancing sequences that require a lot of people. The show won’t be what it is without this. Based on this, we know that Netflix wants to be absolutely sure they can go forth with filming before announcing a renewal.

And there you guys go. All the information that I looked into and checked for this piece. I hope this helps many people understand what is going on why it is taking longer for the show to get renewed. It is not that Netflix doesn’t want to renew it. It is a matter of HOW and WHEN. If that makes sense. If you have any questions about what I wrote, you can leave a comment or DM me.

all*- Some individuals may not wish to be vaccinated

influential individuals*- There are people connected to some of the shows that have a standing within the media and the finances or awards to warrant being a part of the show or it being made at all.

Amendment

I was informed by my source in New Brunswick that vaccines have been administered since January but the qualification for who is eligible for the vaccines can change from week to week.

Amendment 2

Reuters has reported that children aged 12-15 are able to start getting the vaccine today (13 May 2021). So that means that Jadah and Sonny (15 and 13, respectively) will be fully vaccinated by the middle of June.

Amendment 3

A few days ago a local upstate New York newspaper wrote about Canada starting the process of opening up borders again. The process is in the beginning stages so there is no announced date(s) on the border reopening but it is in the works.

Amendment 4

A show called Firefly Lane has been renewed for a season 2. This is important because Firefly Lane is filmed in the same area of British Columbia as Julie and the Phantoms. British Columbia is getting better in regards to vaccinations and so this proves good news of a season 2 announcement for Julie and the Phantoms.

Amendment 5

It was reported on 21 or 22 June 2021 that Canada will relax quarantine rules for vaccinated Canadian citizens, permanent residents, and foreign nationals for essential work. This new system will go into effect 5 June 2021. If you are fully vaccinated and pass rules set by the government, you will NOT have to abide by the hotel quarantine steps when entering the country. That means that the JATP cast and crew can get to filming right away instead of quarantining beforehand. To read more about this: https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.lonelyplanet.com/amp/articles/canada-border-reopening

Amendment 6

On Charlie’s live yesterday (28 June 2021), Madison said that she got the second dose of the vaccine earlier in the day. In 14 days, she will be good to go on going out and such. Hopefully Jadah and Sonny have gotten at least their first dose. Gets us closer to being able to have the cast and crew together for the show.

Amendment 7

The National Law Review published an article on 2 July 2021 saying that fully vaccinated individuals will be able to travel between Canada and the US on 21 July or possibly sooner. Prime Minister Justin Trudeau says he wants 75% of Canadians to be fully vaccinated before allowing the border to be opened. With current numbers, it is believed this will be achieved in a few weeks time.

Amendment 8

The New York Times just reported that fully vaccinated Americans could be allowed into Canada by mid August and that people from other countries could be allowed to enter by September.

Amendment 9

It was just reported about two hours ago that Canada will allow vaccinated Americans in on 9 August. That is exactly 3 weeks from now on a Monday. Now all we have to focus on is protocols for safety while in Vancouver while filming.

[pitviperofdoom]

is the royalty au,,, The Au I Think It Is??? *eyes eyes eyes eyes* gush about it!

Yes it is!

Have some miscommunication awkwardness and Jon getting a love letter from a certain someone, with bonus Peter and Jonah being dicks. These are some of my favorite parts I’ve written so far!

I CANNOT get over how badly Jon and Martin are misinterpreting both each other and their respective situations in this story.

---

The meeting took place in the throne room, because of course it did.

Since arriving, Jon had forced himself to set aside time each day to spend here, getting used to simply existing in the room and considering it his own. Two days were not enough to get used to either. As a duke, with the comfort of distance, he could at least think of it as the queen’s meeting room and leave it at that, but now, standing alone in the ornate hall, the size of it pressed down on him like a physical weight.

In spite of this, he forced his spine straight when the doors opened and Rosie’s voice rang out clearly.

“Duke Peter Lukas, and his eldest scion and heir, Martin.”

Martin. Jon formed the shape of the name on his tongue without giving it voice. Before him, the duke and his scion crossed the polished floor at a quick pace, with the latter only a few steps behind. For the first time, Jon got a proper look at his betrothed.

Martin was tall and broad, though not as much of either as the duke, and he had a rounder, softer look about him than Peter’s square build. The closer they came, the more certain Jon was that Martin was not Peter’s son by blood. Not that this was a great surprise; since learning of the man’s existence, he hadn’t heard a single person refer to Martin as Peter’s son, only as his scion. It wasn’t uncommon for unmarried nobles to adopt their heirs. No, especially given Peter’s obvious disinterest in marrying, it wasn’t surprising at all that he’d adopted a child rather than going to the trouble of having one of his own.

Besides, for Jon’s purposes, blood was far less important than general competence. And one didn’t last long in House Lukas without knowing how to handle oneself at court.

As soon as they were within reaching distance of one another, Jon could see Martin sizing him up. Or rather, down. Martin stood nearly a full head taller than him, and couldn’t look Jon in the eye without looking down. For his part, Jon couldn’t straighten his spine any further without wrenching a muscle, so he kept his polite mask well in place, and inclined his head respectfully. Martin’s eyes narrowed, and he didn’t return the gesture, which threatened Jon’s calm façade with a stab of renewed nervousness. Had he done something wrong? Did Martin know about some protocol for royalty to greet their future spouses that Jon didn’t? That was the last thing he needed, to expose himself as an unworthy king and husband within seconds of meeting his betrothed.

“It’s an honor of the highest order to meet you, Martin,” he said, burying his uncertainty deep. “Thank you both for making this journey.”

“All for the good of the kingdom,” Peter said pleasantly. He glanced to Jonah. “I trust everything is in order?”

“Now that our future royal couple are together, I expect everything to run smoothly,” Jonah replied. “Hopefully, a royal wedding and coronation will be enough to distract from the recent unpleasantness.”

Taking a chance, Jon offered Martin a slight smile. “I apologize for the lack of a proper courtship period,” he said, trying for a lighter tone. “Needs must, I’m afraid.”

Martin’s frowned deepened, but it got a chuckle out of Peter. “Come now, Martin.” He nudged him gently, turning his cheerful smile to his stone-faced scion. “Say hello to your fiancé, why don’t you.”

“Hello,” Martin said flatly.

Peter cleared his throat. Martin glared at him, but the duke simply kept smiling as he gestured encouragingly with one hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Martin went on grudgingly. “Thank you for having us here.”

“There’s no need to act like a guest here,” Jon replied. “In a week, it will be just as much yours as it is mine. The palace is your home, now.”

“How wonderful,” Martin said coldly.

Jon’s composure cracked, enough for him to risk looking to Jonah for help. To his dismay, his advisor had nothing to offer, not even a moment’s commiseration over the awkwardness. When Jon caught his eye, the count simply stared back at him for a moment, then looked away with a quiet sigh and a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.

The message couldn’t be clearer—somehow, within one minute of pleasantries, he’d done something terribly wrong.

***

“I just don’t understand, Jonah.”

Jon paced in his study, nervous energy finally flying free of its chains.

“I’m not a stranger to court, either as a guest in other lands or a host on my own. I’ve seen Queen Gertrude’s demeanor when receiving nobles. I know the proper procedures for arranging a marriage, because I read them forward and backward before I arrived.” He turned to Jonah, half-desperate. “What went wrong?”

“Oh, Jon, what went right?” Jonah sighed, shaking his head wearily. “Most of the court is aware of your inexperience. They’ll be looking for the signs closely enough that you don’t need to make it quite so obvious. Peter at least has a sense of humor about all this, but that is a rarity for his house. Lukases are an ambitious lot, and their standards are incredibly high. That is the price of their support and aid during this time.” He winced in sympathy. “If I were to guess, I would say Martin found you a bit less than impressive.”

Jon groaned softly. “Did anything go right in there?”

“You were tolerably polite,” Jonah replied. “Your manner was… inoffensive. You did nothing wrong, strictly speaking. But it seems the heir to House Lukas expects more than the bare minimum.”

“Alright… alright.” There was something vaguely comforting about that. He had underperformed, but he hadn’t actively offended anyone. He could salvage this.

“You have a chance to redeem yourself,” Jonah said, unknowingly echoing Jon’s thoughts. “You have yet to be formally and publicly engaged. It’s largely for show; the marriage contract has already been drawn up, and everything has been arranged. But the engagement of Vigilia’s future king calls for a proper social event.”

“Would that really make a good impression?” Jon asked. “Lukases aren’t best known for socializing.”

“In my experience, Lukases appreciate other aspects of a good party,” Jonah said with a smile. “Don’t worry, the palace staff are well-versed in arranging impressive events. All you need to worry about is your own conduct.”

Jon swallowed his nervousness. He could do that. He knew the language and could speak it well. “Where will the event be held?”

“The throne room, I believe.”

“Ah, could we…?” Jon hesitated. “Could it be held in the palace gardens, instead? I-I just think the, ah, atmosphere might be better? And I know that Peter prefers the gardens. More places to hide, you know.”

Jonah blinked, looking surprised for a moment, before he chuckled. “You’ve noticed that as well, have you? Hmm. I like that idea. Yes, the palace gardens will be better.”

Jon tried not to let his pleasure and relief at the near-praise show.

“It will be a quiet celebration—more of a ceremony on its own than a proper party,” Jonah went on. “This is because, directly afterward, the council will be holding a brief meeting. This is another opportunity for you to raise yourself in the eyes of the nobles. It will be your first council gathering as Vigilia’s future king, and its main purpose will be to present you and your husband-to-be to the rest of the council as the kingdom’s new rulers. How you conduct yourself may shift things in your favor, in their eyes and, hopefully, in Martin’s as well.”

A council meeting. That was even better than a party. He’d unearthed enough from Gertrude’s papers for a decent number of talking points. He had some ideas. He’d sat in enough of these meetings to know what to expect. It was a proper chance.

“I’ll have time to prepare, then,” Jon murmured, half to himself. “And I might try talking to Martin, beforehand. Get his input.” He looked to Jonah hopefully. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re looking ahead,” Jonah replied with a nod of approval. “Which is a vital skill for someone in your position. You’re learning, Jon. You just need to learn faster.”

“Right, of course.” Jon took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Thank you, Jonah.”

“Of course, Jon,” his advisor said with a smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”

***

This was the softest bed Martin had ever touched, even more so than the one he’d been given in Moorland. It was like sitting on a cloud. The sheets and coverlet were so fine that the threads caught every callus and imperfection on his hand when he touched them. On his bedside table sat a delicate glass sculpture of flawless, elaborate workmanship, that on closer inspection was revealed to be a needlessly ornate candle holder. He stared at the room around him with dull eyes, at the opulence and elegance of every ornament, wall hanging, and flourish. It made his room in Moorland look like a scullery.

He was living in luxury now. He would be for the rest of his life, however long that was. From now on, his every whim and desire would be seen to; the king of Vigilia had assured him of it in nearly so many words.

Martin recalled the man’s cold eyes staring up at him, sizing him up, offering polite, honeyed words as if they would distract him from where he was and why he was here.

The door behind him opened, and Peter’s familiar heavy footfalls brought a new line of tension to Martin’s shoulders. “Well, Martin, I really have to hand it to you,” Peter said brightly. “You did our family’s reputation proud. Stone-faced, all the way through! I thought our poor king-to-be was going to burst into tears right there in the throne room.”

“How horrible for him,” Martin said acidly. What did he think? That a few pretty words and promises of gilding on the cage bars would send Martin swooning into his arms? Was he upset that someone wasn’t immediately fawning over his power and riches and throne? What a prick.

