#but i still need to finish it so that the second draft has a blueprint

[periwinkle-the-11th]

WHY IS IT SO HARD TO WRTIE FKLHDKADABGJK.DGNKJADFNH/BADNFMHJNDFMJXNHDCEMXNH EMJK

[amazingmsme]

A Gift, No Strings Attached

AN: Tickletober is finally upon us! I'm so excited for this, I can't wait to see what everyone makes! Hope you all enjoy day 1: anticipation with Miguel & Peter B! Everyone seems to think a certain spiderman needs to be introduced to a certain belt, as seen in episode 17.

Miguel was a skeptical person on the best of days, so when Peter B. waltzed into his office declaring he had "got him something," he was rightfully wary. Peter hopped up on the platform as it lowered, seemingly too impatient to wait for it to lower fully.

"MJ and I went to the mall yesterday, and when I saw this I just knew it had your name all over it," he rambled before Miguel could question him. He had a small shopping back hanging off his arm and Miguel resigned himself with a sigh.

"Oh yeah? What is it?" he asked, deciding to play along.

"It's a utility belt!" Peter exclaimed, feeling only a little disappointed when he didn't share his enthusiasm. He just stared at him, a single brow raised.

"Y-you know, for tools and stuff! Thought you'd appreciate something useful," he felt the need to explain himself, growing more nervous by the second. Maybe Miguel saw through the act, or maybe he hated belts, or maybe-

"Wow, uh, thanks. This'll actually come in handy," he said, accepting the offered gift. Or maybe he wouldn't suspect a thing.

Peter hadn't expected this to be so easy.

While he really had gone to the mall with MJ, that wasn't where he got the belt. He had been watching tv with Mayday when the villain escaped from his frozen prison, now capturing his attention as well as his daughter's. He was sure that SpongeBob and Patrick would be in deep for letting the worst villain escape, chuckling when they resorted to "rehabilitating" him instead. His interest was piqued when they activated the character's iconic belt, sending him into a fit of ticklish laughter.

"Heh, Miguel could use a belt like that, huh Mayday?" he cooed before gasping at the revelation he just made. He set her in her baby jumper in front of the screen, leaving her to bounce and giggle to her heart's content. He left the door to his office open so he could still keep an eye on her as he began to draft the blueprints for Miguel's "gift."

A week later, it was finished. And of course he had to run a few tests, curtesy of his loving and very patient wife. Though when she found out who it was for, she didn't really mind testing it out, especially seeing as she always got her revenge.

Peter wanted nothing more than to activate the belt right then and there, but in a monumental show of self restraint, he held back. If he did this now, then only he would get to see the outcome, and this was too good to keep for himself. Unfortunately, he would have to be patient. Wait it out for the perfect moment to present itself.

Honestly, Peter didn't expect anyone else to know what it was supposed to be. Clearly, his universe wasn't the only one with SpongeBob.

"Gonna go out on a limb an' say he has no idea what that belt really is. Right?" Hobie questioned from behind. Peter jumped, not because he didn't know he was there, (spidey senses and all) but because of what he had said.

"I-I have no idea what you're talking about!" he bluffed, but crumbled when Hobie leveled him with a knowing look, cocking an eyebrow in mild amusement. "Okay yes, it is what you think it is, and hell no he doesn't know, are you crazy? You think I'd be standing here talking about it if he did?"

Hobie shook his head with a slight chuckle. "I doubt you'd even be breathin' mate," he teased, playfully smacking him on the back. Peter let out a slightly nervous laugh.

"Heh, yeah me either. He'd probably superglue the damn thing to my suit if he knew," he joked.

"Yeah well, keep me posted. I wanna know the second you plan on using it," he said, saluting him as he left the room.

Hobie made sure to spread the word to his friends, swearing them all to secrecy in the hopes that they could be lucky enough to witness Miguel's giggly downfall.

Too bad Miles was out sick and didn't get the memo.

He was back at the Spider-Society, catching up with his friends in the cafeteria when Miguel spotted them and decided to check in.

"Miles, glad to see you back," he greeted with a nod. "How're you feeling?"

"Oh, hey! I'm glad to be back sir," he replied, still unable to shake the urge to keep things formal between them. "B-but I'm feeling good! Much better now," he assured. He looked down at the burger in his hands, ready to take a bite when a new accessory caught his eye. He froze just as he brought it to his mouth.

"I've told you, just Miguel is fine," he assured, a soft smile gracing his features. He noticed Miles's gaping mouth and wide eyes, looking him over with a puzzled expression. "You uh, you sure you're okay?" he asked just to double check.

Miles shook himself out of it and nodded. "Yup! Never better!" Gwen shot him a look from across the table, undoubtedly wondering what had him acting so weird. She followed his line of sight and things suddenly fell into place. She locked eyes with Hobie, sharing a subtle nod as Miles continued on, "But is that a new belt? I don't think I've seen you wear it before..."

"Oh yeah, Peter gave it to me. Said he wanted to give me something useful for once," he explained, and it all suddenly clicked for Miles. "It's a nice change of pace from all the useless knickknacks. Don't get me wrong, they're fine in small doses but he seriously overestimates how much free space I have," he said, but Miles wasn't paying attention. "To be honest, I'm just glad he picked something that matches my suit."

"Heh, yeah. 'Cause that's the worst that could happen- ow." Miles wasn't sure who kicked him, but judging by all of their looks, he was clearly out of the loop on something.

"Riiiight," Miguel said, noticing how weird they were all of a sudden. "Well, you know where to find me," he said and walked off. Miles waited until he was out of the cafeteria to speak because you could never be too careful where Miguel's concerned.

"So were you guys just not gonna tell me Miguel got a tickle belt?" he blurted out as soon as he deemed safe.

"We were going to! We just... forgot," Pavitr said, a shy smirk tugging at his lips.

Miles scoffed, "You don't just forget something like that!"

"I was gonna tell you as soon as I saw you, but then we were on a mission and it really wasn't a good time, and I did forget to tell you. Sorry about that," Gwen explained.

"Nah it's cool. I just can't believe he's still wearing it," he said in awe.

"Oh he doesn't know," Gwen said, causing Miles to whip around to look at her.

"What?"

"Peter hasn't used it yet. Figured he was waitin' on you or somethin'," Hobie said, dipping a fry in ketchup.

"Wait so you guys haven't said anything to try and warn him?" he asked, a little shocked. He was met with a chorus of no's and furious head shakes.

"And ruin the fun? As if!" Pavitr exclaimed, appalled that Miles would even suggest such a thing.

"Look, Miguel is the fiercest, most stoic spider in all of HQ, and he's chewed my ass out more times than I can count. I can't wait to see what happens when he's trying to choke back laughter and you sure as hell aren't gonna ruin it for me, got it?" Hobie said, pointing a threatening finger in his face. Miles nodded.

"I won't! I won't!" he promised, hands held up in surrender.

"Good. 'Cause I honestly don't know why you'd wanna help the bastard," he teased, grabbing him in a headlock and giving him a noogie. Miles laughed, shoving him off and punching his arm.

After lunch, Miles immediately set out to find Peter. It didn't take long until he bumped into him.

"Miguel is gonna kill you," he said in way of a greeting. Peter spun around in a panic

"What? I didn't even do anything!" he froze upon seeing Miles and relaxed. "Oh, I'm guessing you saw the belt," he said nonchalantly.

"Uh, yeah! Are you crazy? I was serious, he's gonna kill you!"

Peter waved him off. "I appreciate the concern, but I'll be fine. Worst that'll happen, he'll tickle the shit outta me. But I'll avoid it as long as I can. Trust me, I've weighed my options and it's worth it to see the look in his face," he rambled, falling into step with Miles. He shook his head in amusement.

"You won't be acting so cool when he gets after you," he gave a playful warning.

Peter laughed nervously. "Hey, why do you think I haven't tested it out yet?" He smiled to himself, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Honestly, you all act like I don't already know I'm a dead man walking."

"So... why'd you do it?" Miles asked, genuinely curious. Peter shrugged.

"Eh, it was kinda a spur of the moment type thing. If I remember correctly, he kinda snapped at me for wasting his time, and I was a little ticked off, I'll be honest. Got the idea while watching tv with Mayday when I got home."

"SpongeBob?"

"Yeah."

"Nice."

"I guess I just thought he could use one, y'know?"

"Oh, you're absolutely right with that one," Miles agreed with a chuckle. "So, when do you think you'll try it out?" he asked eagerly.

"Well, I've kinda been waiting for him to piss me off again. I think that's when I'd get the most satisfaction," he decided.

All in all, it didn't take long for the man to get on his nerves. Ha, and Miguel said that he was the annoying one.

He was in one of the many break areas, letting Mayday crawl around with Pav, Miles, Gwen and Hobie. She really liked getting to see them, and they loved playing with her, so it was a win win. It gave Peter a chance to let his guard down, thankful for the extra sets of eyes watching over his daughter. It also gave him the chance to get a plethora of new adorable videos of the light of his life.

Miguel however, thought it fit to hunt him down and interrupt his break. (Yes, he knew it was going on three hours, but Miguel was trying to get him to file paperwork! He couldn't let that happen!)

"Peter, there you are." His voice alone made Peter groan. "Where the hell have you been? You went on lunch hours ago, you said you'd do that paperwork."

"Actually, I never said I'd do it. You told me to do it," he corrected. Miguel rolled his eyes.

"Whatever, it's the same thing." Peter muttered under his breath something along the lines of "no it's not." Miguel cocked his head to look at him, "What was that?"

"Oh nothing," Peter said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an innocuous remote. He started fiddling with it, and the teens started whispering amongst themselves. Nothing super obvious, they didn't want to give themselves away.

"Just drop her off at the daycare when you're ready, you work better when you're not attached at the hip," Miguel said sternly before turning to walk away. Peter scoffed at the notion, clicking a button and cranking a dial. He stopped in his tracks, squirming where he stood and rubbing his waist in confusion. Peter smirked and turned it up, causing Miguel to double over and bark out a laugh.

He turned around, fighting off giggles as he leaned on the wall for support. He glared them all down, though the wide smile and deep chuckles that slipped out really diminished the effect. "W-whahat the hehehell is going ohohon? Ihihi know you guys hahave something to do with it," he accused through grit teeth, unable to contain his giggles as he twisted back and forth, knees buckling as he wrapped his arms around his waist, allowing himself to laugh freely.

This was what they'd all been waiting for. Phones were taking videos and snapping pictures all while Miguel cursed and writhed on the floor, tugging at his suit and the belt, unable to get it off. The wait had well been worth it. Even better, the only one to suffer any subsequent consequences was Peter.

[cheeriecherrymain]

The Bottom Of The Inkwell [Chapter 4]

Pairing: Viktor x fem!Reader Chapter Rating: T Chapter Warning: some swearing Proofread: no beta we die like men Chapter Summary: Your classes begin to get stressful, and Viktor does not make it easier on you. However, you finally convince him to meet up outside of class, and you strike a deal with him. 

The first week in class is startlingly stressful. Not because you’re failing to understand the material, or because the curriculum is moving too quickly. No, you’re stressed because you’ve wasted a quarter of your precious project time, trying to get your partner to so much as speak to you.

Every day since being assigned to one another, you’ve asked him to meet up. You’ve been friendly, and you’ve been patient, and Viktor has made excuse after excuse to not continue the conversation.

When you spoke to him at the end of the class, he always says he has somewhere to be in a timely manner - so you’d started asking about it before the lesson began.

But then he would make up other reasons as to why he couldn’t keep talking - needing to go over his notes before the professor came in, or even just outright telling you that he didn’t have the time to talk right at that moment.

And then of course, he’d disappeared as soon as you’d all been dismissed from the lesson.

By friday, you know he’s purposefully ignoring you. You know he doesn’t have any classes after the second, because that’s when the cafeteria was open to everyone attending the university - including professors.

You never saw him eating lunch anywhere, so you wonder if maybe he really does have somewhere to be…but you highly doubt it. Why wouldn’t he just give you a time slot that worked for him, if that was the case? It’s as though he’s not even trying to cooperate with you, and you don’t care what his reasoning is: you’re frustrated.

“Hey, Viktor?” you call his name, while you both pack up your belongings after class.

You can see his shoulders fall slightly when you address him, but he pauses nonetheless, and turns towards you. “Yes?”

“Ah…well. We only have three weeks left until our project is due, and…” you don’t know why you’re suddenly so flustered, “We really need to get started on it. I don’t think we can’t recover from the lost time, but we really, really need to get going if we want to finish on time.”

He stares at you for a couple seconds. His expression is mostly unreadable, though you can’t help feeling as though he’s judging you - it might just be his face, but something in his eyes is screaming disdain, and it fills you with an uncomfortable, simmering rage.

“I’ve already drafted some designs,” he finally replies, glancing back towards his things as he starts to carefully slide them into his bookbag. “So all we need to do is-”

“Pardon me?”

Your overly cheerful tone must take him by surprise, because his entire body freezes as soon as the words leave your mouth. You watch as he processes what you’ve said, and you can see each emotion pass over his face - shock, annoyance, frustration, annoyance again.

He eventually settles for impatience, and glares at you from the corner of his eye. “I drew up some blueprints during the week-”

You’re having none of it.

“That’s what I thought you said,” you interrupt again, the pit in your stomach growing heavier. “You’re aware this is a team effort, right?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but you hold your hand up. “No, you’re going to listen. I know we don’t know each other, and I know this isn’t the most ideal situation, but it is what it is. I don’t want you to do all the work, okay?”

But instead of diffusing the situation, your words only seem to fan the flames, earning you a sharp sigh of frustration from your partner.

“Why does it matter?” he snips, “You’d still be getting a good grade, so-”

“Because I want to have an input!” you hiss, knocking your fist hard on your desk. “This is my class as much as it is yours, and I have just as much a right to learn as you do! I’m not going to sit on my ass and ride your coattails while you make all the decisions!”

For a good ten seconds, he looks as though he wants to argue. His jaw is tight and there is a bright fury behind his honey brown eyes - mirrored in equal intensity by your own.

But for the first time since meeting him, he decides not to fight you on something.

“Fine,” he grumbles, standing up and snatching his cane from where it leans against his desk. “I’ll bring my drawings, and we can decide which design to make-”

“That’s not what I-”

“Tomorrow at noon, in the library. Do not be late.”

And then he strides away, leaving you to cope with the aftermath of your anger.

—

By the end of the day, your annoyance has simmered down into pure, unbridled rage. Never in your life have you wanted to yell at someone so badly as you want to yell at Viktor, never have you wanted to knock your fist on someone’s head as you want to do with him. He is, without a single iota of doubt, the most infuriating person you’ve ever met.

You storm into your dorm and throw you bag on your bed, stomping right over to your desk to where you keep your journal.

I’m going to strangle my partner, V. I’m going to kill him, and I’m going to do it with my own two hands.

I’ve never known either of us to be violent people, but I’m inclined to agree with your sentiment. What happened?

You take a couple minutes to work on slowing your heart rate down, taking deep, measured breaths. It takes a little longer than usual, but eventually the tension begins to seep from your shoulders, and you’re able to slouch a little more comfortably in your chair.

He must think I’m stupid, and I have no idea what gave him that impression. He avoids talking to me at all costs, and then he goes and makes decisions on my behalf, as if I’m completely incapable of speaking for myself! Or as if my opinion doesn’t matter! As if I’m just meant to sit there and look pretty!

That sounds concerningly narcissistic. Have you mentioned it to him? Or to your professor?

There’s no point in saying anything to our teacher, since we’re not allowed to change partners. I tried to say something to the guy today, though, and he just. Cut me off! Completely spoke over and me and just told me how things were going to happen. And then he fucked off before I could say anything else. V, I’ve never wanted to hit someone before, but I’m getting real close to popping this asshole in the jaw.

Try not to get too excited about it - physical altercations will go on your permanent record.

I’m calm, I’m calm. Ruining his stupid pretty face isn’t worth losing my education over. Besides, if I get expelled, my parents would have a heyday - they’d be so fucking thrilled if they got to shove suitors down my throat years earlier then they planned. Wait - no ew, that sounds gross, ignore how I phrased that.

Hah. Hold on, though, suitors? You’ve never said anything about your parents wanting to marry you off - I thought you were going to school so you could thrive on your own?

Veeeee, that’s not what I want to talk about. What did your partner do?

Don’t avoid the question.

We can talk about my mother’s desire to hook me up with some snotty prick another time - I want to gossip!

Very well, but I’m putting a bookmark in this conversation. Now if you must know, my partner is an airhead - I told you that already. She’s pushy and noisy, and it’s incredibly frustrating that she doesn’t listen to what I’m trying to say. Like she doesn’t even want to hear the ideas that I have.

I can smack both our partners, if you’d like?

While I appreciate the gesture, I’d much rather get through this semester with as few injuries as possible.

Boringggggg. Still, I’m sorry she isn’t paying attention to you. If we were partners, I bet we’d get along better - we already work so well together in writing. I’m glad we have each other to complain to. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to keep all the stress in.

Likewise - I would much prefer working with you. But it is what it is, so we’re stuck with who we’ve got.

Keep your head up, V. You’re brilliant, and you should be heard - I know your partner will figure it out eventually. She can’t be so clueless, if she managed to pass the entrance exams. Just hang in there.

One can only hope. Talk to you tomorrow?

Of course. Sleep well!

Goodnight, dear.

You carefully clean the excess ink off the tip of the pen, and set it delicately back into its cushioned box. You keep the silver piece hidden within a lockable door in the desk - you’re not entirely sure you were meant to get into it in the first place, but V had taught you years ago how to pick a simple keyhole.

You sigh deeply, drowsiness clouding the edges of your mind despite the fact that the sun was only just beginning to set. You couldn’t go to bed yet - though you’re emotionally tired, you know that as soon as you lay down, you’re going to be wide awake.

The last thing you want to be doing is laying there in the dark and quiet, with nothing but your thoughts to keep you occupied.

Instead, you pull out your other notebooks -the ones you use for class work- as well as a couple loose pieces of blank paper.

If Viktor had some designs already drafted, then you weren;t going to show up to your meeting empty handed. Maybe his ideas were good, maybe they weren’t, but you weren’t going to just sit back and let him decide on something that should be done by the both of you.

You don’t care what his beef with you is: you’re going to get him to hear you, one way or another.

—

When you wake the next morning, it’s to the delightfully awful chirping of your alarm clock. And, as per usual, the moment you reach out to smack it, it quickly rolls away from you and starts dancing across the floor.

You hated that stupid thing.

But you’re thankful for the extra three hours of sleep that the weekend had allowed you, so it’s less of a chore to haul yourself out of bed to chase the contraption around.

Once it’s silent, you wander into your little bathroom to get ready for the day - fixing your hair after a night of tossing and turning, and brushing your teeth to get rid of the film coating your mouth. You decide to opt out of having a shower, since you’d had one the evening prior, and instead slap on deodorant and a couple spritzes of perfume.

You’re excited that you don’t have to wear your uniform for once, though, getting tired of the same outfit after only a week of wearing it. There were only so many skirts and trousers that you could pair with the somewhat unflattering vest, and all the combinations were plain and repetitive.

You’d dearly missed your lavender blouses and brightly coloured shorts.

After dressing, it doesn’t take long for you to collect all the work you’d done the night before, folding each drawing into a tidy square to neatly pack beside your notebook. You toss your pencil case into one of the side pockets, and slide the shoulder strap across your body, and you’re ready to go.

—

You arrive at the library fifteen minutes before you’re meant to be there. 

You had debated being perfectly on time so that Viktor couldn’t say a word against you, but in the end you didn’t want to risk cutting in so close. In the event that you were late, you knew you’d never hear the end of it from him.

It doesn’t take you long to locate him, tucked away at a quiet desk amongst the bookshelves. He’s surrounded by papers and textbooks, hunched forward in his chair and looking as though he’s already been set up there for hours.

“I’m surprised you managed to get a spot so late in the day,” you say quietly as you walk up to him and take a seat at his side. You try to keep your tone light and neutral - as nonthreatening as possible, lest you have a repeat of yesterday.

“I’ve been here since nine,” Viktor says, barely even looking up from his notes as he scribbles down something from an encyclopedia propped up in front of him. You can’t even tell what his letters say, they’re so hastily scratched into the page.

“I could have come earlier,” you mumble, guilt momentarily rising up in your throat. “I feel bad making you wait for so long.”

“I don’t mind having the time to study on my own,” he replies, and finally sets his pencil down to face you.

You set your bag down on the floor by your feet, and pull out your necessary equipment. “We might as well get right to it,” you say, “if that’s alright with you. What did you have in mind for our project?”

To your surprise, Viktor actually lights up when you mention the subject, and something akin to a smile tugs at his lips. He’s quick to pull out several of his sketches, explaining each of them to you as he slides them your way.

And you have to admit, they’re brilliant. Not only do they showcase what you’d been learning in the class thus far, they also had other purposes - things that would make them applicable to daily scenarios. You know that he’s intended them to have a use beyond that of a simple project, and you find his dedication and ingenuity quite admirable.

But���

“What?” Viktor grumbles, when he sees your brows pinch together by a fraction. “Are they not good enough?”

“Stop putting words in my mouth,” you say softly, trying your damnedest to be patient with him. “I actually think these are incredible ideas, but they’re complex. Not to mention, they’re experimental. Look, here, at these parts you used,” you point to a couple pieces attached to a small motor, “you can’t get these parts in Piltover.”

“We can get them in-”

“The undercity,” you finish for him, “I know. But we’ll get in huge shit for that, and we’ll likely receive a failing grade.”

You lean against the desk, and stare down at the drawings with a sigh. “We only have three weeks left, Viktor. These are fantastic concepts, but the fact is that we don’t have enough time left in order to build, test, and perfect something so convoluted.”

You can see the disappointment in his eyes, though you’re grateful that he’s less hostile than he had been the afternoon prior. You hope that he’d just been having an off day, or an off week, and that things would be turning around - you wanted to be able to work with him as efficiently as possible.

“What do you suggest, then?” he asks, fixing you with a tired look.

You quickly flip through the pages in your notebook, until you come across the detailed concepts you’d written out last night, paired with the drawing that you unfold from your bag. “Something like this,” you say, sliding it towards him. “It’s nowhere near as flashy as yours, but it has the same base purpose.”

And then, all at once, the air between you shifts.

What had moments ago been tentatively inquisitive, is now ostensibly offended.

You have no idea what you said.

“What purpose?” he hisses, glaring at you. “This is a perpetual motion machine - a desk toy. What could our ideas possibly have in common?”

Ah.

You think you get it.

“Viktor,” you murmur, slouching back in your chair, “I know you want to do something big, and important, that will make things better. But we’re first year students. We’re not meant to make waves yet. The purpose of these projects is to show that we understand the material, so that one day we can do big things.”

You scowls and turns his gaze from you, crossing his arms across his chest like some kind of tall child throwing a tantrum.

“I’m not saying you can never build this,” you tell him softly, reaching out to rest your hand on his shoulder, “In fact, I think you should. I think it could be useful for a lot of people in a lot of situations. But there’s a time and place for it, and the first project of our first semester in our first year of school isn’t it. Please, Viktor?”

You stare at him with your most endearing puppy eyes - the very same expression that had made your parents cave into your whims year after year. Adorable, pleading, sweet.

You stare at him until her relents.

Until he sharply exhales and rolls his eyes at you.

“Fine,” he grumbles, “but we’re going with one of my designs for the next project.”

“Are you going to make it overly-” He presses his hand over your mouth, effectively silencing you.

“We go with yours this time, and mine next time. Deal, or no?”

You try to speak around his hand, but you’re unable to utter a word.

“Deal, or no?” he says again.

You know he’s going to make a complete ass out of himself if you refuse his suggestion - he’ll be hostile to work with, if not outright impossible.