“Have some pity for him,” Peter said, amused. “Look at you, the heir to House Lukas himself. Like it or not, you’re a catch, Martin. The second most eligible bachelor in Vigilia. Is it any wonder the king has to have you?”

Martin didn’t bother dignifying that with an answer. Peter only took that tone when he was trying to get a rise out of Martin on purpose.

“Can’t blame him for trying to show off a bit. I would’ve thought you’d like having someone try to impress you. I can’t imagine it’s happened often.”

“I don’t care,” Martin said flatly. “He has nothing I could possibly want.”

Two large hands landed on his shoulders, heavy and gripping. “Try to show a little more enthusiasm, won’t you?” A note of casual menace had entered Peter’s voice. “It’ll be a happy day for you, remember? You could’ve been digging ditches or farming pigs, and thanks to my generosity, you’re going to be royalty.”

“I’d rather be a pig farmer, honestly,” Martin replied. “At least the company would be better.”

Peter sighed, less frustrated than long-suffering and indulgent, which only made Martin’s blood boil hotter. “I’ll come back when you’re feeling a bit more reasonable,” he said, stepping away at last. Martin kept his eyes forward as Peter’s heavy footfalls moved back to the door. “But before I go—you might keep your obligations in mind, going forward. See that you don’t forget them.”

Martin stayed where he was, as the door closed and Peter’s muffled footsteps faded. Once he was alone, the candle holder drew his gaze again.

With deliberate slowness, he slid the gaudy thing to the edge of the table and shoved it to the floor, shattering it to pieces.

***

The letter came after breakfast. Instead of a palace page, it was Jordan who carried it to Jon’s bedchamber, the wax seal still unbroken.

“It came by courier, directly from Tim,” Jordan told him quietly. “He must have sent it before you arrived.”

Jon thanked him, and the moment Jordan was gone, he locked the door and took the letter to his desk. An urgent message from Tim could spell disaster—if there were problems on his former lands—

Then he saw the seal, pressed into the wax with a familiar signet that left the imprint of an eye, and his breath caught in his throat. With one last cautious glance at the closed door, he broke the seal and unfolded the message.

Something shiny slid free of the folded paper and tumbled into Jon’s lap. He caught it before it could fall to the floor, and held it up to the light to admire it. It was a small hair ornament, a coil of copper decorated with beads of amethyst at either end. With a smile, Jon separated out a small section of his hair and wound the coil into place. It glinted in the lamp light, twisted around the lock of hair like a tiny snake.

Fidgeting with excitement, Jon unfolded the letter, smoothed it out on his lap, and began to read.

The corners of his mouth turned up. His chest hitched. His face contorted with the effort of a rapidly losing battle. Within seconds, he was muffling his laughter into the palm of his hand.

Written on the paper in an elegant, flourishing script, was the single worst poem Jon had ever had the dubious pleasure of reading. The first four words or so were very nearly reasonable in their tenderness, but beyond that the poet dipped so sharply into language that Jon could only describe as soggy, that, had the letter been written by any other hand, he would have had to interpret it as openly mocking.

(Not that it wasn’t—it just wasn’t mocking him.)

The meter was a broken mess, syllables squashed together into uneven attempts at iambs. At one point the poet chose to rhyme “admire” with “hair.” Jon wasn’t entirely sure what sort of image or emotion the phrase “limpid pools” was supposed to invoke, and he was fairly sure the poet didn’t either, or at least didn’t care one way or the other. The final rhyme began with “orange” and ended with a word that was so overwritten and scratched out that the resulting indecipherable splotch of ink nearly obscured the words around it.

It was glorious. His best work yet, if Jon was any judge.

He lit the candle by his bedside, only hesitating for a moment over the flame. It was always a shame to do this; usually he received a few letters that were innocuous enough to keep, but the time for such things was at an end. Trinkets and gifts were safe enough; they could be lost among the rest of the pretty tributes a ruler might receive. But letters—letters were dangerous.

The paper caught easily, and the flames flickered and changed from orange to a familiar shade of violet. Jon held the burning letter up, and watched as the florid script was consumed more rapidly than the paper it was on. New words blazed in its place, written in a quicker, messier scrawl.

Stay safe. I’ll be there soon.

The violet flames were cool to the touch when they reached Jon’s fingers. They devoured the rest of the paper without leaving a single speck of ash behind.

Jon sat quietly, rubbing his fingers together on one hand while the other touched the ornament in his hair. The smile sat comfortably on his face, and his heart sat lighter in his chest than it had in weeks.

[theodora3022]

Selfish Deeds (Yandere! Gojou Satoru)

Summary: Satoru just wants you to be free of danger. If you are so knowledgeable why can’t you understand that he only wish the best for you?

A/N: This is just one snippet of many out of a collection(haven't decide the name just yet)...Since I have not read the manga(anime-only for now) so I just got a vague impression of what Gojou has been through, but that does not stop me from writing him like the cocky bastard he is. Hopefully it is not too OOC(as if yandere variant itself is not OOC enough pfttt) The reader is a stubborn psycho because that is what I am :) Will there be some future pieces that involves nsfw elements? I got a few ideas but no promises.

I blame @popi-the-fatui for my Gojou brainrots. You got your revenge on me by making me attracted to this dubious man. Word count: 1.6k

Banner credit

Warnings: Female pronouns, Possessive behaviour, DELUSIONAL behaviour, non-consensual touching, power inbalance, general yandere content, slight mention of confinement and violence(This is not a healthy relationship dynamic!!!), reader is not a soft UWU girl, kthis is so self indulgent *buries myself into the bottomless pit of shame

It has been nearly fifteen minutes since the headquarter disconnected the call, yet you are still staring at your phone screen with disbelief.

You were supposed to travel to another city for a mission tomorrow, they had notified you of this mission a week ago.

You already got your luggage packed, and your theoretical research on the objective is thoroughly done. Then they dare to inform you: they have found a more suitable candidate! Right on the day before your departure too.

Your curse techniques have already limited you to more of a supporting role for most situations. There are not plenty of missions available for you to begin with. While you are content with educating the fresh blood of the community in classrooms the majority of the time, you still long for field actions every once in a while. It is an essential part of being a Jujutsu sorcerer after all.

Both you and the soft-spoken secretary who made the call know this is nonsense. The higher-ups recognize that you are one of, if not the best sorcerers available when it comes to reconnaissance and espionage.

Letting out a sigh of immeasurable frustration, you swore to yourself that you will find out who is the conductor of this humiliating turn of events. This is going to be difficult since you do not recall having any issues with any of the administration staff recently.

There is no reversing this misfortune, but at least you can be aware of who is responsible for such violation of conduct.

He is only doing this to protect you.

Gojou Satoru tells himself as such, at least.

He is aware of how unfair it is, to make someone less capable to take on the job. But he cannot risk your safety. The man has already got used to your company, and he is not willing to just let you disappear from his field of view for more than a week. Sure, you might have not admitted how much you like him yet, but it is just too endearing to see you flustered at his flirtatious words.

Although there have been some difficulties with rescheduling, he managed to use his connections to exclude you from that first-grade mission at last minute. On the bright side, the sorcerer cannot wait to lend you an ear to vent about how conservative and unfair the higher-ups can be. Maybe you will even say yes to a trip to the newest local bakery! You need some sweet treats to cheer yourself up, don’t you?

But Satoru has never thought about how you specialize in putting two and two together. (understandable since he never saw you in action before).

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

Strange, you are not near the usual area in the library.

Sensing his footsteps, you opened your office door before Satoru had a chance to knock.

“We need to talk, Gojou-san.” That expression is new. This is the first time he sees you genuinely angry, which is to be expected.

But somehow he got a bad feeling about this.

You did not even invite him to sit down, instead just standing next to the floor window, arm crossed, with your back turned to him.

“Why would you do such a thing?” You have to use up all of your self-control to prevent yourself from having a full blow-up right at Gojou Satoru. Maintain composure. But it is easier said then done.

Does he think this is funny? To sabotage someone else's sorcerer career like this? You knew you should have kept him out of your daily life, as he is nothing but trouble to you. But you made the mistake of choosing to tolerate him, and some superficial part of you might even enjoy his dallying words a bit too much.

To the extent, you overlooked some red flags. This is a grievous error indeed.

Shit, now that he vaguely remembers what role you play on missions.“(y/n)-chan, what are you saying-” He knows you always act in supporting positions, however, he has overlooked your actual abilities and curse techniques. You collect intel and spy on enemies, how could he forget that? “Don’t play dumb with me. You got your ways, I got mine. There is no use denying what you have done. I thought you out of all people would understand what it means to be a sorcerer.”

This is a violation of protocol, changing mission assignments at the last minute. However, you know this man would not be receiving any solid punishment should you decide to report this. They would say there is “no harm done” and you would just receive a pitiful apology. Suppose you cannot blame them though.

They need Gojou Satoru, the Jujutsu community needs his prowess to keep innocent people safe. He will remain in the system no matter what.

Why are you questioning his motives? Does he have to spell it out for you? Letter by letter?

“You are not a skilled combatant, (y/n)-chan. What if you got yourself hurt?” Or even worse, killed. It scares him to think that you could be gone one day, how he would walk by this office corridor and never sees you sitting behind the desk ever again.

Not much in this world could send Gojou Satoru a chill down his spine, yet the thought of you dying is now on the list. He knows how petty this is, you wouldn’t be the one doing the actual exorcising after all. But the if, the slight possibilty.

He cannot allow that to happen, not ever. Even that means angering you and getting yelled at.

“What am I, some normal lawful citizen? I am a sorcerer just like you, Gojou-san. Putting ourselves on the line for innocents is part of the deal.” You let out a few short, sarcastic giggles, narrowing your eyes at him with fury. “It’s funny that you, out of all people, fail to understand that. If I am needed I will do what I must. If this is some sort of sick joke, stop it already, not funny. ”

Blunt, unrelenting stubbornness. Not like that’s news for him, Satoru has lots of experience with that since the day your path crossed. Although he finds this quality to be adorable most of the time, it can pose major problems like the present.

Oh, he is not angry at you. Satoru is more outraged at himself, don’t you worry. On the contrary, he is rather intrigued by your sarcastic remarks! However…

Instead of walking towards where you stood near the window, the man decides to take a turn towards the door.

That flashing panic within your eyes did not escape his sight.

The illusion figure you were projecting near the window dissipated instantly once he got your left wrist in his hand. Concealing yourself and projecting illusions, a rare techique indeed.

“Clever tactic. Making yourself invisible, projecting a faux illusion to distract me, leaving the door open and staying close to the exit. Your curse techniques are impressive. I almost got fooled, job well-done (y/n)-chan.”

The grip on your wrist suddenly tightens, you have to bite your lip to hold back a hiss of pain. How can he still flash that casual, playful smile when committing such atrocity? Those damned cerulean blue eyes too, you are ashamed of how you tremble and (internally) swoon at it at the same time.

Efforts to get away would most likely be futile, but you have to try. “See, you underestimated your opponent. I do see why you are good with lurking in the shadows now. Do you have any idea what I am capable of though?” Such delicate hands, it would be a shame if they were to bruise.

It’s unnerving how easy it looks for him to maintain a solid grip on your wrist while you pull back with all of your might. You know Gojou Satoru is strong and all, but this simple demonstration of strength is devastatingly effective. “Let go of me, you bastard!”

To your surprise, he softens his grip and you finally distanced yourself from him, panting and guarded. “Who are you to decide what I should and what I should not do? I made it crystal clear on the first day that I do not like you for the slightest.”