So, in silence, you hold your hand out to shake on it, and he finally releases you.

“Deal.”

[gumasantan]

home: a three-part haikaveh fic (3/3)

about: a haikaveh modern treasure hunt AU.

word count: ~2.6k words (i think i've got the hang of it!)

a/n: this one can work as a standalone too! but it would be much better for a reading experience if you've read the first two chapters, i invite you to do so! for past readers of the fic, thank you for reading it all the way through!

first chapter: the hallway

second chapter: the chamber

“Can’t you at least organize your books in one place?! It’s defiling my drafting table!”

The man was beyond furious at a messed pile of books in front of him. Obviously, there’s nothing more annoying than being interrupted when you’re so focused at your work.

“And can’t you calm down? It hasn’t damaged your paper, you’re overreacting.”

An unexpected breeze of calmness washes over the heated conversation. The raging waves of the sea have been temporarily pacified by a voice akin to an archon powerful enough to gust the grey clouds away.

“Overreacting? Don’t you see the fine lines of stain made obvious by the white blueprint?”

Such an inconvenience isn't just a little matter to be brushed off for someone that’s as perfectionist and attentive to detail like the famed architect of the academy, who has considered his only finished work so far as his masterpiece.

“What is it that you’re working on anyway? I’ve always assumed that none have ever approached you because of your attitude.”

What a shame. He recognizes his peer’s greatness but he just can’t help see it go to waste from a man who clearly possesses such a gift in the discipline, yet chooses to overshadow it with his attitude that aspires to be ‘rightful’ and ‘fair’.

“It’s a project! I have to draw up this two-story wooden house for a client, and further details are none of your business!”

Peeking through his shoulders, unknowledgeable he may be when it comes to architecture but he has developed some taste that he developed during his travels and adventures. He could tell that although there was a lot of work needed to be done, he could envision what his roommate is trying to draw.

“Hmm…from the initial look of it, you need to incorporate an inclined shape to the roof of your house, so you won’t have any problems with a boring symmetrical height design. Also, the second floor is too high up, wouldn’t want your visitor to feel like he hiked the summit of Devantaka, would you?”

Coming from him, this was a surprisingly well-articulated advice that would be received well.

“Huh, didn’t expect you to know that much, considering how ignorant you’ve been towards my work.”

The now-critic simply squinted his eyes at him.

“Enough with this chitchat, rearrange the books vertically upon that wall and your little problem would be solved. And your rent has been long overdue for a week, two days after you’ve promised to pay me.”

-

“Are you alright?”

A startling squeaky airy voice followed by sounds of pure breathlessness came out of Alhaitham, which was very uncharacteristic of him.

“Yes, I’m not hurt or anything.”

Kaveh mirrored his junior’s appearance: Sweaty, out of breath, dirty, and quite frankly, smelly.

“Well, it’s good that we’re still alive.” Alhaitham tries to compose himself, he is known for always being stern-looking and appearing unaffected after all.

“You have me to thank for having the luck of a rabbit. Without me, you wouldn’t have finished the task unscathed.” Classic Kaveh, still managing to be pompous no matter his wellbeing as long as Alhaitham is within his area.

Luckily for him, Alhaitham didn’t quite manage to properly hear what he said.

Out of the chamber and into the outside on a sand dune, the adventurers stopped talking and just basked in what’s left of the sunset, the sun descending into the horizon. It was an impressive sight: The desert greeting the invading night. It has been a long day.

And they have been successful in their task.

“And so, that’s why we were there for?” Kaveh pointed out the shiny object in Alhaitham’s right hand, completely coated in gold.

“Apparently, the Academy has treasured this for quite a long time now ever since they heard of it from one of the ancient documents I’ve verified.” Alhaitham succinctly answered.

“So you were the one responsible for all of these occurring in the first place?” Kaveh raised his brows at him, not wanting to feel disappointment in partaking in a task his peer is responsible for.

“Accidentally. I do not care for such prized artifacts, regardless of their value. I’m only there to record and archive, not read. Exceptions count when their usually uninteresting titles pique my attention, and in this case, no.” Alhaitham emphasized his tone within his first few words. It shouldn’t have been no question to his longtime acquaintance that he simply doesn’t pursue anything that involves hunting for relics he find worthless in today’s time.

“Ah. Did they ever brief you how important is this to them?” Kaveh recognizes that the both of them were on the same wavelength. In the end, they were just two men that was ordered by the academy to fetch them something that they do not care nor understand.

Alhaitham raised the treasure he held, observing it closely.

“Legally, we cannot ever have this for ourselves. They marked this as one of Sumeru’s greatest treasures, protected by the law. Perhaps this will help them trace back something? Yet, it’s just plain, not even a single ounce of knowledge in forms of pictures or words engraved on it.” Alhaitham was unimpressed. They risked their lives for how many times, and wherefore?

Kaveh could see what Alhaitham’s trying to imply. He smirked at him.

“Tell me, is it heavy?” Kaveh innocently asked like a young child.

“Yes, very much so. But this is what I expected when something is just purely made out of gold.” Alhaitham didn’t catch Kaveh’s temporarily change in behavior.

“Do you think…that they’ll keep it in the museum like they promised to do to the other artifacts that are yet to be displayed there? What do you reckon?” Kaveh continued his cheekiness.

“What are you trying to say?” Alhaitham stared at his junior who’s acting out of his usual self.

Needless to say, Kaveh was put off by Alhaitham’s naivety, or was it just because his thick-skinned partner is naturally incapable of making out implied thoughts? His expression turned to blank.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” Kaveh sighed after.

“I think it’s just the fact that I senselessly had to spend a lot of my valuable time with you today that could have been better spent if I had just stayed alone, continuing my project. Knowing that you agreed to do this only because you were only told to? I’m disappointed…at myself for agreeing to do this.” Kaveh admitted the underwhelming conclusion.

Alhaitham couldn’t say anything. He knows that it was something personal for Kaveh, and he would not dare play with him at his own game.

He could only remain silent.

“But hey, it was fun.” Kaveh had to acknowledge that bright side of it too. He said it himself, there was not a whole lot of anything uniquely interesting that happens in his everyday life.

“I agree.” Out of the blue, him which who does not look for entertainment thought Kaveh was right. What a surprise!

Kaveh looked at the sunset, and to Alhaitham. Whether Alhaitham was honest or not, that short moment at the day’s end was something sentimental.

“Come, let’s go to the Academy so we could finally get some well-earned rest.” Kaveh gestured to Alhaitham to start moving. He had to stop briefly, thinking that he shouldn’t be this nice to him, but he was too tired to resist being honest.

…

But Alhaitham didn’t move.

Kaveh noticed him.

“Hey, didn’t you hear me? Come on, I want to rest already, don’t you too?” Kaveh sounded like he was getting a little bit frustrated.

Yet Alhaitham remained still.

Kaveh just stared. Why isn’t he moving?

“I suppose I should have stated the full reason why I agreed with them to do this.” Alhaitham finally started talk, but he seemed to be hinting at something different that Kaveh wasn’t expecting.

“What is this again?” Kaveh blatantly looked annoyed.

“My task here is not yet complete.” Alhaitham appeared to get more serious by the second.

“Your task? Did it ever occur to you that I’m not interested at whatever you do, and want to? We’re here because the Academy told us so, that’s it! Please, spare me if you have something else in mind and let me go.” Kaveh was out of it. He had his fill of Alhaitham today, and he wouldn’t tolerate him for much longer.

“You were right. The law just serves as a ruse so they could get their bad-intentioned hands on this artifact and have it for themselves. Although I work for them, I knew I could never trust them.”

That was no news. Alhaitham was just that kind of person.

Kaveh started becoming suspicious of his junior, what else was he thinking?

“So, have this instead.”

Alhaitham threw the artifact towards Kaveh’s hands. The latter caught it with a bewildered look on his face. Needless to say, his suspicion immediately turned to confusion.

“What?! What do you mean?” Kaveh asked, expecting a reasonable answer from Alhaitham.

“It’s yours now. It’s always been yours.” Alhaitham effortlessly admitted.

Kaveh fidgeted his fingers around the artifact as he heard what his partner said.

“Mine? Since when? What in the archon’s name are you saying? This belongs to the Academy, not to me!” Kaveh was essentially scolding his junior.

“Ever since they tasked me to retrieve it.” Alhaitham started to uncover something he hid from Kaveh.

“Do you ever listen to yourself talk sometimes? Why do this? We’ll get arrested since this is basically theft, thirty years at the very least! And what are you going to tell the Academy when they’ve assumed you took your leave from work today to finish their task only to come up with nothing at the end of it? You’ll look stupid!” The perplexed blonde kept questioning the actions of Alhaitham.

“Unlike you, the Academy holds me in high regard. With that reputation of mine, trust me when I say that I could tell them anything and they would have no problem believing me. No harm no foul.” Who says that being intelligent is not synonymous with being cunning?

“Have you been meaning to tell me that you’re going to deceive the Academy instead to get us out of this? With me? Are you serio—“

“I wanted to help you.”

Alhaitham silenced Kaveh, leaving him thunderstruck.

“This has been my opportunity, probably the only one I’ll ever get in helping you.” Alhaitham softened his look.

“Help me where? Do I look helpless? I can manage my own!” Kaveh’s stubbornness is not rooted from logic, rather, from saying anything he can to have a reason to refuse Alhaitham’s help.

Alhaitham sighed.

“Give it to the woman you’re indebted to. She’s got eyes for artifacts, and I can assure you, you will have more than enough.”

Kaveh just looked at the distance as he gripped on the artifact harder.

“And your rent?” He asked, the most important thing that should be paid first.

...

...

“Forget about the rent. I could pay it myself for this last time. I don’t intend to take anything away from your fortune, even if it’s just a miniscule amount.”

Kaveh noticed that the dusk has surrounded them.

“I’m well aware that I’m not an emotionally expressive person nor am I easily swayed by it, but I could…feel how much you despise me. And to think we share the same room, that’s why I’ve long decided to give you your own place to stay, because staying with someone that fills you with so much hate…”

Kaveh closed his eyes, a different kind of darkness enveloping him.

“…It’s not healthy. It took long for that decision to come into effect. Now, I’m letting you go so you can be more, uplifting, as what they’d say. I know that’s what you’ve been hoping for.”

His senior didn’t react, he stood still, partially blocking the view of the rising moon behind him.

“You can pack up later or tomorrow. And you know what? I feel satisfaction within myself that I managed to do this. For the fact that you can finally live in your palace, or in another place. Have your own home.”

Kaveh opened his eyes and faced his junior, who was…smiling towards him.

The sight was pleasantly surprising.

“Do you hate me too?” Kaveh asked.

“Not quite. I hope you’ve noticed that I’ve never gone out of my way to actually insult you or anything similar to that. It’s no question that my personality can be a bit…too much for you.”

Kaveh approached Alhaitham closely.

“I’m surprised. Some of the things I’ve said, they weren’t honest at all.”

Kaveh gave him a sorry look.

“I feel bad. I’m sorry.”

“I deserve it, no need for any more apologies.”

The two men just stood, facing each other. They looked at each other in the eyes, unafraid and not acting suspicious around each other. It was a comforting silence.

-

“So, let’s go now?” Alhaitham was the first to ask.

In the empty desert, nature finally breathed some wind to soothe the hot air out.

“Do you remember the riddle? The last one?” Kaveh was the second to ask.

Alhaitham shook his head, prompting a sigh from Kaveh.

“The breathing walls emanate a warm gust of comfort, gusting past the naked bleeding… something. Eternal healing by the imperfect being. In each word lie each of the good. That’s what I remember.”

“What about the riddle?”

“Did you ever caught on what tablet I slotted in so that we could get the treasure?”

“I still remember that ‘shelter’ was the answer you told me, but no tablet matched up with it. What did you do?”

Kaveh silently laughed.

“The answer was not the one with ‘shelter’ or ‘home’ in it. The answer was the one with ‘person’.”

Alhaitham tilted his head with a curious look.

“Yes, person. That’s—that’s home.” Yet, that still wasn’t understood by Alhaitham.

Kaveh carefully put the artifact down under their feet…

…and immediately hugged him, pushing him backwards by a little.

...

...

...

“Thank you for your assistance, but I still very much hate your guts.”

Alhaitham didn’t know what to do as the hug grew tighter, should he imitate Kaveh and wrap his arms around him? Seeing that it was the only logical decision to be made, he slowly did the same, earning a chuckle from Kaveh who, he knew, was already mocking him inside his mind.

“Were you surprised?” Kaveh cheekily asked.

“Well, yes. I haven’t been hugged by anyone for so long, and to have it come from you…you got me.” Alhaitham formed a smile on his face.

Kaveh got his mouth close to Alhaitham’s ears, wanting to whisper something.

“I want us to bicker eternally.”

He pulled from the hug, seeing Alhaitham’s astonished face, mouth slightly agape.

“What? I thought…”

“Now, now, shut it. I’ve decided it for the both of us.”

…

“Hmm…alright. I won’t protest.”

“Besides, your place wouldn’t do. In fact, I’ve drawn up something for us that’s far more charming than the palace and more elegant than the room we share. I know you’ll like it because I’ve taken your advices.”

The rivals smiled at each other, desiring something new with their time together.

-

“Okay, let’s get going then, let me just get the artifact.”

“Where is it? It’s not here.”

“I just put it under our feet.”

“There it is! It’s all the way down this dune!”

“How in Celestia’s name did it got there?”

“You little rascal. You must’ve pushed it down there when you hugged me!”

“Then why did you let me push you that hard? It’s not my fault that you got startled that bad by a normal expression of human appreciation!”

The moon finally rose above at the center of the night sky.

[joylovesfluff]

Apology, accepted

sum. Something sweet for someone so sweet but is too afraid to confess to their feelings for their oh so charming chef.

note. just a teaspoon full of fluff, v rushed ending, this was in the drafts for so long i was close to deleting it but here goes, not proofread i dont wanna read this again its so cringey now , my braind is about to explode from looking at all those words so bye,

i hope u guys enjoy <333

You look at the blueprints you've made yourself as you grab onto the not even nearly finished cannonball spay youve been working on. Spralled out on the ship's flor.

"Hey princess, what are you working on?" Said by none other than the straw hat's lovely chef, sanji vinsmoke. He looks at your new invention, visibly curious to know more about it.

"Its another canon thing, its supposed to shoot 5 canons every 10 seconds.." you replied as your voice gets quieter, looking at the back of the mechanical canon, you found out where to connect the wheel for it to be able to move rapidly.

Sanji looks at you, how your eyes glimmer just a little bit when you found out where to put the wheel, he likes how hard you focus on any given task, and how hard you work for it just to get the satisfaction of calling it finished. He admires that about you, and if he has the chance he would absolutely tell you how much he admires you.

"Oh and sanji?" You suddenly spoke in the moment of silence, snapping his lovesick gaze away from you.

"Yes mon amour?" He looks back again to you, giving you those small smiles that for a second made you want to kiss him right then and there, but it was only for a moment.

"Stop calling me Princess!" You yelled, trying to hide how much his cute little smiles affected you oh so much. He always has a habit to say such sweet words to every woman he sees, so why should you feel special whenever he says those to you? its not like he means it anyways..

Sanji looks at your eyes tainted with anger, with his eyes wide he gets on his knees and bows in front of you, asking for forgiveness for bothering you.

Time and time again sanji has repeatedly tried to show you that he cares for you more than any other woman he has seen before, how he has stopped entertaining other women because of how much he likes you,

Sanji Vinsmoke has fallen inlove with you, he just needs you to realize it which is a challenge he's willing to take.

"I apologize, my Queen." He said with pure shame on his face, as he rose up from the ground he scoops your hands that were on your sides and he kisses your hand, "my deepest apologies madam" he said as he plants another kiss on your hands, with you still unable to move from the sudden affection.

"Although could i interest you with a dessert?, perhaps a Vanilla Soufflé? Or a Crème brûlée? Or perhaps Delicious macarons??"

You thought for a second, and then decided that a little bite wouldn't hurt nobody.

"Ohh macarons do sound good right now.." you whispered, slightly blushing at the thought of eating a dessert from the chef made for just you.

"AH MACARONS IT IS!" He said full of glee, he could impress you with macarons, it was simple anyways.

So as the cook makes the macarons with all the love he could give.

You on the other hand proceeds to what you were doing before the blond distracted you.

A few moments later, your quiet moment was interrupted by none other than the cook itself, and on his hands sat a plate of perfectly beautiful pink macarons.

"Only the best macarons, for the most beautiful woman on all the seas" He exclaimed as he extends the plate full of macaroons.

"oh this tastes different!"

"I added a little something special for you"

"what is it?"

"Love"

[undercoverwizardfanfiction]

A Winter Night: A ROTTMNT Holiday story

Rating:G

Word Count;2358

for: @snakeeyesdraws

Characters: Donnie, Leo, Kendra

pairings: [takes breath, pulls out sword] LISTEN

update; i accidentally uploaded the draft the first time ^^’ i fixed though this is the finished version

An overtly saturated neon sign of a Santa selling sandals catches him in the corner of his eye. He uses his forearm to protect his aching eyes as he passed the sign. When he passes the blinding neon of Santa, the turtle takes a deep breath, a soft mist escaping his mouth. Honestly, he is grateful the streets aren’t more crowded. But not for his slowly numbing hands. He stuffs his hands into his unlined pockets and moves forward. Grateful more than ever that he had updated Shelldon with a heating unit so he didn’t have to weigh himself down with a heavy coat. It was making the walk to Hueso’s a bit more tolerable. He’d have to remember to update his brothers’ gear to include a heating unit like his. Course knowing them they’d probably use it to heat up marshmallows in their pockets and that was a mess he was NOT going to clean up for-

He is so wrapped up in the nightmarish scenario of having to clean marshmallows out of circuitry when a loud shriek of anger followed by a trash can flying past his line of vision causes him to jump on one foot with a shriek of fear

“Stupid AIDEN!!”

It takes Donnie a moment, and another trash can flying by his vision to realize he is not the source of anger, or in danger. He blinks and peers down the alley before having to duck in time for another trashcan to get stomped in the middle with enough strength to crunch it in half before, in a mixture of amazement he blinks. “Kendra?”

In a feral rage Kendra stomps a trashcan nearly in half before swerving around and glaring at him snarling. Her thick purple hair twisted in half ragged tangles, her beret lay on the ground as though she had thrown it to the ground before deciding that wasn’t enough to help vent her rage. Her half-crazed eyes narrowed at him. “What do YOU want?!” she bites and for a moment Donnie wishes he hadn’t stopped, “Are you here to ruin my day again?! Wreck my plans?!”

“Um,” Don blames his lack of ability to come up with a snappy come back on his even more urgent need to survive the next five seconds, or at least not end up like that trashcan. ”Are you doing something that should be stopped?”

Kendra narrows her eyes at him. “NO.”

“Do you HAVE an evil plan that I should stop? Again?”  With a snarl Don worries he might have said the wrong thing.

But then she lets out an angry sigh, “No, not now.”

“Um.” He really didn’t want to end up a Donnie shaped hole in the wall, “Then, no?”

Kendra narrows her eyes at him, Donnie could barely see the little puffs of steam burst out of her nose like a bull trying to figure out if he was a matador worth charging. But then she lets out an angry growl, ”Fine, go away then,” she says, crouching down and yanking the trash can back into a standing position kicking at it a few more times to try and un-dent it. Donnie glances back at the trash cans in the road and sighs. He pulled off his gloves, cursing the fact that he didn’t bring any extra rubber gloves, and pulls one of the trash cans off the street. Kendra glares up at him before eyeing the trashcan in confusion, “What do you want?”

“To not see cars hit trash cans? Is that supposed to be a hard question?” he asks, again berating himself when Kendra narrows her eyes at him, but lets him stand his trash can next to the one she had ‘undented’, she doesn’t thank him when he drags by the other one too. But to be honest he doesn’t really expect it. But he does finally notice that, even though she traded out her leggings for sweatpants, she’s lacking her purple dragons' jacket and is wearing a dark grey sweater and boots. All signs indicated she had not been planning on being outside in December and is using all the anger she had been trying out on the trash cans to not shiver, “Where are you going?”

“What’s it to you?” she demands.

Donnie raises his hands in mock surrender. “Honestly? I was just trying to help but if you’re going to keep acting like a jerk, I’ll-“ he wasn’t sure how he was going to finish that thought. ‘Walk away?’ ‘Blog about it angrily later?’ But it ended with someone shouting ‘heads up’ and something hard slamming into the back of his head, his vision exploding in bright colors and the breaking of a snowball contacting with his head. Off balance he finds his world spinning and himself on his knees, hands holding his head trying to make sense of the pain and his disorientation.

“Hey!” Kendra’s voice was far away, but that could be ‘cause she had stormed over to yell at the kids who had thrown the snow ball. “The hells your problem?! That was basically an ice ball you weebs.” Don could barely make out their mumbled sheepish apology. He pulls off his hat and touched the soaking bandana underneath. Any hope that it had just been snow went out the window when he drew his bloody fingers off his head.

“Holy-“ Sounds like Kendra was back, his vision was spinning so bad that he assumed the spinning purple mass by his side was her. “Hey how many fingers am I holding up?!” she said holding out her hand. He could barely make out her fingers but gave a weak, “Four?” with strength surprising for someone her size, she took his arm and lifted him to his feet, pulling his arm over her neck, “Come on there’s a hospital nearby-“

“NO,” he answers quickly.

“Are you kidding me you’re HEAD is BLEEDING.”

“And I'm a giant talking turtle which do you think will matter more to a hospital staff?!” He often wondered how Yokai managed in the city without access to a hospital. He had been meaning to ask Hueso about-. He blinks, there was no way he could let Kendra take him home. But he was already close to the pizza place “I have a place I can go. But you can’t go with me-“

“Again, your HEAD is BLEEDING,” she snaps. “I’ll take you where you need to go but I won't get any closer got it?” Donnie knew she wouldn’t take no for answer and only answered with a sigh and a nod. She pulls harder on the arm wraps over her neck and took more of his weight. Despite their height difference he barely touches the ground which only added more to the feeling of being disoriented.

“Thanks,” he muttered weakly.

“Don’t thank me til we get there.”  Donnie struggles to keep his eyes open but his swirling vision forces him to keep his eyes closed, a hand slaps his face lightly. “Hey stay awake nerd.”

“Pot calling the kettle-“ Donnie bit off the end of his statement as he tried not to dry heave. He could feel Kendras frozen bare arms through his coat and feels even worse for being out in the first place. “H-Hold on,” he says, stiffening his legs up to drag her to a stop. He manages to pry her arm off him long enough to peel his coat off leaving him in his long sleeved dark pink Atomic Lass shirt. “You’re obviously cold.” As callous as he is sometimes, he finds it’s better to be honest than to dance around the subject, “Shelldon has a heating unit that’ll keep me warm.” Though it wouldn’t help his arms, he could handle a few blocks though. Thankfully his vision is returning to some extent, enough that he notices Kendra looking to his pack and for a moment Don struggles not to shift to put the pack out of her sight, “That’s Shelly right? Is he still mad at me for tricking him?”

“Oh definitely. He has a stack of crayon drawings dedicated to his revenge on you.” He feels the shoulders on his back tighten as though Shelldon was reprimanding him for revealing his secret plans.

Kendra lets off a small shrug “Yeah fair enough, I’d probably do the same thing” before smirking directionally at the pack, ”But for the record little buddy, blue prints are a much better way to plot out revenge.”

Don tries to grin before dizziness settles in again. Kendra must have noticed since she ducked under his arm. “Hold on nerd, keep talking to me.”