You know the walls are thin and coworkers might heard you, but you will have to worry about it later. It is, sadly, a matter of fact that you are somehow attracted to him, but that does not give him the right to use it against you. You must not give in to the temptation.

“You are pretty slow on the uptake for someone so smart. I was thinking of doing this naturally, we can go on normal dates to coffee shops, amusement parks, or even the museum if that is what you wish for. But now I see you do not know how much you mean to me.” Do you think Gojou-san is only flirting with you for the fun of it? It might have been the case in the beginning, but that is not the case since...recently.

He did not stop you again when you turned away, giving him one last menacing look and disappeared from his sight, even if he could see the faint trace of your curse energy. You will return to him and apologize after you calm down, he is confident about that. You value your job way too much to quit.

Then he could finally pull you into his arms, saying he does not mind and forgive your childish tantrums. Satoru does not plan to lock you up in a cage or anything(yet)! The students adore you and they need your guidance. Your clan is insignificant compared to his, your influence? Does he even need to consider that?

Gojou Satoru would always achieve his goals by whatever means possible. You are no exception to this.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 27: Home

"He's got to be somewhere!" Harry all but shouted at the bloody incompetent people milling uselessly around him. What was the point of all of these people if they couldn't even do their jobs?

"Sir," one of the junior aurors said, "We're doing the best we can, but-"

"Do better,” he exploded.

Ron gripped his forearm and led him off to the side of the room. "Listen to me," his best friend said, "I know that you are worried and I know that you are chomping at the bit for us to figure this out, but we cannot work any faster."

"We have to," Harry said. "We have to work faster because every moment that we spend in here, is another moment that he is out there with that psychopath and I don't have to tell you how vicious Marcus is."

The horrific images of the bodies they'd found a few days ago flashed to the front of his mind but instead of being the strangers bodies naked and covered in cuts and bruises, it was Draco's body. The well-loved, all but worshiped body of the man that Harry was desperately in love with. And Draco didn't even know, he'd never even told him. He shook his head, biting back the urge to vomit, trying to keep the panic to a dull roar. "We have to find him."

"I know," Ron murmured, putting a warm, steady hand on his shoulder. "I know and we are doing everything, we have everyone on this. The moment anyone finds anything they'll let-"

"Sir!" Darcy called, dashing into the room, "I think we've got him."

(Read more below the cut)

"Give me the coordinates," Harry said, reaching for the paper in her hands.

"You can't just go in there," Ron protested, trying to snatch the paper away from Harry, "we need a plan of attack, we need to figure out how to coordinate our people."

"Yes," Harry agreed. "You're in charge of that and you can meet me there. I'm sure I'll need the back up."

"Harry, don't-"

But it was too late, obviously, as if Ron could have ever expected him to stay, as if there was anything on this earth that could have kept him from Draco.

Harry wasn't especially good with blind apparation, but he knew the instant he arrived that this was definitely the spot. The air around him when he landed felt tainted and dark, sparking with evil that touched the depth of Harry's soul and set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. A cabin sat just at the other side of the clearing, smoke rising from the chimney.

Casting a silent spell that would show any hidden wards and traps, Harry pulled out his invisibility cloak, enlarged it to it's normal size, covered himself, and set off across the clearing, deftly avoiding any of the places that quivered gold from his magic.

His heart hammered against his ribs, so loud that he feared it would give him away the moment he got into the house. He crept to the window and peered inside, Draco sat slumped in a chair near the fire place. His long blond hair was dirty and Harry got the sickening feeling that some of the darkness was where blood had dried. Bruises and abrasions mottled his pale skin, covering his face and neck, and undoubtedly places that Harry couldn't see.

The only relief was that he was obviously still breathing, labored though it appeared to be.

Marcus was no where in sight.

He cast several spells that Bill had taught him one summer when he was considering becoming a curse breaker and the ward fell apart around the window, leaving him a space to crawl through.

No sooner was he through the window when that tickle of awareness prickled up his spine, he spun and cast, "Expelliarmus," before he'd even fully realized why. A wand clattered to the ground and he cast, "Petrificus Totalus, incacerous," in rapid succession and Marcus hit the ground wrapped in ropes. Harry yanked his cloak off and glared at the man on the floor, "Give me one reason," he growled at Marcus, "One reason and I will fucking end you."

When the man made no attempt to move, he rushed over to Draco, "Draco," he murmured, "Draco," he repeated, carefully brushing his fingers over the other man's swollen, bruised cheek.

His silver eyes flickered open and he flinched away from Harry's hand.

"Oh, love," he managed, his throat tight around the words. "I'm here, you're safe."

Draco's eyes widened when he realized it was Harry, a tear slipping down his cheek.

"Okay," he breathed, "We have to get out of-" he began but the door behind him was blasted open and he cast a hasty "protego" preparing to fight off whomever had just come barreling through.

"I cannot fucking believe you," Ron hissed as he stomped in.

"Is the perimeter cleared?" Harry asked as he turned back to Draco, far more at ease now that Ron was there guarding his back.

"No it is not," Ron replied. "I broke a million protocols to get here while everyone else is working their way in-"

Harry stopped listening as he took the gag off of Draco. "Are you alright?"

Draco nodded weakly, "I'll be fine," he assured him.

He untied him quickly and efficiently and then helped him to stand before pulling him into his arms.

"Harry," the other man gasped, "We shouldn't. Everyone can see-"

"Let them," he whispered, tears stinging the back of his eyes as he held the other man, "Godric, Draco," he rasped, "I was so bloody worried about you."

He pulled back minutely and cupped the other man's cheek, brushing a finger over his bruised cheekbone. "He hurt you," he said, "We need to get you to St. Mungo's, get you checked out."

"It's superficial," he said, shaking his head, "I can heal them myself. Just," he swallowed, "Can we go home?"

"Ron?" Harry called.

"Yeah?" the other man replied.

Harry turned his head, but kept Draco in his arms, "I'm leaving. I'll owl you with a report of what happened prior to the team's arrival."

"Harry," Ron said, lowering his voice and stepping closer, "You're going to be in a lot of hot water about this."

"I don't care," Harry said.

"I mean all of it, going rogue, coming here without any plan, without back up, leaving now will be the least of your worries."

"You're right," Harry replied. "But I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. What are they going to do? Fire me?" He rolled his eyes, "They'd be doing me a favor."

Ron shook his head, "Go on, then."

"Thanks," Harry said, nodding once at Ron before he turned to Draco, "Ready?" he asked, "I'm going to apparate us."

Draco nodded and Harry focused on Draco's living room, even though his own sofa and fireplace beckoned him, before he apparated them out of there.

When they landed, Draco looked around, looking a bit crestfallen, "This is my flat," he said.

"Yeah, you said home?" Harry replied. "Oh, did you mean the Manor? I can take you there-" Harry started even as it made his heart ache, he knew he wouldn't be welcome to stay there.

"No," the other man interrupted, shaking his head for emphasis and wincing a bit at the motion, "I was rather hoping we might go to your home?" he asked uncertainly. "I feel safer there," he added, a little hitch in his voice.

"Yes," Harry said. "Yes," he managed again because his heart was racing and soaring all at once and he wasn't sure what else he could possibly say.

He apparated them into his home and stroked Draco's hair back from his face, "You're sure we shouldn't go to St. Mungos?"

Draco nodded, "I'll be fine. I've left a kit here with some potions and such since you're always injuring yourself," he added with a pained smile. "I'm just going to use the restroom so I have a mirror."

Harry nodded, "I'll light the fire. Are you hungry?"

"A bit."

"I'll heat up some stew," Harry said, "I could make a batch of the biscuits you like?"

Draco nodded, "That would be nice."

"Draco," Harry called once the other man started limping to the bathroom.

"Yes?"

Harry crossed the distance between them, cupped his face and gently, so very gently, pressed his lips to Draco's.

Draco pulled back, "I'm covered in blood."

"I don't care," Harry whispered, brushing his lips over Draco's once more. "Call me if you need help, yes?"

He nodded and started toward the bathroom.

After starting the fire and making them food, Harry went to get a pair of sweatpants (the grey ones that Draco always stole when he stayed over for breakfast) and a tshirt (one from when Harry was training to be an auror that was worn and faded, Draco always borrowed it when they went out flying) and wandered to the bathroom. He knocked once before opening the door to find Draco sitting on the closed toilet lid with his head in his hands.

"Oh," Harry murmured, moving to kneel at Draco's feet.

"Sorry," the other man said, wiping at his eyes, "Circe I'm sorry, every time I look at myself in the mirror I lose it."

"Okay," Harry murmured, "It's okay. Let me help."

"I fixed my rib already," Draco said, "Episkey ought to do the trick for the rest."

With as much care as he could muster, Harry tenderly healed all of the wounds on Draco's body. He was covered in gashes, and scrapes, and bruises and Harry ached with all of the words that stuck in his throat, with everything that had remained so desperately unsaid.

After he finished healing him, Harry drew the other man a bath and filled it with the lilac soap that always left Draco smiling and pressing his nose to Harry's skin to smell it. Draco reached out a hand for the flannel but Harry whispered, "Let me?" and the other man nodded.

He cleaned his body of all of the dirt, the grime, the blood; washing every inch of him until there was no trace of the horror the other man had endured. Then he moved to his hair; he carefully washed, conditioned, and detangled his hair before helping the other man out and drying him with equal care and diligence, and helping him into the clothes he'd brought in.

"Sit for a minute?" he asked, gesturing to the toilet seat and the other man obliged him without a word. He carefully brushed his hair and then braided it the way Draco so often did before bed, starting at the crown of his head and drawing in section after section, braiding all the way down to the middle of his back.

"All done," he whispered when he finished, pressing a kiss to the top of Draco's head.

"Thank you," the other man murmured, reaching back to cover Harry's hand where it rested on his shoulder.

And all of the things that had been scratching at Harry's throat, trying to claw their way out at once and stuck there now, "I'm so sorry," he managed, "Godric, Draco, I'm sorry." Tears welled up, prickly and hot at the back of his eyes.

"Hey," Draco said softly, clearly recognizing that Harry was about to break. He turned so he was facing Harry and grabbed his hand, "This isn't your fault."

Harry shook his head, "It's always my fault. Everyone that I love-" he broke off abruptly realizing what he'd just confessed.

"You," Draco started, brows furrowing, "You love me?"

He nodded miserably, "And I should have told you before now. You're going to think it's just the trauma, but Draco I should have told you every day for the past year," he added. "All I could think today was that I was going to be too late and I'd never be able to tell you how I really feel. Because I am completely gone on you Draco Malfoy and I wanted you to know."

A smile tugged at the corner of the other man's lips, "I love you, too, Harry Potter."

"Yeah?" he whispered.

Draco nodded.

"Will you stay? Here?" Harry asked.

"Of course," Draco replied.

"But like, forever?" he asked.

"I'd like nothing better," Draco affirmed, smiling as he leaned up and pressed a kiss to Harry's lips.

Harry kissed him back for a long moment, letting the kiss assure him that Draco was going to be okay, that he was here with him, and he wasn't going anywhere. He rested his forehead against Draco's and said, "I still have so many things I need to say."

"They'll keep," Draco replied, stroking a finger lightly over Harry's cheek. "Let's just have dinner and then I really just need you to take me to bed and hold me."

And if they held each other a little tighter than usual that night, there was no one to know but the two of them.