He manages a nod, mentally keeping track of their location. “Wh-what were you doing out here kicking trash cans?” he asked. “And who’s this Aiden guy who has you so mad? Not that it's any of my business, but I’m kinda hurt there’s someone out there you currently hate more than me,” he says with an added offended tone that makes her glare at him in confusion. ”I mean not to brag, but I sorta consider it a pride and joy to have an enemy worthy of my intelligence.”

Kendra narrows her eyes. “Please, he’s not worthy of my time,” she says through her teeth. “There’s this guy in the robotics club with us, Aiden. A loser who couldn’t tell a snickers from a soldering pen. There was a contest to submit the best blueprints, and who ever won would to be our project for the semester.”

“I’ve seen you build stuff on your own though. “

“That wasn’t the point,” Kendra lets out an angry huff, “I won, like I knew I was going to. But he got second place, I checked the points and he was twelve points away from wining. Twelve! The loser pretty boy who had his private tutor help him.”

“But you still won-“

“-He shouldn’t have gotten that close. I did all my work by myself. Didn’t ask for help, spent nights coding and drafting. I should have left him in the dust a broken swaddled nerd with broken dreams. But no. I made sure he knew how I felt about it, but the creep tattled on me. Freaking snowflake got freaked out because his blue prints ended up on his front porch on fire. Since when is that illegal.”

“I mean,” Don pauses, “I think always.”

“Anyway, I got kicked off the club and that’s why I'm out here.” She shrugs. “If my Dad or step mom saw me getting this mad then they’d make me do the ‘breathing exercises,’” she said with air quotations, “Being all ‘Kendra we’re worried about you’ ‘Kendra we love and support you we just don’t want to see you go down a bad path’ and ‘Kendra where do you keep getting access to all this fire!?’” Her frustrations forced her to kick out at a sign they passed but thankfully not hard enough to knock it over, “So as soon as I’m done helping you, I’m going to see my Mom. She’s the only one who gets me.”

Donnie blames his concussion on being so surprised Kendra had a mom but tried to keep it off his features. But judging by the quiet scoff from Kendra he hadn’t done a very good job, "How about you Greeny? Why did you come out here if you already had a concussion? Don’t pretend like you didn’t have one, I saw the bandages when I was checking your scalp. You already had a head injury before you got hit in the head.”

Figures his hat would blame him, and his own disorientation for forgetting that Kendra had checked his scalp. “It's complicated.”

“More complicated then plotting revenge on a spoiled white boy in a Vanilla Ice t-shirt?” she says in a tone that tells Donnie she’s trying to make a joke. And despite his best efforts not to, he snorts slightly, “No, I'll agree it’s not that complicated.” But it still feels weird to share with a certified enemy who once tried to steal the Spirit of Labour Day (don’t ask can’t explain). Thankfully she doesn’t rush him as he tries to collect his thoughts. “I got into an argument with my brother.” He still doesn’t want to let her in on too much information. “My brothers are all protective of each-other but he's’ protective in a way that makes me nuts. He thought it was too soon for me to go out with this whole situation,” he said gesturing to his head bandage, “And I disagreed. Except I didn’t really do it in the best way.”

“I think I know what that means,” Kendra says. “Did you say something bad?”

For a moment, it takes all of Don’s remaining mental energy to not think about Leo’s face, watching his concerned features fade away to one of hurt. So hurt in fact he hadn’t even called after Donnie when he stormed out. He lets out a sigh. “I did. I wish I had a reasonable excuse for it, but to be honest I don’t like feeling like I'm depending on people. I don’t like feeling like he’s always concerned about me. I especially don’t like him being right about it.”

“Sucks when it feels like you’re under-appreciated huh?”

“Yeah.” He could make out a familiar sandal store that housed Hueso’s alley. “We’re here,” he says.

Kendra looks around, and for a moment Donnie is concerned Kendra is going to insist on taking him ‘inside’ but she ducks from under shoulder. “You sure?” she asks, “I can take you further.”

“I’m good, thanks though.” He tries to give her a confident smile but his lips only twitch in response. She gives a half shrug before she starts pulling off his coat. “Keep it. You have a long way to walk and I still have Shelldon to keep me warm.”

“Thanks,” she says pulling the coat back on. “I’ll catch you later Greeny,” she says. She looks like she's’ about to walk off when she pauses. “But for the record, it still must be nice to have brothers who have your back.”

“It is.” Don nods. “And honestly Aiden sounds like a little bitch.”

For the first time since their strange encounter began Kendra put on a full smile. “Thanks,” she says before walking off.

(#)(#)\/(#)(#)

Leo didn’t snore.

So when his phone went off amongst his makeshift ‘pillow floor’ in the living room he did not ‘snort’ awake. He made a strangled noise before sitting up. Patting his sweatpants and hoody pockets before diving into the mass of pillows. Breaching a moment later like a whale with his phone in his teeth. Hueso’s ID is flashing across his screen. With a scoff he answers. “For the last time BONE man I don’t work today-“

“First of all, that is NOT how you politely answer a phone,” Hueso starts with a snap of his teeth. “Second that’s not why I'm calling. Your brother is here with me.”

Leo blinks, he blames his previous hibernated state on why it took him so long to remember which brother had left the lair. “Donnie? Is he ok?” he said already going to his room and looking for his sword under his bed.

“He is alright, but it looks like he got hit on the head pretty hard-“

That’s all it takes for him to charge out of his room, lingering only long enough to grab the toolbox he used for a first aid kit, and grabbing his portal sword from the kitchen (vaguely remembering he had used it to cut some cheese for his peanut butter and cheese grilled sandwich earlier) and slicing the sword down to activate a portal to Hueso’s office. Without saying bye, he hangs his phone up and jumps through.

The aforementioned skeleton, who had been glaring at his phone as though offended Leo had hung up on him, gave a shriek as the turtle appears by his side. “BAH! Leo, I hate it when you-“

Leo immediately tuned him out when he saw Donnie laying on Hueso’s couch with an ice pack over his forehead, he hurried forward and knelt down. “You ok buddy?” he asks.

Donnie looks up at him from under the ice pack with a weak smile. “I don’t know, are you really uglier than the last time I saw you or is that my head talking?”

Leo couldn’t help but grin. “I thought brain injuries were supposed to make people nicer,” he says. He turns to the toolbox and starts going through the first aid supplies inside. “Thanks for letting him rest. In your office,” he tells Hueso as he sets aside a pen light and some new bandages.

“Why wouldn’t I? Out of your brothers he’s most definitely my favorite.”

“Wait you have a favorite?” Leo looks to him. “Then who's your least favorite?”

After a pause, Hueso gives a wide and strained grin. “I will leave you two to it. If you need me just call me,” he says before ducking out quickly.  

It’s only then that Leo turns his barely contained worried energy on Donnie “What happened? Who did this? Do you have their address and sleep schedule-“

“Leo,” Don starts in a pained voice, “Please, my head feels like someone tried to split it with an ax. It was an accident. Some kids hit me in the head with a snow ball.“

Leo was about to start on another tirade of questions when he forced himself to take a deep breath, “Yeah, ok, I'm sorry,” he says. Also trying to ignore Donnie’s missing coat. He looks back to his supplies and pulls out a pen light. “I’m going to check your pupil dilation, but only if you're up for it.” He waits for Donnie to give a slight nod before he lifts the pen and carefully pushes the ice pack away from his eyes. Using his thumb to cover Don’s opposite eye without actually touching him, with a flash the pupil constricts and dilates as it should. He does the same process to the other “Well that’s good at least,” Leo says. “How’s your vision?”

“Spinning, but I think that’s from the pain.”

That would make sense. The red slider turtle rose to sit on the edge of the couch, carefully unwrapping Don’s scalp as gently as he can, checking his facial expression for any signs of increased pain before he lets out a sigh of relief. “It's just a surface bleed. It doesn’t look like the actual injury itself reopened.”

“That’s good,” Donnie says with a soft sigh. “You’re doing a good job.”

“I had a good teacher.” Leo made sure to give Donnie a soft smile that the turtle barely returns. “Let me just change the bandages and we’ll head home when you feel up for it. Maybe we can order some pizza; I've had a monster craving for anchovy and chocolate syrup pizza for days-“

“I was wrong.”

Leo blinks, pausing from unwrapping the new bandages with his hands. It takes him longer than he should to realize what Don’s apologizing for and when he does, he only returns to digging through his kit. “You were a little right,” Leo says quietly putting aside a bottle of alcohol, “I mean it's kinda right, right?? You're usually right-“

“No, Leo.” Donnie tries to sit up but fails to get up more than a few seconds before Leo’s grip on his arm forces him back down. “Leo I was wrong. I was angry, my head was killing me I would have said anything to hurt you. You don’t mess everything up-“

“Except I do?” Leo lets out a soft laugh. “I mean I do. Between the minotaur's pizza and Big Mama I'm surprised I get anything right-“

Don’s hand grabs his shoulders and before Leo can stop him, the soft-shell forces himself into a sitting position with pure grit alone (judging by the pain filled grimace on his face, “Would you listen to me?!” Donnie demands shaking him by the shoulders, “I shouldn’t have even said it but I would have said anything. I was angry at feeling so helpless and dependent. I was angry because you were right for trying to stop me from going out. I did need your help and I shouldn’t have been so difficult. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-“ his last sentence is interrupted with a sob that helps him notice the tears running down his face. Donnie lets out an aggravated huff as he presses the heel of his hands against his streaming eyes to help spare his dignity in some way.

He feels the couch shift as Leo shifts closer, wrapping his arms around him. “Ok, ok you were wrong. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing Leo,“ Donnie manages to say from his brother’s shoulder. “I’m the one apologizing not you, idiot.”

“Alright, alright I apologize for apologizing. You were wrong I was right. Is that what you want to hear?” he asks. Don nods into his shoulder. Leo rests his cheek on Dons’ shoulder rubbing his shell for a few moments as Don’s erratic breathing finally starts to calm down.

After a few seconds Don lets out a small sigh, “Damn it, I was doing so good too. I can't even tell anymore if these are meltdowns or panic attacks.”

“As long as you don’t have to deal with them alone when you don’t want to, that’s all I care about.” Leo gives him a final squeeze before reaching up and taking Don’s shoulders, gently guiding him down to lay down again. “Ok buddy. I’m going to rewrap your head, and then I'm going to go order us some food and portal us home. You just relax ok?” He waits for Donnie to nod before Leo starts applying some alcohol to a cotton ball. “I’ll be honest though, I’m sorta surprised you made it here safely.”

Don for the first time since Leo entered Hueso’s office looks him with his tired blood shot eyes. A soft smile forming on his face as he relaxes. “Yeah,” he whispers. ”Me too.”

[nikxation]

If You Give a Mothman a Loan

Huge thank you to @birdgirlamp for commissioning me to write a fic by donating to WHO (if you want more information, see this post). Sorry it took so long to get this out, but here it is! Hope you enjoy!

Word count: 2359

Characters: Stanford Pines (pre- and post-portal), Fiddleford McGucket (pre-portal), Wendy Corduroy (post-portal... obviously)

~ ~ ~

It’s three months into Fiddleford’s stay in Gravity Falls, and the skeleton in the closet (or the portal in the basement) is slowly looking less and less like just a bundle of messy wires and half-finished structural supports and more like the behemoth of a machine it’s meant to be. The raw stock for the exterior plating should be here any day now, the first of the two power transfer beams is online, and every day is another day closer to their end-goal.

He’ll hand it to Stanford Pines, this is some of their best work yet.

He still remembers the day he arrived and Ford showed him the initial drafts. He’d thought the size was overkill, that the hollowed-out basement beneath the house would just become a room with decent acoustics for him to practice his banjo playing away from his old college roommate while the real machine was built somewhere less cold and damp.

Boy howdy was he wrong.

Now, every time he walks in the room, he feels the thing like the presence it is, towering stories tall, looming over him in a way that he would almost consider menacing if it weren’t for the fact that it’s just a machine.

He’s got blueprints and prototyped miniatures of literal death bots.

So why would the interdimensional portal in the basement put him on edge?

It shouldn’t.

So he shakes the thought away and gets back to work.

An unsuccessful system test led to the time-shift circuit on motherboard seven incinerating again. If he were the kind of man to actually keep count (which he certainly is), he’d know it’s the fourth time in the past week this same part has crapped out on them.

It’s also the reason he’s gonna finally stop out-sourcing these parts and just start making them in-house from now on. He’s about sick of replacing them every five minutes.

That’s what brings Fiddleford to where he is now, with his upper body shoved halfway inside the portal’s support structure and crammed between God knows how many electrical components. His arms have just started to cramp in their rather unnatural position as he pries at the burnt-out part to replace it with a newer one that will hopefully hold out against the power output better than its predecessor.

Ford’s sitting in the control room, supposedly running through some of the math again to double-check that they didn’t miss anything.

The “supposedly” is only because, for the past twenty minutes, the man has been prattling on like Fiddleford’s grandma at Sunday family brunch. He can only hear the occasional snippet from his position (quite literally) inside the portal, and as far as he can tell, he thinks he’s talking about either his most recent research outing, or something about preacher scouting. He wants to lean towards the former, but with the new stories he’s found about a so-called “velocipastor”, he can’t rule out the latter. Either way, the man hasn’t stopped talking long enough to breathe, let alone re-run equations that use relative space-time physics with integrated fourth dimensional calculus.

Fiddleford just doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he really can’t hear him.

He snaps the ribbon cable off the still-smoking component (after the first time it blew, he learned to bring heat-resistant gloves in here with him) and is rather glad to see it’s still intact. Rewiring is a day-long project he’s glad to not have to do again. He maneuvers his hand back out into open air and tosses the old piece somewhere into the room before getting to work mounting the new one.

Ford’s voice echoes from the next room over.

“… extra funds… exploring… investing for…”

Bolting the circuit down turns out to be easier the fifth time he has to do it, and he’s about to start running a simple, probably non-exploding test to make sure the new part is integrated correctly when he hears—

“… so I gave Mothman a thousand dollars…”

And that, of all things, stops Fiddleford in his tracks.

“Come again?” he yells. He had to have misheard because he swears he just heard the man say—

“I ran into Mothman in the woods yesterday,” Ford says, all too nonchalantly, “and they told me they were starting up a small business and needed an investment, so I gave them a thousand dollars from my excess funds with a verbal agreement that they would pay me back within the year.”

… So he didn’t mishear him, that’s for darn sure.

The fact that the Mothman is real is surely weird enough. But he’s lived in Gravity Falls (and known Stanford Pines) for long enough that it doesn’t really surprise him too much. No, that’s not the part that brings him to wiggle himself out of his position inside the portal’s underbelly just enough so that he can meet Ford’s eyes in the other room.

“You gave Mothman… a thousand dollars…” Fiddleford says slowly.

“To help kickstart their new business, yes.” It’s so casual, like he doesn’t even register the inherent absurdity in what he’s saying.

“And that business is?”

“Mothballs.”

“Stanford!”

“What?”

“That’s the stupidest scam I’ve ever heard.”

Ford sputters, his face aghast for a moment. “I did not get scammed by Mothman!”

“You did.”

“Did not.”

“Do you even know what mothballs are for?”

He pauses, his mouth snapping shut, his face turning the slightest shade of red. Fiddleford can see it from the next room over. “No. I always assumed they were some biproduct created by moths during reproduction or something.” Fiddleford lets his head fall back, bonking on a bar of the steel framework behind him.

“Stanford, they repel moths,” he says. “You just let a bunch of moths convince you they’re starting a business making the thing they hate. That’s stupider than the time my neighbor tried to convince me his cat could see God. And you have three PhDs!”

“Four now,” he says quietly, and Fiddleford levels him with a single raised eyebrow.

“You’re gonna go back, find that over-glorified insect, and get our money back. Or so help me, I will never do another grocery run for as long as I live here.”

“Oh come now, that’s hardly fair. You know I hate going into town.”

“Then you better hurry along and find him.”

“You honestly believe the actual Mothman is pulling a con.”

“People lie, Stanford,” he says, finally ducking himself back into the machine to finally run the diagnostic on the new circuit. “Even cryptids and aliens probably from another dimension.”

There’s a moment of silence, but it’s broken a few moments later by the sound of a chair scuffing on the floor and footsteps ascending the wooden stairs out of the basement.

Fiddleford snorts, shaking his head and getting back to work.

~ ~ ~

“So, like, the Mothman,” Wendy says, keeping pace next to him as they make their way back into the woods, the sun’s last rays just starting to slip behind the trees. “The actual Mothman. He’s real?”

“As real as any of the other anomalies in this town,” Ford says, adjusting the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. He’d heard the cryptid had come back into town again shortly after Wierdmageddon, and after his first attempt at getting his money back a few weeks back (second if you count that time over three decades ago) went sour, he decided to bring back-up this time. But with Stan still out of commission and the kids rightly wanting to stay with him, he was hard-pressed for options. That is until the cashier girl piped up and said she’d do it for ten percent of whatever they recovered.

Ford negotiated her down to eight and a half. She drives a hard bargain; he can see why Stan hired her.

“Dude, that’s sick,” she says.

“I mean, I hardly think they’re ill or anything,” Ford says. “As fast as their moths die off, they re-introduce new ones to the population through some sort of reproductive mitosis—”

“Nah dude, it’s a phrase,” she cuts him off. “Means, like, ‘that’s awesome’.”

“Ah, alright.” Ford pauses to check the anomaly scanner on his watch, the little white blip flashing on the screen. “I’ve never been exceptionally ‘with it’ when it comes to slang, so you’ll have to pardon my misunderstanding.”

“You’re fine, Dr. Pines,” she says. She kicks a loose rock off into the brush. “I’m pretty sure Stan doesn’t understand half of what I say either.” Ford hums an affirmative, intently watching the small blip on his watch, confirming that it is, in fact, slowly moving in their direction. After a few seconds, he drops the bag he’s been carrying with a thwump, a bit of dust swirling up from the dirt.

“We’re going to set up the trap right here,” he says. “We have probably ten minutes until the Mothman comes through here, so we’ll need to act quickly.”

“You got it boss-man.”

It’s a fairly simple net trap, one that they make short work of assembling. Ford had already built the majority of it to bring out here, including a magic-imbued mosquito net that should contain the Mothman’s consciousness so long as they catch the majority of their moths.

He made that mistake last time, the Mothman managing to escape in the couple moths that his trap missed.

“So, you really were in, like, a different dimension for a bunch of years, right?” Wendy asks as she spreads some leaves and twigs over the net.

“Multiple dimensions,” he says as he carefully sets the trap’s trigger pole. “I travelled through thousands of them in my thirty years away from this one.”

“Dude, that’s nuts.”

“It was… pretty sick,” he says, shooting her a wry grin. Wendy groans.

“Well,” she says, “you just confirmed for me that I was right to never teach Stan slang, so thanks for that I guess.”

“Glad to help.” With the trap finally set and ready to go, he pulls the last item out of the bag: the bait, which he flicks on and gently sets down against the trigger.

“That’s a flashlight,” Wendy says, the statement almost a question.

“Indeed, it is.”

“Is it, like,” she says, waving her hands slightly, “I don’t know, magic or something?”

“Nope,” he says, backing off and giving the trap one last look-over. He has to hand it to the girl, she knew what she was doing.

“You’re serious?”

“Entirely,” he says. “It doesn’t take much to attract them. Back in the eighties, they used to hang around streetlamps and windows all the time. It’s a wonder they’re still considered a cryptid considering how blatantly out in the open they—”

He hears the tell-tale sound of fluttering insect wings, not too far off, but loud enough to make him pause. He glances in the direction and then down at his watch, the blip on the screen almost on top of them. Quickly, he motions to Wendy to hide and then does the same himself, crouching behind the nearest tree and peering around the side to watch.

It’s rather quiet for a few moments, the darkness starting to settle into the pines, the lit flashlight a lone beacon, just the sound of the pine needles whistling in the breeze and the far-off humming of the approaching cryptid. But that low hum gradually gets louder, turning to a white drone of hundreds of small wings beating in tandem.

A familiar dark shape emerges from the underbrush. Humanoid, but just barely. Ten-feet tall with two enormous wings sprouting from its back, two large yellow eyes reflecting the scattered light of the flashlight in the clearing. Their entire shape feels blurred at the edges, like someone drew a line of charcoal and smudged it, the hundreds of moths that make up their body shifting and moving amongst each other in a din of small beating wings.

The Mothman.

Ford hates to admit that the thought still sends an excited shiver up his spine.

They emerge into the clearing, glancing around and taking an immediate interest in the flashlight lying on the ground. They approach it slowly, cautiously, glancing around as if waiting for the ambush, eventually making it onto the net before moving to bend down to pick up the flashlight.

They stop.

Ford holds his breath.

“Stanford Pines,” a voice says, the sound a high whine broken up and mixed with soft clicking. The Mothman stands back upright, snapping its eyes right in his direction. Immediately, Ford’s mind starts swirling with potential fallback options to try to turn this in their favor. “Surprised you’re still alive after last week. Really think we’re stupid enough to fall for—”

“Suck mothballs, lamp licker!” Wendy screams from across the clearing, the Mothman whipping around just as a projectile of some sort (is that an axe?) flies out of the underbrush and hits the trap’s trigger dead-on, sending the net shooting upwards and capturing almost all of the moths above it. A shrill screech fills the air from the now-dangling mass of moths, but Ford is too busy gaping at the cashier girl as she emerges from her hiding spot.

“Nice shot, Wendy!” he beams, shaking off the shock and coming out to join her on either side of the now-enraged Mothman. She shrugs, retrieving the axe from off the ground and sliding it back into her belt loop behind her back.

“No biggie. My dad enters me into the annual axe-throwing competition every year. I’ve won the last 5 in a row.” Ford, having not known anything about this girl before today, is rather stunned. He certainly was not expecting that from the teen, let alone the nonchalance over it. “But anywho,” she says, turning her attention to the writhing mass in front of them. “About that money…”

~ ~ ~

About two hours after they left, Ford and Wendy arrive back at the Mystery Shack, Ford heading to the back of the house to find Stan and the kids, Wendy collecting her things and heading back out to go home, a crisp one-hundred dollar bill tucked into her pocket.

[directdogman]

DSaFTales: Nothing.

(I wrote a story explaining what happened to Henry after DSaF 3′s GOOD ending and showing an unseen but important exchange that William and Henry exchanged before the events of ANY scene you’ve seen in the DSaF timeline. Enjoy.) The charred remains of a husk, vaguely arranged in the shape of a man, stood in an unfathomably inky abyss. Not a speck of light so much as attempted to penetrate the surrounding darkness. For the second time in his life, Dr Henry Miller was facing his wildest, most crippling fear head-on. Utter and relentless uncertainty. As the Voidwalker stood in the darkness, a memory drifted from eye to eye, crossing the bare threshold of what it was and wasn't. A much younger Henry, dressed in a decidedly much dirtier overcoat than he was wearing before, stained with motor-oil and grease, carrying traces of sawdust and metallic shreddings in its many fibers and stitches. Dr Miller, not so much as glancing away from the near-tightened bolt he was adjusting with his rusted wrench, asked his scrawny and deformed assistant a casual question. "Willy..." Dr Miller casually blurted out, still transfixed by the near tightened bolt, "Do you think that in theory, different types of nothing could potentially exist?" Dr Miller's assistant remained leaning against the wall, his vacuous mouth still left blissfully agape. "What's that, Henry?-"

"Nothing-" Miller retorted, before being interrupted by his dimwitted colleague. "Oh, that's fine, then." William replied nonchalantly, "Could'a sworn you'd asked me a-" “Willy." Miller stated, retaking control of the narrative and now focused on winding a small metallic springloaded mechanism, which looked not unlike a mousetrap attached to a rod-shaped fastener, "Do you think that there's different kinds of nothing in this world, or not?"