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

Ah!!! Please go and look at the gorgeous art that @pato-roldnart drew for this ficlet. It’s stunning and heart wrenching and I’m so overwhelmed by how amazing it is!! You’re seriously spoiling me!

Day 26: Broken Bone | Day 28: Shopping

Thank you, @atticus-bluejay for the prompt! I hope you enjoyed it!

[anothertimdrakestan]

Stealing Clothes From The Batboys/YJ Boys HC!

i wrote this on my phone due to immediate inspiration from a lovely anon!

"can i get a headcanon with the batboys and more if you can of how they react when their girlfriend steals theirs clothes? i love you're writing so so so much!"

Dick Grayson:

- you always steal his sweatpants even if they're like 4 sizes too big

- they're always a little worn and soft and smell like him

- you'll have to pull them up every 60 seconds but that's why you love them

- slipping them on when you wake up and starting to make breakfast, dick will come out of your bedroom and his heart will melt on sight

- he'll come up behind you and pull the waistband back effectively pulling you into his chest

- he'll toy with the drawstrings and waistband, feathery fingers dancing around your waist while you move around the kitchen

- he's the boyfriend that lovessss when you steal his clothes, eventually you'll run him out of sweatpants and he'll just go buy more, no questions asked. it warms his heart seeing you engulfed in his clothes

Wally West:

- Wally is a jacket king, he's constantly in different colors and sizes and types of jackets but he is very attached to them and often won't let you steal them

- but there's a secret to the jacket lifestyle, the t-shirt he wears under said jackets

- the t-shirts are slightly worn and unbelievably soft and they smell so strongly of your lovely boyfriend theyre your all time favorite steal

- often they might have a little hole or stain so you'll wear them around casually or sleep in them

- he makes fun of you when you both go to bed because you walk straight to his closet to pick out a shirt

- it makes his heart melt seeing you wear his t-shirts while he's away on missions, and having his warm and comforting smell on you 24/7 makes you miss him a little bit less

- he will steal the t-shirts back and wear them around to make sure his cologne is still there, for certain favorite t-shirts there will be all out wars for who gets to wear them, usually they end in tickle fights and him giving in calling you a thief even though he loves it

Jason Todd:

- jason's hoodies hit different i swear

- they're ginormous, soft, and beautiful

- the sleeves are way to long and when he sees you standing in one of his hoodies waiting for him after patrol he can't help but laugh

- "babe i know you love my hoodies but i'm scared it's going to eat you"

- he likes to pull the huge hood over your head laughing while you flail the hoodie sleeves

- when you're cuddling he likes to toy with the drawstrings and make little bows like the giant softie he is

- he will spend a whole day looking for the hoodie to complete his outfit then see you in it, he can never be mad when he sees the giddy look you get from how huge his clothes are on you, he's convinced you're the cutest thing in the entire world and no one can prove him wrong

Gar Logan:

- you're dork boyfriend unashamedly has hundreds of graphic t-shirts with terrible science puns or sarcastic logos and he'll beg you to wear them

- like any normal girlfriend you try to steal his hoodies or even will try on his beast boy suit as a joke but this boy will beg you to twin in punny t-shirts with him

- you're trending on social media like 24/7 from candid pictures of you and gar wearing t-shirts that say "i'm stupid in love with ->" or "i love her more than joker loves the batman" and other terrible graphics

- you like to style his band concert t-shirts into edgier outfits and it'll always blow him away

- "damn babe i need to go to more concerts if you're gonna look like that!"

- gar's love languages are affection and giving so you always let him shower you in his clothes and cuddles

- it always puts a dorky love-struck smile on his face when you steal his t-shirts and make epic outfits out of them and you'd do anything for your lover boy, who doesn't want to rep their boy???

Tim Drake:

- Tim has an eccentric style, and the two of you will often share clothes like jackets, maybe even pants, or hats (zendaya and tom holland vibes)

- he's always asking you for style advice and color combos that will look good, he's the first to tell anyone how amazing you always look and how talented your eye is for clothes - he tells everyone how you constantly take his breath away

- while you're day time style is amazing, it's in your own home that you give Tim a real show

- the best way to take his breath away is to slip on one of his button down dress shirts after a night of passion

- seeing you dressed in only his shirt, many of the buttons undone will physically knock the air out of his lungs

- feigning innocence you'll toy with the buttons and casually flirt until he's ripping the shirt off telling you he'll buy a new one

- occasionally you'll style outfits with his dress shirts, tucking them in pairing it with your favorite blazers, it feels like you've got a little piece of Tim rooting for you all day, the perfect pick me up during a rough day

Bart Allen:

- Bart is convinced you are the cutest thing to walk the planet and will actually vibrate through the floor with excitement when you steal his clothes

- your (and his) personal favorite is one of his many baseball tees

- this kid has at least 20 different colored shirts and you're pretty sure he wasn't even a baseball player, while he looks undeniably handsome you like to steal the shirts because of how soft they are

- he loves how the shoulders are too big and a little droopy, the sleeves are a little too long making you roll them up to your fore arm to get anything done, and he can feel his heart flutter noticing how you're always bunching up the material or trying to tuck it into your waistband

- seeing you in his shirts makes him all warm and fuzzy, he physically cannot keep his hands off of you if he tried

- when you cuddle he'll cling to the soft fabric with one hand, the other securing you to his chest, whispering something about how perfect you are before he devulges into light snores, keeping you secure and warm, his cologne intoxicatingly warm and comforting, automatically lulling you to sleep with him in minutes

Damian Wayne:

- Dami doesn't love you stealing his clothes, he likes it when you slip on his t-shirt or sweater after a long day and he'll usually expect it back

- but the best thing to steal from your cute boyfriend are his adorable turtleneck sweaters

- these knitted black sweaters are the softest material known to man but stealing them is so difficult because Damian doesn't like parting with them

- the face he gives you when you meet up in public while wearing one of his turtlenecks is too cute, a mixture of pride that you're engulfed in his property and also some mild amusement that you successfully snatched one of his turtlenecks out from under his nose

- "mhm beloved i like your shirt, tell me where did you get it?" his snark is always unmatched

- one of his favorite things to do when you're wearing his turtlenecks is pull the material up and over your mouth, effectively quieting you with your own shirt

- the playful glint in his eyes while he toys with the collar makes you smile like a child, loving how his inner goofy side comes out when he's with you

Jaime Reyes:

- there is no better clothing item to steal from Jaime than the iconic gray drawstring zip up hoodie

- this boy really goes through at least three a month if not more so he doesn't mind you snatching a few for your own closet

- he likes to grab on either side of the unzipped jacket and tug you into his embrace, his lips meeting yours while he toys with the fabric

- you take his jackets everywhere, he loves that you're rarely caught without one - he thinks it's adorable that you don't like to be without him

- his scarab genuinely thinks you're safer wearing his jacket and will throw a bit of a fit if "mate is unsafe! protections protocols active!" so you've taken to tying them around your waist, slinging them over your shoulder, and have even tried to crop or bedazzle a few to make a bomb outfit if thats you're style!

- the jackets are always worn and well loved, sometimes they'll have tears or burn marks from his scarab getting upset but you never mind the imperfections, they're what makes each jacket special

hope you enjoyed let me know who your fav was!

[levitatingbiscuits]

How would Anakin and the others react if they ever found out the truth about OB-1?

Kenobi was a cockroach. A thorn in Sidious’s side that never fell out no matter how many deadly missions the kindly old chancellor personally requested that he take. One might think that the exhaustion would make him sloppy, if nothing else, but Kenobi handled everything Sidious threw at him with a dogged determination and competence that seemed beaten into his DNA. At times he acted more like a droid programmed to be the perfect Jedi than a real, flawed sentient; obedient and selfless to a fault, utterly unwilling to advocate for himself but frustratingly eager to advocate for others. His Force signature never wavered, never fell out of balance no matter how Sidious stacked the scales. 

Surely Kenobi must have some weakness, a psychological hangup to exploit or some emotional scar to rip back open. Sidious hired someone to slice into his Temple records, then hired a bounty hunter to take care of the slicer.

What he found was intriguing, but frustratingly incomplete. Wide swaths of the record from his time as a padawan were vague to nonexistent. There was nothing indicating why Jinn had taken him on in the first place, nor why he hadn’t returned to Coruscant at all for the first few years of his apprenticeship.

Sidious knew how to hide things. It made him very good at sniffing out others’ secrets.

Weeks of snooping eventually led to Halle Burtoni, the senator from Kamino, who told him the delicious truth of the matter without even having to be bribed or threatened for it. She was eager to brag; the Jedi clone was Kamino’s most successful product.

And so Sidious kept the truth to himself, waiting for the most opportune moment to twist it to his will.

-

Rex shares an eye roll with Cody when Skywalker steps out of the command tent to take a “very important comm message.” It’s either the chancellor or Senator Amidala; Skywalker never answers that quickly for anyone else.

General Kenobi stands hunched over the holotable, projecting the terrain where the newest Seppie stronghold is. The locals are, as usual, worse than useless when it comes to defending their own planet, so Kenobi’s brow is already pinched even though they haven’t yet seen combat.

Rex is never sure how to help his oldest brother when he gets like this. With any other brother he would; ages hardly mattered among the rest of the vode, but Kenobi holds both seniority and authority over the rest of them. He takes his role as ori’vod, as their protector and leader, seriously, even though most of the GAR don’t realize the meaning behind it. 

Rex can’t understand it. His brothers are the most important thing in the galaxy to him, but Kenobi gets all of the responsibility with none of the brotherhood. He’ll respect his wishes to keep it quiet, all the same.

Skywalker comes storming back into the tent, scowl thunderous and saber ignited, and Rex jumps to attention--has there been an attack? 

“Anakin?” the general asks, straightening up. “What’s--”

And then Skywalker levels the saber at a startled General Kenobi.

Cody’s hand is immediately on his blaster, but he doesn’t draw. Rex doesn’t either. He has no idea what to do.

“What in the Force’s name has possessed you now? Were you eating strange bugs again?” Kenobi demands irately. He makes no move to draw his own saber. His trust in Skywalker is, even in this situation, absolute.

“Shut up,” Skywalker snarls. “Captain, Commander, restrain this man.”

“General Skywalker, I cannot allow you to do this,” Cody snaps, shoulders tense with anger.

“He’s an impostor!” Skywalker yells. “A clone!”

Rex’s stomach sinks like a tubie learning to swim. If Skywalker hadn’t known Kenobi was a clone beforehand--if nobody had realized but him--

“He replaced Obi-Wan for kriff knows how long, and no one noticed!” Behind the mask of rage, Skywalker’s eyes are frightened. “I didn’t notice!”

Rex had. Rex had noticed almost as soon as the damn war started.

Cody, who doesn’t know that it was the clone who had earned his loyalty instead of the natborn, jumps to cuff him after that. Kenobi doesn’t struggle. Rex starts to help a few seconds later, mind a screaming void of panic and guilt, and his heart clenches when Kenobi cuts him a concerned, questioning glance.

This may be a Seppie spy, may be an enemy that Rex helped, but he’s still acting like a brother.

“I suppose I always knew it would come out eventually,” Kenobi says once he’s chained to the center tent pole. He doesn’t sound mocking or angry or even worried. He sounds resigned.

“Drop the act,” Skywalker orders. “You’re not Obi-Wan, stop pretending to be him.” He looks deeply unsettled. Rex has only ever known the clone Kenobi, but Skywalker must have grown up with the original. 

Kenobi meets his eyes steadily. “This is what I was made for. I’ve always been him.”

“I don’t care what the Separatists told you, you are not him,” Skywalker says. 