William placed his expansive palm over his chin, now in deep thought. "Well, prolly not, Henry, since y'know... Nothin' is..." William spoke hesitantly, "Well- Nothin' is just NOTHIN', y'know, so I don't see how there could POSSIBLY be different types o-" Dr Miller stopped meticulously recoiling the spring in his hand for a moment, wondering how to explain his vision to his simple friend. "You know, Willy..." Miller mumbled, "Nothing and darkness are very similar to the untrained eye, but fundamentally different, once you notice the difference at least once." William leaned his head forward, rubbing his mitt-like hands along his plum-hued scalp, almost certainly attempting to run his fingers through hair he didn't have. "Explain." William demanded of Henry. Henry smiled, coiling the spring again, knowing his trap was set. "You see, Willy-" Henry murmured, "I want you to note EXACTLY what you can see out of both of your eyes right now." William nodded and gazed forward, absorbing his immediate visible surroundings. "Well?" Henry cooed. William internalized the dingy surroundings of the dark room they found themselves in, now prepared to describe Henry's workshop in detail. "From my left eye..." William started, still gazing fixed upon a horizon far beyond the concrete confines of the room he found himself in, "I can see a table, some tools, some blueprints printed on left-over stock card from when you let me draft up our menus, and my lunchbox, can't ferget that." "And what of your other eye?" Henry inquired, "What does THAT eye see?" "Well, obviously, I can see you, windin' up some kind of device, ready to put it into your unfinished bot, right?" Dave responded, now hesitant of whether or not he was bumbling his way into one of Henry's (quite typical) cruel lessons. "Crudely stated, but ultimately correct. Well done." Henry replied, validating William’s response, before giving his partner a second instruction. "Now, close both eyes." Henry dictated to William. William shut both of his eyes tightly. "Well, now I see nothin', Henry." William replied, sure of his answer. Due to his lack of visual awareness, William had no time to brace himself before he received an unyielding impact, courtesy of the wrench still in Dr Miller's left hand. William yelped like a confused animal, held his jaw tightly, and paced a few steps backwards, careful not to expose his back to Henry. "DARKNESS." Henry barked, breaking his previously lucid composure, waving his wrench around within striking distance of William, "You didn't see NOTHING. You saw DARKNESS, WILLIAM." Henry slowly turned back to his work, and continued cranking the coil of the mechanism that was again holding his sole interest, now that William was disciplined. Henry didn't bother to turn back to check if William had fled the room, he knew that his assistant wouldn't. "I-I don't understand-" William stuttered, sniffling back tears. Henry sighed deeply. "Well, yield those incessant waterworks and tell me what you can see from your right eye, again." Henry responded nonchalantly. William took a moment to compose himself, and replied to Henry again, reiterating his last answer. "I-I see YOU, Henry." William replied, brokenhearted. Henry grinned, wide and terrible, showing his rarely seen teeth. "Now, close your right eye, then." Henry responded, "But, this time, keep the left one open, so you can still see the tools and our blueprints sitting on the desk." William nodded, following the command faithfully and without hesitation. "What can you see from your right eye NOW?" Henry asked William. William stood in silence for a moment, before responding with the nature of his sad, pitiful realization. "Nothing." William replied, his greatest fear coming to light, "Where I saw you, I now see nothing." Henry chuckled. "Nothing may APPEAR to be remarkably similar to darkness, before you notice its key difference." Henry stated, "In darkness, there is life, hiding behind a threshold of undetectability, in every abyss, potential for something to lurk beyond the confines of where simple observation merely cannot reach. Darkness is simply that which light cannot touch..." Henry finished tightening the coil at last, finishing the final touches on his masterpiece. "Within nothing, there is no light trapped beneath the waves of obscurity, no surrounding air to fill the vaccuum, no substance to obscure any nuance, oblique or otherwise, no potential or sustenance. Nothing is a cancer, that cannot be filled, cannot be quenched, and will consume any space that simply... isn't. A place where light could be, but won't ever be." Henry affectionately placed his hand on William's now bloodied chin. "Now that you see it too, don't you want to protect others from it?" Henry asked him, "Don't you want to stay here, in the light, knowing that I won't let you ever become nothing?" William forced a shaky smile, and frantically nodded, tears in his eyes. Henry's face contorted into a smile, no less sinister, but noticeably wider, but with closed lips, holding back all of the words Henry's conscience would be commanding Henry to warn William with, had Dr Miller actually possessed a conscience, no matter how minute. Dr Miller stretched his hand out whimsically, referring to the costume now sitting on the table. "How does it look, William?" Henry asked, turning to face his partner, who turned back, fixating himself on the costume to stop his very being from straying towards inconsolability. "Is-Is that MINE?" William stuttered, pacing slowly towards it. Henry chuckled. "Yes." Henry responded, needing no more words to complete the exchange. William's hand outstretched slowly, running down the stitched curvature of the suit's hips. "It... It matches YOURS." William stated, noting the golden fabric with purple highlights, "It's GOLD." Henry's mouth stretched into something not quite a smile, not quite a grimace, gaping and soulless. "You deserve no less, partner." Henry replied, putting a hand on William's shoulder, "And NOTHING could change that." As the memory drifted from Henry's eyes, so did the last speck of remaining light along with it. The vision before Henry proved his theories right in ways that he never hoped he would have to face. The prison, the void in which he spent forty grueling years, he could now see wasn't quite a void as he'd pictured it. He'd dwelled in a place visually not unlike where he was now, a place without light or warmth, a place that existed outside of light and warmth, but existed as a void, waiting to be filled by both. But, unlike that place, this place didn't merely lack visible light, it lacked darkness to obscure anything that wasn't himself. Instead, he merely saw... nothing. "I-" Henry attempted to say aloud, but the words came out in his head, as there was no air for the words to travel through, "I can't be dead..." Henry thought to pace, but there was nowhere for him to go, no way to tell if he was moving at all. "T-There's an infinite number of parallel dimensions and timelines, from dimensions 1 through 10, impossibility to the event horizon-" Henry rambled, attempting to justify to himself that which he'd just realized wasn't truly proven by result, "In one of those infinite instances, I must be alive and breathing, Schrodinger, Bohr, Heisenberg, they knew-" Henry began sweating. "If there's infinity possibility, all extending from the c-confirmed wave function, in at least ONE of those dimensions, I must be alive, there has to be a way back." Henry gasped for air that was no longer there, "I can't be dead, for if I wasn't, I wouldn't be, and until that happens, and it won't-" Henry continued to bumble through his frantic self-justification. "Like the Ship of Theseus, we are concepts, always changing, being assembled and disassembled, but a change of location doesn't- I'm still here, and until I die, which I can't observe, because if I was to- If I were dead, I wouldn't be around to observe it, therefore, I CANNOT be dead, I MUST be the version of myself that will continue to live, the protagonist, I must exist, I-" A set of eyes appeared before the Voidwalker, in the darkness, somehow not quite there, but undoubtedly inescapable. As the crimson eyes gazed into the voidwalker’s very being, or lack there of, Henry felt a hunger emanate from the eyes, and a voice come from deep within his brain, chilling and certain, undoubtedly speaking on behalf of the eyes. "Who's to say that you aren't dead?"

[sylvanfreckles]

My Way or the Highway (Whumptober 2020)

Day Three!

(season 2 fic) A group of rogue hunters capture the Winchesters in hope of forcing Sam to use his psychic abilities for their benefit, and they’re not afraid to use Dean as leverage.

“So...rumor has it you got some kind of second sight, Sam,” Travis commented. He was tall and wiry, though not as tall as Sam. Years spent as a hunter had left his skin tanned and course, though his dark eyes were still bright with intelligence.

Sam froze for just a second too long and Dean kicked his ankle under the table. “What makes you say that?” he finally asked, trying to hide his nervousness with a sip of beer.

Travis and his two friends had pulled into town a few hours ago, to handle the salt-and-burn Sam and Dean had finished earlier in the day. They didn't all know each other but they all knew Bobby, which had seemed like a good enough reason to get acquainted over drinks. Now Sam was wishing they had left town after the job instead of waiting until morning.

“You been watching too much late-night TV,” Dean teased with a hearty laugh. It was too hearty to Sam's ears, but hopefully Travis and his friends wouldn't notice. “What kind of moron fed you a story like that?”

“Word gets around,” Travis shrugged. He leaned back in his chair and studied the brothers with a critical eye. “Trouble is, nobody knows what's true and what's just a fairy tale.”

“Yeah, well, a little advice?” Dean had already dug out his wallet and dropped a few bills on the table to cover the last round. “Don't believe everything you hear. C'mon Sam.”

Sam was all too eager to abandon his half-drunk beer and follow Dean out of the bar. He heard Travis and his friends burst out into laughter as soon as the Winchester were near the door, but tried to ignore them and just move on. It wouldn't take long to pack up and they could be back on the road.

They stepped out into the washed-out light from the bar's neon sight, the night air crisp and bracing. There weren't too many people out and about right now, thanks to the haunting they'd taken care of earlier, so it wasn't too surprising that the parking lot was practically empty.

Then someone struck. Sam was barely aware of movement in his peripheral vision before a burlap sack was shoved over his head and strong hands fisted in the back of his jacket to spin him off-balance and slam him against the wall of the bar. Judging by the muted curses he imagined Dean had received the same treatment. He tried to fight back, but someone was wrenched on the ties at the mouth of the bag, half-strangling Sam in the process. He flailed up feebly and tried to twist his fingers in the ties, but it was no good.

His captor drove a knee into his stomach, which doubled him over, then kicked his feet out from under him. Sam tried to fight against the attacker but his hands were wrenched behind him and bound up with a piece of twine that cut into his skin viciously.

“Good work.” It was muffled by the bag, but Sam was pretty sure that was Travis's voice.

“We just need the tall one, right?” Sam's captor asked. He'd planted a knee against the small of Sam's back to keep him down, one hand on the back of Sam's neck to force his head to be still.

“You never just take one Winchester,” Travis argued. “Connie learned the hard way, back when this one was still working with the old man.” There was the sound of an impact and a soft grunt—Travis had probably kicked Dean. “Put 'em in the van.”

Rough hands hauled Sam to his feet and he struggled against them, though it was futile as a vehicle roared up and he was shoved into a rough cargo space. Dean landed beside him a second later, one elbow hitting Sam's belly right where his kidnapper had kneed him. It hurt like hell, but he'd take it over his brother facing an uncertain fate. Judging by the way these guys were talking...it didn't seem like they'd leave a witness behind.

The growl of the engine filled the space around them as their captors took off to parts unknown. Sam tried to keep track of the number of turns the van made, but between the recklessness of the driver and the bag over his head muffling his perspective Sam lost track.

They screeched to a halt after maybe twenty minutes of driving, and Sam heard the doors slam open before he was gripped under the shoulders and hauled unceremoniously to his feet. He was propelled forward a few steps, then forced to his knees before the bag was torn from his head.

Travis was looking down at them, a smug grin splitting his face. “Just thought this might be a more private place to talk.”

Beside Sam, Dean let out a growl. “Listen here, you son of a bitch-”

“No, you listen,” Travis snapped. “We don't have time for throwing threats and promises back and forth, so I'm gonna give it to you straight, Sammy.” Travis pulled a gun out of the back of his pants and leveled it at Dean's head. “You're gonna work with us, or we're gonna see what's in big brother's empty head.”

Cold horror filled Sam's gut. They hadn't taken Dean because they wanted both Winchesters for something...they'd taken him to force Sam's hand.

“Well?” Travis demanded when Sam didn't answer. He took the few steps over to Dean and twisted his free hand in Dean's collar, dragging him around to face Sam with the gun pressed to his temple. “Whaddya say, Sammy?”

Dean was subtly trying to shake his head, and when Travis noticed he clocked Dean on the temple with the grip of the revolver he was holding. “I'm counting to three, Sam.”

“Wait, wait, please,” Sam tried to edge forward, but one of Travis's partners was behind him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Just...just give me a second. What do you need me for?”

“I'm not hearing a yes,” Travis warned. He shifted his grip so that the gun was pressed to the base of Dean's skull. “Exit wounds aren't pretty, Sammy. Is this how you want to remember you brother?”