For the first time, Kenobi looks surprised. “The Separatists? I wasn’t commissioned by the Separatists, that’s ridiculous.”

Skywalker is incensed, but Cody looks ashen. This must be overwhelming for someone who thought Kenobi was a natborn until a minute ago. There’s also the sobering implications of a third party with the power to dispose of, and replace, a Jedi Master, without anyone noticing. How many more Jedi could be plants?

Surprisingly, it’s Kenobi who breaks the silence. “I understand your... reservations, but this frankly seems like an overreaction. We are in the middle of a campaign, Anakin--”

Skywalker backhands him across the face. The loud crack that reverberates through the tent tells Rex that it’s with the metal one.

“Shut up, meat droid!” Skywalker roars. Rex feels sick and hot hearing that term from his general. “You aren’t him, so stop acting like it.”

Kenobi breathes deeply through his nose for a second. His lip is split. “I understand that my discovery means that I will be decommissioned, as per contract, but I must advise that doing so in the middle of a war is a waste of resources.”

It is very, very strange to hear High General Kenobi talk about being decommissioned so frankly. Every other clone is terrified of being decommissioned, of being recycled into raw organic matter for more clones to be grown from, like natborns are of death. Kenobi talks like he’s always known it would happen eventually.

“You are vastly overestimating your own importance, clone,” Skywalker says, and Rex has to fight not to flinch at the anguish that darts across Kenobi’s face. “Tell me where Obi-Wan is.”

“Dead,” Kenobi says, the word as loud as a detonation. “He’s been dead for years.”

Skywalker stumbles back. “No,” he says, voice trembling. “No, I would have known. I would have felt it.”

“How could you have felt it?” Kenobi pleads, “Anakin, you have me.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

-

The interrogations continue for days. The men are confused and restless, the campaign indefinitely put on hold. The 212th are especially restless, having gone days without word from their general. Even Cody drifts aimlessly around the camp without saying much to anyone. Rex thinks he’s mourning, but doesn’t know how to tell him that he probably never even met the prime version of his general without getting decommissioned himself for not reporting General Kenobi’s clone status sooner. 

Rex and Skywalker are the only ones who go into the command tent, now. Rex technically isn’t supposed to, but Skywalker definitely isn’t following POW protocol and Kenobi won’t be able to answer any questions if he doesn’t at least get water.

Rex goes there now, once it’s past dark and Skywalker is holed up in his own tent. The 501st clones guarding the tent look just as conflicted as he feels; he doesn’t envy them for having to listen to the interrogations. Not many of the men know who’s in there, because if too many of the 212th find out there will be a real risk of widespread mutiny. Hell, learning that their general is a clone would just make them more loyal, not less.

Kenobi’s face is so bruised, beaten, and bloodied that it’s almost unrecognizable. He thinks that’s probably why Skywalker did it in the first place.

Rex kneels next to the tent pole to help Kenobi sip from a canteen, and is shamefully relieved that he doesn’t bother opening either black eye. His hands are still bound behind his back; it looks like Skywalker’s broken a few of his fingers. From the way he winces when Rex touches him, he’s probably broken more than just that.

“Sir, you have to answer his questions,” Rex whispers, both to avoid being overheard and to keep his voice from wavering. “I... I’m worried Skywalker is going to kill you.”

“Oh, he definitely will,” Kenobi rasps once he’s chugged the whole bottle. His chuckle is wry and forced. “No use denying the inevitable.”

“Why can’t you tell us who commissioned you? Are they a threat to the Republic?”

“No, he was just as loyal as you or I,” General Kenobi says. That’s all he’s said to Skywalker for the past few days: I am loyal to the Republic. He learned pretty quick that saying anything else that wasn’t an answer to a direct question wouldn’t end well. “And even if he weren’t, he’s long dead.”

“As long dead as your prime?”

“No,” Kenobi says, beaten face unreadable but body tense, “Not quite so long as that.”

Rex scrubs a hand over his shorn head in frustration. “Why are you protecting him, if he’s dead? You’re the only one who will be hurt if you refuse to talk.”

“Because Anakin would be hurt,” Kenobi says softly. “Anakin worships him. Loves him far more than he loved me, if he ever truly did.”

Rex wants to refute that. Anyone who’s seen them interact before this fiasco would know just how deeply Skywalker respects and trusts his master, but...

All those feelings are for the prime. They are not for the clone that took his place, so fully and flawlessly that even the man who loved him best never noticed. 

“So Skywalker knew him?” Rex probes. The general’s silver tongue is looser than normal today.

“I doubt anyone truly knew him but me. No one ever suspected... no one cared enough,” Kenobi murmurs, head slumping to the side. Rex puts a gentle palm on the least bloody part of his forehead, and hisses when he finds it hot.

“Kriff, you’re burning up, vod. You need a medic.”

Kenobi doesn’t respond. He might be unconscious.

Rex sits in a dark tent with a cloned Jedi, a brother, who might be dying right beside him, and makes a choice.

The comm takes a while to connect (come to think of it, Rex has no idea what time it is in the senate district on Coruscant) but then there’s Fox, looking sleep deprived and livid, as always.

“CT-7567? What the hell is going on with the Open Circle fleet? You haven’t contacted the Order in a week, the senate thinks you’re either dead or MIA.”

“Vod, you have to help me,” Rex begs, surprising Fox into silence. “Contact the council. Tell them Skywalker is killing General Kenobi.”

[electricbluebutterflies]

a kiss to the eyelid + jessicaleto

Choice-era, PG-ish, also on ao3.

It has been two days. It has been a lifetime.

The worst is over, Jessica reminds herself; the worst is over, and she is alone in her body again, and getting used to a different state of consciousness is itself overwhelming not to mention-

Her body is compromised and will be for some time, and she will be lucky if she ever gets close to its past state, and this is a terrible time for sudden vanity but it is easier to focus on something so petty than everything else she has done and-

Her son is alright. That is what matters most. She will deal with the rest when she has energy for it, if she ever does.

She was made for sacrifice but she wonders if she was made for it like this, this distress required for the survival of the species but why did it ever have to be her. She understands now the comments her lover makes about how delicate she is, and she will still push them away in the future but it will be different, and-

Never again, Jessica decides. Never, ever again. Her son is going to be an only child and anyone who has a problem with that can get over it. She will take her rebellions where she can, and-

Oh, what is she going to do now.

She will worry about the bigger picture, the scale of her defiance and exactly how many cosmic-level consequences may be about to befall her, later. At some point once she leaves the cocoon of a bedroom that barely feels like hers anymore, and this whole confinement arrangement is a horror and she doesn’t sleep as well alone and to think that she has to endure it for several more weeks because protocols and-

She won’t keep distance as long as she’s supposed to, she knows that much. She’s too stubborn for that, and her partner is a decent and cautious man, and it would not be that improper to-

This too can wait, at least until she can move comfortably. Even that is going to take longer than she’d like – all these things she can do that normal women can’t but of course there was no breeding for easier physical healing, she can ignore pain all she likes but even she has limitations – and she is lucky to be given time, to be allowed to cocoon as she likes and she could ask for anything in this state and get it  and-

The rumors will be absolutely insufferable now. She was enough of a scandal over the past few months, visibly pregnant and not as secluded as she would’ve preferred and oh she would be ruined if anyone from her past knew how easily she gets talked into things, but this…

Jessica slips out from under her nest of blankets and takes the few slow steps necessary to where her son sleeps. She will not delegate this, she has decided; keeping primary care of her child will make her look more respectable and give her a good excuse to hide from public view in a way even her partner won’t even try to question, and perhaps keep her out of trouble for… not as long as it probably should, but it will be a quiet few years, and-

She should regret some part of this, she knows. She never will.

She lingers, fingertips curled around the edge of the cradle, almost in awe of what she has done. She does not know how to feel this kind of love but she will learn, she will-

She hears the door behind her, familiar heartbeat pattern, and does not react. There is too much in her heart right now, and-

“I’m surprised you’re awake.”

Jessica does not have the energy for a fight, she reminds herself, but she is at least capable of turning her body to glare at her partner. “Do you expect me to spend the next few weeks in complete rest?”

“Realistically, no.”

“Then honor my judgement. If you do not need something…”

“Is wanting to see the both of you enough of a need?”

She blushes, and she should hate how easily she melts, how she blooms towards the slightest interest and the current state of them makes her that much more fragile and-

“I cannot say I expected it, but-“

“Do you even understand what you have done?”

In any other voice that statement would make her recoil, but there is something hopeful in her partner’s limited understanding of their new situation, the innocence of desire that she had responded to and-

“I still would never assume-“

“May I come closer?”

“Please.”

There is something unusually cautious in the way he moves, as if he is intruding on a moment that is not his, and Jessica feels flickers of affection and she knows she has a heart when it breaks and-

“What troubles you, my storm?”

“What do you mean?”

He reaches out to touch her, gently brushing a fingertip under her eyes and oh she did not notice her emotional compromise manifested and-

“If there is anything I can-“

“You have made sure I am left alone,” she murmurs. “I could not ask for more.”

He kisses her eyelids, one two feathered heartbeats, and she is loved and that is how she is ruined, she is loved and-

“You are more than I ever expected,” he breathes, shifting their position so she is in his arms.

“As are you.”

She has taken such risks in return. Acted by her own hand, yes, but with motivation and understanding and-

She will choose this love over everything else, risks be damned, and see where it leads her. Perhaps she would have responded this way regardless, imprinted on the first person to show her the slightest affection, but-

“Can you stay with us for a while?” she murmurs, never too much pressure in her voice, never displayed hope, never-

“Will you have me?”

“Always.”

[silkling]

Of Newfound Knowledge and Truths of a Yesteryear

Of Moments in Life AU

———————————————————————————————————

Heatwave stood on his small training platform, punching the wooden dummy and trying to ignore the rage bubbling in the back of his processor. That morning, he’d read some of the data-pads that High Tide and Optimus had left, the ones Blades had read when Dreadwing first crashed on the island. What he’d learned had made him angry, and he didn’t understand how his teammate hadn’t been angry, too.

The Decepticons…the pads had a lot of information on what the ‘Cons had done throughout the War. The information had definitely been censored and sanitized, probably intentionally so his team wouldn’t be exposed to the full horrors of the War through the data pads, but it had still been enough for Heatwave to understand.

Dreadwing had said that the Decepticons started as a social revolution. But they were certainty far from that, now. The Rescue Force, Praxus, Iacon…they’d destroyed everything that had stood in their way, not caring if those they crushed were even involved in the War or not. It made him angry, his rescue protocols screaming with rage and loss in his processor.

As the conflicting emotions peaked, he heard the sound of pedes behind him and turned to see Dreadwing. Heatwave stepped away from the training post, the platform lowering to the ground as he crossed his arms and frowned. He liked the former Deception. He hadn’t spent as much time with him as the rest of his time, but he big bot was never violent or mean. He was a little blunt, and seemed to be a bit overly aggressive in his solutions for Heatwave’s peace-orientated processor, but he wasn’t a bad bot. At least, he didn’t appear to be.

Dreadwing seemed to notice his internal distress, because the larger bot pinned him with a considering and slightly concerned look. “You seem troubled, little one.” he rumbled.

“I’m not little.” Heatwave answered on reflex, mildly indignant. He didn’t understand why the Seeker referred to him and his teammates like that. Well, he supposed he did. They were all little, compared to him. “And…I guess I am.” He looked up at Dreadwing, a hard frown twisting his features.

“So I see.” Dreadwing, for his part, now looked ever so slightly amused. “And what is it what is causing you such distress?”

Heatwave made a frustrated noise, his vocalizer clicking in a sort of nonsense babble as he tried to think of how to explain. “I just–I don’t understand. How could they have done…everything they did?”

“What are you talking about?” Dreadwing asked, confused.

“I read the data lads Optimus and High Tide left! I learned about some of the things the Decepticons did!” he snapped, frustration and anger bleeding into his tone in place of previous confusion. Just the thought of what he’d learned was enough to make his spark sing with rage.

“Ah, now I understand.” The Seeker stated, his gaze becoming solemn and understanding. “And what did you learn, Heatwave?”

“You know what!”

“I do not. Your data pads are Autobot records, youngling. While I have no doubt there is truth there, I am also quite sure that much of that information is highly biased or just pure conjecture.”

The fire truck scowled. “Oh? So the Decepticons didn’t destroy Praxus, which was supposed to be a Neutral city?”

Dreadwing paused. “They did. It was before I joined, but they did.”

“And you’ve probably done a lot too, haven’t you?” He demanded. “Killed a lot of innocent bots, destroyed a lot of lives?” he was angry and hurting and he didn’t understand how Dreadwing could have joined a cause that was so horrible unless he was, as the human say, cut from the same cloth. But he couldn’t be, everything Heatwave had seen from the Seeker since his crash on the island directly conflicted with what the youngling had learned of the Decepticons. It just made him confused and left his spark aching.

The Seeker in question was silent, observing for a moment before he dipped his head. “I have. I have done many, many terrible things. I never killed sparklings or younglings, but I have killed countless Autobot soldiers and slain more than a few Neutral civilians on Megatron’s command.” He said softly. “I have aided in the stripping and destruction of planets, and I have directly contributed to the death of our homeworld. I do not deny any of this. I am not trying to escape my past, Heatwave, or to deny the crimes and atrocities I have committed.”

“Then why did you do them? Why are you here? Why should we let you stay if you’ve done all of that?” He didn’t actually want Dreadwing to leave, and the knew the others would want him to either. But he had just admitted to having committed horrible acts. Heatwave didn’t know what to think.

If the harsh questions bothered him, Dreadwing didn’t show it. “I did what I did because, at the time, I believed I was in the right. You know how Cybertron was in the Golden Age. You know of the emurata, of Functionism, of the caste system and how it was structured. Don’t tell me you don’t.” he said. “I rose from a system that sought to oppress me, and I turned to the only option I saw at the time. The Decepticons. It was wrong, and I have come to realize that.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “I am here because I have little elsewhere I can go, and because I find myself growing fond of this place. I am here because Primus has granted me a second chance, an opportunity to do better and to be better, and I intend to take it.” Dreadwing took an extra moment to consider the last question. “You likely should not.” he answered. “I cannot change what I have done, all I can do it try to make amends and hope to find redemption one day.” He met the youngling’s gaze evenly. “But I would like to stay, if you would allow me the chance to pursue something better here.”

Heatwave held his gaze, then sagged and looked away. “Fine. I don’t even want you to leave anyway.” he sounded tired. “I won’t make you go. I don’t think I could. The others like you, and so do I. It’d just do more harm than good to everyone involved if I made you leave now.” he glanced up. “Just…tell me why. Why did the Decepticons do all of that? I don’t understand.” he sounded frustrated and helpless.

Dreadwing softened, his wings dipping down just slightly as his frame relaxed. “The Decepticons did not rise from nothing, little one.” he rumbled.

“What do you mean? The data pads said Megatron came out of nowhere and built them up before anyone realized what was going on.” He said, his anger abating in face of his even more confusion.

Dreadwing scoffed. “I am certain that many Autobot’s believe that.” his lips curled faintly, displeased. “That is, however, as far from the truth as you can get.”

“Then why would Autobot data pads contain that information as if it were fact?” he demanded, crossing his arms.

The Seeker hummed, tilting his head. “Perhaps, if you wish to have this discussion in its entirety, it would be best to sit somewhere?”

Heatwave paused, then nodded. “Lounge.” he said gruffly, leading the way. Once there, he dragged over a beanbag chair and settled into it comfortably, leaving the couch to the former Decepticon.

“To begin, I must ask how much you know about the Autobots and Decepticons as a whole, as well as how much you know and understand the political and social climate of the Golden Age.” Dreadwing stated.

Heatwave frowned. “I know what you told us when you first arrived.” he said, tilting his head. “I also know that the Autobot’s end goal is the restoration of Cybertron and the revival of our race. I know the Decepticons want to take control and lead Cybertron by force, and that their end goal is to put ‘Cons in charge and remove lots of freedom from bots under their rule.” he said. He crossed his arms, staring at a point on the floor as he tried to think. “I know that the Senate used to rule Cybertron during the Golden Age, and that they weren’t very fair and a lot of bots suffered, and that some of their regulations and punishments were extreme.” he tilted his head. “I know the caste system made the bots in the lower castes struggle a lot.” he seemed almost ashamed at this point. “I….I never paid the most attention to that, though. I was in the upper-middle caste, and my Function was something I already wanted to do.”

“Rescue work.” Dreadwing guessed.

The firetruck nodded. “Yeah.” he admitted.

“Then you know much of the very basics, though your knowledge lacks in the complexity and finer details of the full scope of the situation.” he rumbled. “You are correct. The Autobots fight for a restored Cybertron. But your knowledge of the Decepticons is…not entirely accurate.”

Heatwave’s engine growled with displeasure as he just grew more helplessly confused. “What?”

“The Decepticons do seek control, and they do seek to rule over Cybertron. That is true. It is also true that their goal is to see to the destruction of the Autobots. But it wasn’t always so.”

“Yeah, you mentioned they started as a social revolution.” Heatwave said, starting to calm down once he realized he’d be getting his answers, and without all the vagueness that came from Optimus whenever he tried to ask the Prime about the War.

“They did. But Megatron not rise from nothing, as the Autobots are so fond of believing. He rose from foundations that were already very deeply rooted. Functionism was a plague and the caste system was a rot that had sunk deep into the very core of our world.” he said, voice soft and somber. “It was a rot that infected only the oppressed and the beaten; it affected the lower castes and the undesirables, and those who lived comfortably in the higher castes did not feel the affects of it.”

“Undesirables?” Heatwave echoed, confused.

“Bots who did not fit into the world the Senate wished to portray. They wanted a Cybertron where every bot had a singular Function and operated according to that Function and ONLY according to that Function. They wanted a world where all those who were not of the Senate were subservient to them and obeyed them without question. They wanted a world that operated under the beliefs and celebrations and social structure they approved of. Those who did not fit into that world, and who could not fit into that world, were deemed undesirable.” He cast the youngling a meaningful look. “For the Senate, that included flight-frames. It is why they were so eager to see the spread of anti-flyer sentiments, to confine flyers, whether they were Seekers or not, to a single city. Flight-frames have a different base coding to ground-frames, and the Senate were all ground-frames. In their optics, flight-frames were a danger to their rule because flyers, by the nature of our frames, do not fit seamlessly into a Functionist society.” he paused. “It certainly did not help that the social structure, belief system, and cultural behavior of flight-frames was radically different to that of ground-frames, and that it was radically different to what the Senate was trying to enforce.”

Heatwave was silent for a long moment, considering what he was told. “But…you said the caste system was a rot. What did you mean?”

Dreadwing hummed, his fingers tapping a pattern on the couch; it was a very human gesture, one he had picked up from the Burnses without even realizing it. He had to word this carefully. Not because he wanted to manipulate the younger bot, but because it was a complex situation and a rather unpleasant one. “You said we’re were of the upper-middle caste.” he said carefully. “And that fits with your frame type and your Function. But have you never thought about the types of bots that fill each level of the caste system?” he asked.

Heatwave furrowed his optical ridges, shaking his helm. “No…” he said slowly. “I know…I know artists were considered among the lowest tier of the high castes. I know scientists and medics were high caste, and that the only bots above them were politicians.” he said.

Dreadwing smiled faintly. The young bot was starting to understand on his own. “Indeed. But those bots only made up a minority of Cybertron’s population. What of the others? What of the common laborers?”

“You mean, like, cleaners and construction bots? You’re right, they were more common than scientists, medics, or artists.” he said. “Like Boulder. He was originally a construction bot.”

He nodded. “They were indeed more common. But what caste did the Senate assign to them?”

“The…the lower caste.” Understanding was starting to bloom in Heatwave’s optics. “The lowest caste, for most of the laborer frames.” he realized. “That means…Boulder was from the lower castes.”

Dreadwing hummed agreement. “He was. If you wish to know more, then you shall have to ask him yourself. It is not my place to tell you what he experienced.” He sighed heavily. “But I will tell you that the lower castes, the bots who made up the majority of our people, did not often lead pleasant lives. They received little pay for their work, could not often afford decent fuel, if they could afford any fuel, and most of their pay would have to go to maintaining their living space. It oft left them overtired, overworked, and very, very hungry. It did not help that many of them had dangerous Functions, dangerous jobs, and after paying for their living quarters and fuel, they did not have the shanix for medical care. It meant the lower castes were forced to choose between their need for fuel and their health.”

Heatwave swallowed, his optics blown wide. “Oh.” he whispered. “But…why didn’t they do anything?”

Dreadwing looked almost melancholic at his question. “Most of the lower castes simply did not have the time or energy to fight against it. They were too tired, too hungry, to injured or sick, and were forced to focus purely on their own survival.” he stated. “And those few that did try to speak up…” he trailed off. “The Senate was not kind to dissenters, little one. If they did not use empurata on those who protested their systems, they used other means of punishment and silencing.” his tone was grim.

Heatwave chose not to ask what those “other means” were. He had a feeling he didn’t want to know. “It…it was really that bad?”

The Seeker bowed his helm. “Ask Boulder or Blades. They would know the best of your teammates.” Though, he had his suspicions about the means of Chase’s creation, and if he was right then the police bot might also know how bad the Senate could be.

“Boulder, I get. But why Blades?”

“The little flyer once told me that one of his brothers was a flight-frame. He would not have experienced the cruelty directly, as he was a ground-frame on Cybertron, but he would doubtless have experienced or seen it through his brother.”

“Oh.” Heatwave was starting to get the feeling that he didn’t know as much about his team as he thought he did. He really needed to fix that. “I guess I understand why the Decepticons rose to quickly then, if things were really that bad for so long.”

“Indeed.” Dreadwing agreed. “But there is one more thing you must understand.”

“Which is?” Heatwave was feeling a little sick to his tanks. He hadn’t been aware the situation on Cybertron had been so bad, but then again, he’d lived a good life. He’d had all the fuel he needed, he never worried about his health or safety, his living situation was pretty much always assured, and he actually enjoyed working according to his Function. He wouldn’t have experienced the rot Dreadwing mentioned, so it only made sense he wasn’t entirely aware of it. That didn’t get rid of the guilt, though.

“The Decepticons are made up almost entirely of flight-frames and those of lower castes. There are certainly some of those among Autobot forces, but the grand majority of them are Decepticon.” Dreadwing pinned Heatwave under a severe look. “What does that tell you, little one?”

“It tells me that the Autobots are mostly ground-frames and bots from the middle and upper castes.” he answered, suddenly understanding the War in a whole new light. It certainly didn’t excuse what the Decepticons had done, but now this…this made it a lot easier to understand.

“Indeed.” he agreed. “The Decepticons originally rose on the backs of bots who were beaten down and had little else to lose, bots whose only crime was to want a better life.” he said. “When the Senate, and later the original Autobots before Optimus Prime, attempted to beat them back down to their “proper place”, they fought back for the freedom that should have always been theirs.” His gaze went distant, as if remembering something from long ago. “The Decepticons were originally a freedom movement, little one. It was only as time wore on and the spilled energon between the factions soured that they lost their way and forget their original mission.”

“And now?”

“Now, because so many Autobots are ground-frame or originated from the higher castes, they do not understand why their enemy continue to fight. Certainly, many Decepticons fight because they wish to destroy the Autobots, but there are many, many more who only fight because they fear that an Autobot victory means a return to the ways of the Golden Age. It is something that Prime and his bots simply do not, and perhaps never will, understand.”

“So most of the Autobots…they weren’t bots who were hurt by the Senate.”

“No.” Dreadwing agreed. “Prime’s team on Earth is a good example. Prime himself is formerly of the lower-high caste, as he was a former Archivist. His scout was upper-middle caste, and while he was too young to receive his Function at the start of the War he would very easily have made a successful racer. The femme-bot was an Enforcer, also considered upper-middle caste. And of course, the medic. Ratchet was famed, even before the War.” The Seeker smiled sardonically. “He was quite firmly in the highest castes. All of them operated according to their Function, and all of them were content with it.” He tilted his head. “The only bot on Prime’s own team who does not fit that mold is his Wrecker, who was once a construction bot. He is the only one who might truly understand.”

Heatwave nodded, looking own at his lap. “I think I get it now. This war…it’s not going to end until the Autobots understand that stuff, is it? Because they won’t understand why most of the Decepticons keep fighting, why they started fighting in the first place.” he said, looking up to meet red optics.

“Yes. You’re very intelligent, little one. You learn fast.” Dreadwing slumped slightly, releasing a heavy vent. “You are correct. So long as the Autobots do not understand, then the Decepticons, at least those who only fight out of a fear of a return to the old ways, will never stop what they are doing.”

“You really know a lot about this stuff.”

“I am a Seeker, Heatwave. I experienced much of the Senate’s cruelty directly, as did most of my frame-kin.”

The Rescue Bot nodded, subdued. Now he understood. A part of him wished he didn’t, but he was glad he did. He sighed, meeting Dreadwing’s gaze again. “I think I owe you an apology, then. I judged you based on incomplete information.”

Dreadwing bowed his helm. “Thank you, little one. As I said, I certainly committed horrible acts, and I can never undo what I have done, but now I only make to make amends as I move forward.”

Heatwave nodded, smirking and straightening up. “I think you can. And lucky for you, we’re here to help.” he said.

Dreadwing blinked, before he chuckled, his wings lifting as the mood brightened. “So you are. Thank you, youngling.”

“We’re Rescue Bots.” Heatwave grinned. “Helping others is what we do.”

“So it is.” He agreed, looking amused. “And perhaps, I can also help you?”

He blinked, taken aback. “Me? How?”

“I have noticed you practicing with your sparring post. Your form is acceptable, and I am aware that the Rescue Force trained its Teams to have combat abilities, but I can help you improve. Your current skills will help you fight if a rescue mission were to go wrong, but if you wish, then I can help expand and improve your combat capability even beyond that.”

Heatwave blinked. “You’ll teach me how to fight.” he stated.

“I would be glad to, if you wish to learn. There may come a day when you must fight a true enemy, and if that day comes then greater combat skill may be helpful.” Dreadwing pointed out.

Heatwave narrowed his optics, considering the unsaid implications of that statement. “…you think the War might come to us.”

“Perhaps.” he said grimly. “I pray that it does not, but in the event it does I think it is better that you are prepared to fight against an enemy who truly wishes to see your spark go out.”

He nodded, gaze firming. The others would need lessons too, in that case. The Rescue Force did teach them all basic combat, in the event that they needed to fight off anything that might be threatening whoever or whatever they were rescuing, but their combat training had been pretty basic. If Dreadwing was right, and there was a possibility of Sigma-17 one day facing an opponent that wanted them dead, then they’d need to shape up. He stood, hands curling into fists as his shoulders lifted and determination burned in his spark. He stared the Seeker in the optics.

“Let’s do it.”

Dreadwing stood, a faint smile curling at his lips, and clapped a hand on the youngling’s shoulder. “I look forward to it.” he said, a hint of pride in his tone. Heatwave was so very young, but already he was shaping up to be a fine mech, a fine leader.

Heatwave himself only grinned, blue optics bright. “So do I.”

He’d learned a lot today. Not all of it had been pleasant, and a distinctly unpleasant feeling still curled in his tanks, but he was glad to learn what he had. The past was dark and violent, he’d come to realize. Cybertron’s history was steeped in shadows and darkness and Heatwave was certain that he still didn’t know everything, that Dreadwing had certainly omitted many of the worst of the details. Given all that, he really couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised that the War had happened.

Now though, wasn’t the time to focus on the past. Not Cybertron’s past, and not on Dreadwing’s past either. He tilted his helm up to turn his grin on the larger bot, leaning his weight into the hand on his shoulder and enjoying the small physical contact. Yes, he decided. Dreadwing’s past didn’t matter, not here. All that mattered was what was to come, and Heatwave was determined to meet whatever the future held for them head on.

For himself, and for his newfound family — all of them, even its newest addition.

———————————————————————————————————

Here it is, folks! The next installment in “of moments in life”! This one goes a little deeper into Pre-War Cybertron’s social/political climate. Heatwave got a massive reality check. He was sorta privileged, by the standards of the Golden Age, and he’s being forced to realize what that meant and what it blinded him to. Poor youngling, his entire worldview just got rocked.

As for Dreadwing, he now has another son! The next installment will be tHe Blades and Dreadwing one. It’s gonna be sad. They’re gonna talk about their brothers. That’s all I’ll say! I have prompts fo write for before I can get to it, so it’ll be a bit, but stay tuned, it’ll come out! Anyway, hope y’all liked it! Let me know your thoughts!

Until next time, folks!

[tennessoui]

33 obikin 🙏

bless i can't write anything straightforward or normal to save my life

33. Celebrity/Fan AU (modern AU, singer Obi-Wan)(1.8k)

Obi-Wan had only wanted to cook, really.

He’d decided on Tuesday night that he would take Friday off as a sort of self-care day. He needed it. In the midst of a world tour, finally with a week to breathe back in his home city, he’d wanted to relax for a day. One day without music or an audience of any kind, just him in an apartment filled mostly with dusty counters and almost expired foods.

He loves his fans, because of course he loves his fans. He loves the fact that people relate to what he writes enough to listen to his albums, although he has gone through several different sounds over the course of his career. He loves that he can be 39 and still touring the world, even though he started his career as a 13-year-old-child-actor turned teen-pop-sensation turned serious musician turned perhaps-washed-up-serious-musician turned very-much-serious-musician-actually-this-time.

If not for his fans, he wouldn’t be able to afford this house on the outskirts of his town. He wouldn’t be able to boast his performances in three-fourths of the world’s major cities. He wouldn’t be able to continue to have a career. No. He loves his fans.

It’s just that sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he just wants peace and quiet, a moment to himself, where he can float away without concerning himself with the flow of the setlist, the timing of the encore, the lyrics and rhythms of songs he wrote a decade ago when he was practically a different person.

It’s just such a shame that Obi-Wan leaves the handle of the wooden spoon too close to the stove’s open flame when he stirs and adjusts the heat to low for an hour so he can go soak off his stress in the bath.

It’s just such a shame that the smoke alarms from the kitchen cannot be heard over the music he’s playing in the master bath.

Obi-Wan sinks beneath the water, enjoying the unyielding pressure. He doesn’t want to retire, he tells himself. He has so many more songs to write. Sure, he hasn’t written an actual good song in two years and people are starting to notice. Sure, the intense scrutiny is driving him up the wall and killing anything creative that he’s ever harbored in his soul. Sure, his muscles and bones ache and he had almost had a breakdown the other day when he first walked through the door of his home and couldn’t remember if there was a bathroom on the first floor, but.

But he doesn’t want to retire yet. He just has to admit he’s waning, even to himself. Whatever inspiration he had has been used up or otherwise escaped. All he has now to his name are songs that have already been sung.

He doesn’t know how long he spends in the bath, really. Long enough that the album changes twice. Long enough that his fingers prune up and his eyes grow lax. Long enough that he tells himself that no matter how soothing the lavender essence is, it would be very dangerous for him to fall asleep in the bath because the news articles alone would be enough to raise him from the dead only to strike him down again.

(Long enough for the wooden spoon’s handle next to the pot to catch on fire. Long enough for that fire to burn down to the oil on the spoon itself. Long enough for the dishtowel it was resting on to ignite as well.)

The smoke alarm clues in before Obi-Wan does.

Luckily, Obi-Wan had paid extra for a smoke alarm that, when registering a certain threshold of smoke, sends a notification to the closest fire department.

Luckily, this all happens while Obi-Wan is unaware, but before he becomes in peril.

He actually remains unaware of the whole thing right up until the moment a fully-suited firefighter kicks through the door of his bathroom.

That’s when he jerks up, very unceremoniously. “Fucking Chr--what?” he shouts, raising a hand to cover his exposed chest for reasons unknown.

“Obi--??” the masked firefighter starts to say, in something akin to shock, but like Obi-Wan is going to give ground here and now. He’s cornered the market on shock on this occasion, thanks much.

“What the--”

“Your house is on fire!” the man yells over him, looking around the bathroom wildly until he sees a fluffy off-white bathrobe hanging by a hook near the door. He throws it at Obi-Wan, who just catches it before it can get wet.

“My house is what?” Obi-Wan splutters, standing automatically to put on the piece of clothing. The helmet of the firefighter turns away to give him privacy. Despite himself, he finds it rather endearing. He ties the belt around his waist tightly, stepping out of the tub.

As soon as he’s out of the water, the other man swoops him up and over his shoulder. Obi-Wan lets out a scream which he’ll probably be absolutely mortified about later.

But now, what’s more distressing is the way his body is responding to the hold he’s been placed in. He’s thirty-nine years old. He’s definitely too old for this. He should definitely know better than to be even slight aroused by such a display of...strength and stalwartness and--

The man walks him out of the bathroom and the very first thing he notices is the heat that hits his skin. “Oh!” he whimpers and then yells wordlessly in absolute panic as he realizes what this heat must mean. His house is on fire. Actual fire. Actually on fire. There’s a fireman here. Because his house is on fire.

He’s only a little ashamed to admit that there’s a fair amount of thrashing that happens immediately upon this realization.

Enough so, in fact, that the firefighter transfers him from over his shoulder to cradled in his arms, so as to hold tightly against the movement of his limbs. “Stop--moving!” the man says irritably. Obi-Wan wants to tell him to work on his bedside manner, seeing as how his house is on fire, but he doesn’t have time before they descend the stairs and he can see the actual flames.

The stairs themselves are fine, which makes sense. Hot air rises. The dining room, parlor, and entryway look like they’re absolutely covered in fire though, so really his fireman was just in time to save him.

The smoke is acrid against the back of his throat, and Obi-Wan buries his face against the textured shoulder of his rescuer's uniform just so he doesn’t have to look or breathe the air, although he feels the smoke already working its way through his lungs. Well. That might just be his imagination.

They’re out of the house in a matter of seconds, and Obi-Wan’s eyes water immediately at the difference in air quality.

The man who’s been carrying him sets him down gently on the lip of the fire truck, far enough away from the house that he’s not in any danger--though most of the place is fine still--but close enough that someone can keep an eye on him. He doesn’t know why he hadn’t remembered to grab his phone. That phone was very important. Hopefully the other firefighters will be able to stop the fire before it reaches his bathroom.

His firefighter seems intent on hovering close to him, even as there's a fire raging in the background. Obi-Wan supposes that there's around five firefighters on his property, including the one in front of him. The other four should probably be able to handle it, whether or not the fifth decides to join in or stay hovering around Obi-Wan like he's a sickly orphan.

“Are you okay?” An earnest voice asks him from under the helmet.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to say he’s fine, that at most he just feels like an idiot for being stranded outside in his bathrobe as a group of public service officials fight a fire he certainly, most likely, probably caused.

But he starts to cough instead, and his firefighter steps forward immediately, placing one hand on his back and the other on his chest, both beneath his robe. He hopes the man can't feel his shiver. That would be even more mortifying than his current situation.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Obi-Wan wheezes after the coughs have passed. The helmet the man is wearing only shows a quarter of his face, but he looks awfully boyish. “Aren’t you a little young to be a firefighter?”

“Deep breaths, please,” the man (boy?) tells him, which isn’t a proper response. “There’s an ambulance already on the way--it’s protocol, sir--but yes, I’m trained in emergency medical response.”

“A man of many talents,” Obi-Wan says dazedly, rubbing a hand against his chest where it aches as he watches a few men run around his house with a house. “And here all I can do is sing.”

“Hopefully you still can, sir,” his firefighter responds. “Only I’ve got tickets for your show in two days, and my little sister has been excited for weeks over this.”

Obi-Wan laughs despite himself. He’s sure it sounds at least a little bit hysterical. “Would you like me to dedicate a song for you? The man who saved my life?”

Even the helmet can't hide the nice shade of red his firefighter blushes at those words.

“What’s your name?” Obi-Wan asks, smoothing down his still-damp hair. It feels important to know his name. It feels just as important to look his best, given the circumstances.

The firefighter ducks his head and takes off his helmet. Obi-Wan wonders if the man should be going back to work, or if he’s been assigned victim duty. Either way, Obi-Wan isn’t going to complain, definitely not after his firefighter shakes out his hair and turns to face him with a sheepish grin stretching across a handsome face. “‘M Anakin,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan is awfully aware that he’s dressed only in his bathrobe in front of a very pretty firefighter who seems to know who he is--who seems to have tickets for his upcoming show. “Call me Obi-Wan,” he tells him, already trying to remember his manager’s phone number so that he can bump Anakin and his sister’s tickets up to the VIP section. It’s the least he can do, after all. Anakin had just saved his life.

“Wish it was under better circumstances,” Anakin says with a shy sort of twist of his mouth. Obi-Wan gets the impression that it isn’t just his little sister that’s been excited for his concert. An impression that is solidified quickly as Anakin tacks on, “I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Obi-Wan laughs incredulously at this, at the entire situation, at the man in front of him, at the fact that some part of his brain has started composing a song the second his firefighter had smiled at him in his bathrobe with his tired face and wet hair, kitchen burning his house down because he’d forgotten basic fire-safety rules in favor of his own self-care soak.

“Well,” he says, patting his firefighter’s knee, “I don’t have to tell you that I’m a huge fan of your work as well.”

[dontcallmecarrie]

tfw the plot bunny strikes and refuses to let go, here, continuation of this:

.

Loki was torn between chagrin and vague amusement, as he observed everyone else’s reactions to the two Justin Hammers in between herding everyone to one of the safehouses Victor von Doom had somehow managed to get ahold of in this strange world.

At first glance, Victor seemed to be the most unperturbed— but Loki knew him well enough to note the way his eyes had widened when he’d seen the two side by side, couldn’t help but catch the tiniest shift in the way he held himself and Loki would bet anything that if he were any sort of telepath, he’d be hearing nothing but an infernal screeching coming from his corner of the room. 

Ivan Vanko wasn’t much better, but at least he’d elected to hyperfixate on cleaning up the loose ends they’d left in relation to their original mission: from his mutters, some of the security cameras’ footage had been trickier to access than not, and required even more effort to scrub. Loki gave it another five minutes before he was forced to look away from his computer and acknowledge the reality of the situation.

Meanwhile, the Winter Soldiers were an interesting study in contrasts; while Winter was extremely apologetic about the situation and had already apologized no less than five times, Soldat seemed to be content to look on in bemusement as the situation unraveled from there. 

...which wasn’t very different from what Loki’s own counterpart was doing, actually, but at least Soldat wasn’t enjoying the chaos. Visibly, anyway, and Loki was getting a new appreciation for just how irritating that particular smirk looked on his own face. If they all weren’t so focused on calming the jumpier, more visibly frazzled-version of their leader, someone would’ve punched it off his face by now. As it was, though...

.

“Who the hell are you people?!” Justin Hammer whisper-shrieked, in between sharp gasps for air and eyes wide as he cowered away from his kidnappers. “And wh— wh—”

“He’s more high-strung than you are.” Someone muttered to the terrifying figure who had his face—

“Of course he is, he has no idea what’s going on and you guys kidnapped him,” his mirror image replied with a flat look, before turning to face him looking vaguely embarrassed. “Look, Hammer— can I call you Hammer? Wait, no, you can be Justin, I’ll go by Hammer and man this is weird— I can explain. Just. Sit down and take a breather, because it’s, uh, a bit of a long story.”

.

Justin would’ve thought an explanation would leave him with more answers than questions.

He was sorely mistaken.

The headache he had now wasn’t much of an improvement from before. 

.

“So, let me get this straight: you,” Justin jabbed a finger at the dude with the dark grey mask which was just about the only thing differentiating him from his twin, “grabbed me because you mistook me for him—”

“Sorry about that, by the w—”

“—and you’re all from some other dimension and pissed off goodness knows how many organizations trying to figure out how to get home,” Justin steamrollered on, closing his eyes in an effort to take things one step at a time because he was trying not to feel overwhelmed but these guys weren’t making it easy, “is that right?”

“Well...”

“I mean...”

“Yeah.” Ivan— not the bastard responsible for his being in Seagate, another version of him who apparently didn’t actively try and screw people over— replied, and Justin opened his eyes just in time to catch the tail end of his shrug. “That about sums it up.”

“Okay.” Justin nodded to himself. “Why?”

“Why what? You’re going to need to be more specific, here, I’m not a mind reader.” 

“How’d you even get here? Or do you weirdos just go dimension-hopping for fun on a Friday night?”

“You’re not the only one wondering that.” The alien god said airily, toying with a— that was a knife, okay, Justin already knew he was in way over his head, he didn’t need the reminder, thanks. Where did it even come from, anyway? “I would really like to know that as well, Ivan.”

“Oh, nah, this was a freak accident.” Ivan snorted, then gave them all a smirk that gave Justin goosebumps for a second. “As for why...look at it this way: this was weird and stressful for us, and from the start you guys knew what was going on and have me to figure out how to get us back. Now imagine if it’d been the Avengers.”

The silent, broody one— Victor, was it?— made a noise of realization. “That is diabolical. I love it.”

“I know, I was trying to figure out how to temper it when this happened. The ray gun was supposed to be temporary, I’m not sure what happened but the end goal’s a duration of twenty-four hours. Sorry you guys got caught up in the beta, by the way.”

“We are going to be having words about proper lab safety protocols when we get home, Ivan.” Victor said darkly, and something in his voice that had six out of the seven other people in the room freezing for a second.

Justin couldn’t help but notice his...twin was not part of that number.

But first, because this was something he’d been wondering ever since he’d heard of how this ‘Cabal’ operated— 

“Why are you going to this effort?”Justin asked.

“Oh, boy, here we go again,” the guy calling himself ‘Winter’ muttered, but before he do more than start to turn to him in confusion, Ivan spoke.

“Because death is too simple.” He said, not looking away from the computer he’d pulled out. “Because any rando with a gun could do that, if they wanted. No, if I’ve got a beef with someone, I want them to suffer. I want them to regret ever having pissed me off, to curse my name every time they step on a Lego and realize who put it there, to—”

“Yes, I know, we get it.” One of the alien gods cut in. The one who didn’t look like shit, and had a long-suffering look on his face partway into Ivan’s spiel. “If I had a penny for every time you go on that rant...”

“Says the guy who uses my ideas to become the official nemesis of the Avengers.” Ivan shot back, unamused, and the way Winter sighed and Victor pinched the bridge of his nose told him this was a recurring argument. 

“Guys,” Justin’s...twin cut in, and Justin couldn’t help but feel something in the pit of his stomach clench as he noticed the way everyone from his dimension came to attention. “If we could focus on getting home?”

“I know, I know, I’m on it.” Ivan muttered, turning back to his computer. “Trying to throw SHIELD off our trail’s easier here, but it’s still not exactly a cakewalk.”

“Okay. What can we do in the meantime?” 

.

The more Justin saw of this ‘Cabal’, of Hammer and the others, the more uncomfortable he felt. 

Because the more time passed, the more it felt like...he was seeing a better version of himself.

How long had he tried to get people to respect him? How many classes on public speaking and marketing had he taken, how many books had he read in an effort to build his charisma, to be remembered as something other than the cheap knockoff of Tony Stark?

And now...

Justin watched as someone wearing his face walked around, and he was quiet, and fairly introverted, but something about him demanded respect, commanded all the attention in the room when he talked, and... Justin wanted that.

.

Of course, Justin’s...twin noticed.

For some reason, the look of sympathy he got felt even worse than the first time he’d donned prisoner’s uniform in Seagate.

Not to mention the conversation they had, when Justin was ushered into a quiet corner near the safehouse’s kitchen as they had tea.

.

It was. A talk. 

Not a great one. 

Not that there really could’ve been, considering, but.

“I am not you, you are not me, and that’s a good thing.”

Justin didn’t know what he was expecting, really.

Another version of himself, forcing him to acknowledge things he’d thought he’d gotten over— how was he supposed to handle it?

“You were set up for failure from the start, you know. No child should ever have to carry some of the burdens you grew up with.”

Just.

Someone who understood, and how was he supposed to deal?

“You cannot change the past, but you can control your own actions in the future. What do you want to do, who do you want to become? What makes you, you?”

Justin had thought he’d felt tired when he’d finally been brought into the mess these guys were part of, but now his exhaustion felt soul-deep and he didn’t know when he’d started crying but no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t stop—

.

Mercifully, the others left him alone for the rest of the day. 

He... needed to think.

.

Justin wasn’t the only one having a hard time, he knew: he’d noticed the way Soldat followed Winter around, trying to mimic his self-confidence, and the Loki of this world looked at the easy camaraderie his counterpart had with a hunger that would’ve made Justin very nervous if that expression were aimed at him. 

Something dark and feral, all jagged edges and brittle smiles and it shouldn’t have resonated nearly as much as it did but—

It made for a good conversation starter, if nothing else. Something relatable to bond over tea, because Victor was a monster who had an irrational disdain for coffee and Justin needed his caffeine fix if he wanted to keep what was left of his sanity.

.

Justin didn’t know what he brought to the table. Not compared to whatever his twin did, anyway, and he didn’t want to go that route either because he wanted to be himself. 

Even if he wasn’t certain what that looked like, anyway, not after decades of chasing after Tony Stark’s shadow, but...

He’d find out. Somehow.

.

“Hey! Guys, I figured it out!” Ivan’s excited cheer woke everyone up early one morning. “Just gotta get my hands on some materials, but we can go home soon!”