“I don't even know what you want!” Sam pleaded. “I can't...I can't agree to something if I don't know what it is!”

“One...”

“Travis, come on,” Sam tried to pull himself free, but the grip on his shoulders tightened.

“Two...”

“Yes!” Sam shuddered, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to see his brother's expression. “Whatever...whatever you want. Just don't hurt him.” They only had each other left. He just couldn't handle it if something happened to Dean after everything they'd lost.

“Was that so hard?” Travis sneered. He released Dean and shoved him forward, into Sam. Sam leaned into his brother, nearly shaking with relief. “Now, lemme show you what we have planned.”

There were some crates in a pile a few feet away, with what looked like an old drafting table covered in a dust cloth. Travis whipped the cloth away with a flourish and gestured to the plans that were tacked up on the table.

Sam stared at them. It was a set of blueprints and a section of the city map, but it made no sense. Why would hunters need their help like this? Why take them at gunpoint and threaten Dean to get Sam's cooperation? They'd asked about his psychic powers...was that connected?

“You've got to be kidding me,” Dean groaned. “A bank? You kidnap us at gunpoint, drag us all the way out here...to help you knock over a bank?”

“He doesn't need to talk,” Travis said over his shoulder.

Sam tried to protest but he was shoved to the side as one of Travis's men caught Dean by the shoulder and laid him out with a punch. While Dean was dazed from the blow, a rough gag was shoved between his teeth and tied behind his head.

“We have our plans,” Travis continued as soon as his goons were finished. “We just don't know which ones will work.” He beckoned with his head and the man behind Sam hoisted him to his feet to drag him over to the drafting table. Now Sam could see different routes highlighted on the map and the notations on the blueprints.

“I don't understand,” he said. What did they want him to do? Help them plan a bank heist?

Travis rolled his eyes. “We want to know which plans will work.”

Sam looked over at him, mouth working as he tried to come up with an answer. “I...I still don't understand.”

Practically growling, Travis forced his head back around to look at the plans. “You're the psychic, boy. We want to know which of these plans will work the best.”

It was like a pit had opened beneath his feet. Not only had Travis and his men somehow found out about Sam's gift...they wanted him to use it for something impossible. As far as they could figure, the only visions he got were connected to the other psychic kids, or at least similar phenomenon. No way was it so specific that he could look at a map and a bank blueprint to direct an armed robbery. “It...it doesn't work that way,” he tried to explain in a small voice.

Travis sighed theatrically. “Boys?”

“No!” Sam twisted around in time to see one of Travis's men kick Dean in the gut. Two others joined him, stomping at his legs and back.

“Sam,” Travis tapped the papers on the table. “The sooner you give us what we want the sooner I call them off.”

Sam stared at the wiry man in front of him, then risked a glance over at Dean. Dean had managed to curl up to protect himself as best as he could, but with the hits he'd already taken and his hands tied behind his back he was at their mercy. Sam swallowed and forced himself to study the plans. Maybe he could at least pick out the one that had the least chance for collateral damage and go from there.

“There, your second plan,” he said, gesturing at the papers with his chin. “On the map the blue route...the one that goes through the construction zone.”

“Hmm...” Travis leaned around to look at the map, as though his men weren't beating Dean just a few feet away. “But the green route is much more direct.”

Sam's mind was whirling, his mouth moving almost on instinct. “But it goes through a school zone. If you plan to hit the bank at two pm it should be easiest to get in and out, and your getaway would take you past the elementary school right when it lets out. If you go by the construction zone you can avoid the slower traffic, and since they're replacing street lights the traffic cameras will be down at a few of the intersections, you can plant a replacement car there and swap out in a dead area.”

Travis grinned and clapped Sam on the back. “Was that so hard?”

“Make them stop,” Sam pleaded. “I did what you asked, make them stop.”

Shaking his head, Travis raised one hand. The men beating on Dean all retreated, leaving the older Winchester a bloodied mess on the floor.

“We still need to go through the bank plans, Sam,” Travis warned as Sam tried to stand up to go to his brother. “Don't make me call them back.”

Sam swallowed and turned back to the drafting table. He had to do this...had to fix this somehow so that his brother wasn't in danger. He just didn't know how.

                                                          * * *

“Time to load up!” Travis announced. Sam nearly crumpled in relief. His legs were asleep from being on his knees for so long as he and Travis had pored over the bank plans, and he still hadn't gotten to check on his brother (though he'd heard Dean groaning through his gag so at least the older Winchester was still alive).

The plan was just complicated enough that maybe Travis wouldn't notice the holes in it until he was inside the bank. Sam had never talked so fast in his life, spinning out a long, complicated description of bank procedures and guards on duty. But it had been enough to convince Travis, and now Sam was being shoved back into the back of the cargo van as the other men loaded up the gear they'd need. He almost protested, but then Dean was heaved in beside him.

He looked terrible. One side of Dean's eyes was swollen shut, the gag had been pulled so tight it cut into the corners of his mouth, and his nose was definitely broken. He slumped against Sam with a low moan and Sam shifted around to take as much of his brother's weight as he could. Tears stung his eyes and he fought to blink them away—no use giving Travis or his goons any more ammunition.

Travis hopped into the back of the van with the brothers and two of his goons, the other two in the front to drive and navigate with a grill separating them from the cargo compartment.

“Piece of cake, right?” Travis said, laughing to himself. He sat at the back, against the rear doors, while the two goons sat against the grate at the front.

Sam stared at Travis over Dean's head. His only hope would be that the men botched the robbery so badly that they were all arrested. Even if the cops found Dean's warrant instead of treating them like kidnapping victims, he'd at least get medical treatment at the prison. There was a catch in his brother's breathing that made Sam think some of his ribs were broken, and he was worried that Travis would find something else to take out on Dean.

“So. Sammy. How are we doing?” Travis asked.

“Huh?” Sam blinked at him. “What...uh, what do you mean?”

Travis let out a sigh. “The plan, Sam. How's the plan?”

“It's, uh...it's good?”

“Yes, but did you see it?”

Shit. Sam froze for just a second too long, feeling his pulse pound in his ears. “Of-of course,” he stammered. “Yeah, it's great. Great plan.”

Travis was climbing to his feet, though he couldn't stand up straight in the van. “Sammy, what have we learned about lying?”

“What? No!” Sam twisted up to his knees, fighting to put himself between Travis and Dean. “I'm not lying. The future...the future is too fluid to predict accurately, but this plan has the best chance of working!”

“I'm not asking for the best chance,” Travis sneered. He shoved Sam away with a brutal kick, sending the younger Winchester crashing into the two goons at the front of the cargo compartment. “I'm asking for victory.”

“I can't guarantee that!” Sam protested, though he knew it was useless. They were never going to get out of this alive. “Travis...no one could guarantee absolute success! This plan...this plan is the best one I could come up with, and it's good! It will work.”

“I don't believe you,” Travis called over his shoulder. He had Dean by the front of his shirt now, dragging him to the rear doors of the van. He shoved one of the doors open, wind snatching at their hair and clothes and stirring up loose papers inside the van. “I warned you what could happen to big brother, Sam.”

“No, don't do this,” Sam pleaded. The goons were holding him back now as Travis hauled Dean in front of the door, both hands twisted in Dean's jacket to hold him in place in the open door. For an instant Sam and Dean's eyes met, and Sam felt like his guts were being twisted in on themselves. Not like this. Not over some stupid bank heist.

“Say good-bye, Sammy!” Travis taunted.

“Dammit, Jake, hit the brakes!”

The sharp cry from the front of the van startled them all for just a second, then the van screamed to a halt with the shriek of metal-on-metal and the jarring impact as they ran into something. Sam was slammed into the grate separating the cargo from the driver, and Travis and Dean were sent flying into the cargo compartment.

Dean crashed into Sam, and even though his brother's shoulder his hit sternum hard enough leave one hell of a bruise Sam could have sobbed with relief. He'd knocked his head against the grating and was sure there was blood in his hair, they were still helpless in the hands of their enemies, but Dean was here and alive and that was all that mattered.

Then the door of the van was being torn open and rough hands were pulling Travis and his men out.

“Travis Jones, I oughta skin you alive. What the hell were you thinking?”

Sam blinked over Dean's head, seeing a very familiar face framed in the open door of the van. “Ellen?”

She already had a knife in her hands and was gently cutting the gag away from Dean's face. “Bobby called. Said this idiot had been asking the wrong questions and giving him a bad feeling. Max and I were on business in the area anyway, so he asked us to check on you.”

Behind Ellen was another woman, this one with short-cropped bright red hair sticking up in spikes, and more jewelry on her face than most people wore on their entire bodies. Ellen saw his look and rolled her eyes. “Baby shower. You boys okay?”

“You're my hero,” Dean muttered into Sam's shoulder as Ellen cut away the twine that bound his wrists. “I was almost road chow.”

Ellen finished sawing through the twine, but instead of helping Dean out of the van she coaxed him away from Sam just enough to lie down before turning to free the younger Winchester's hands. “Been looking for you two for a couple hours, didn't think we'd make it in time. Luckily Max's wife drives a tank, don't think this piece of junk even scratched the paint on her monster.”

“Travis...” Sam began.

“We'll take care of him,” Ellen said reassuringly. “I'll help Max and Julie pack them up to haul them to the city limits, then we'll go take care of the two of you.”

Sam hesitated. The twine binding his wrists finally broke and he brought his hands around to gently rub the life back into the bruised skin. He didn't want to kill ordinary humans, but the thought of someone like Travis out there who could hurt them again didn't sit right either.

“Hey,” Ellen had a hand on his shoulder, gently bringing him around to look at her. “Your daddy had a lot of pull in the community. Once word gets around what Travis did to you boys, they won't be able to get a decent job again.”

He let her guide him back to sit against the grating, shifting Dean over enough to put his head on Sam's leg. “I'll be back in a second, honey,” Ellen promised. “Soon as I get Max and Julie on their way.”

Sam nodded, the adrenaline fading to leave exhaustion in its wake. He didn't want to close his eyes, for fear that his usual nightmares would be replaced by the image of Travis threatening to throw Dean's battered body out of the back of the van.

“I'm okay, Sammy,” Dean whispered, reaching up to rest a hand on Sam's arm.

“Yeah, I know,” Sam replied. He finally did close his eyes, one hand on Dean's chest, just over his heart. “I know.”

[qatarcookie]

Writing Update - Project “Artful Forgers”

So here we go with a shiny new project called Artful Forgers (German title is Falsche Fälscher which has a bit more punch).

What is it About?

Artful Forgers is set in London in present time in a slightly alternative universe 

(which basically just means that the royal family in this book is distinct from the one in real life). 

It‘s about 25-year-old Jack Halden, a conservator, who has also quite a career as art forger and thief. It starts with him stating that his older brother Edwin died. But then we follow their journey from a point in time where he was still alive - a rat race of conflicted emotions, them trying to destroy each other while also needing the other one.

So here‘s the first line:

Once I had a brother but then he died.

The story is written in first person retrospective and it’s directed to Jack‘s mother. So it is a confession to her but at the same time some kind of justification.

I’m not into sharing too much of the plot at this point in time because I’ve only written about 6k words and I’m also pantsing this book and editing as I go. So things may change! Knowing myself, they will change drastically!

The History

If you’re - understandably - not interested in how this is a rewrite of a rewrite, just skip this section.

In 2017, I wrote a book called Like a Thief You Stole My Heart and I still cringe at the title. It was a queer-romance containing a PoV of Jack and also of the person he was ...in love with. I didn’t know much about writing so I did everything in a way you’re not supposed to. We’re talking telling almost everything here. I wrote this book when I whem my mental health was really bad. During this time this book was one of the few things that could still make me happy - so it has a special place in my heart.

I also turned it into a trilogy. Bad idea.

After I finished the third book in 2018, I learned much about writing, so I thought that maybe I could just change the beginning, some parts of the plot and do major line edits to make it good. Relatively early on, I noticed that I’d have to change it completely in order to make everything work. So I did!

It was Christmas 2018 when I started the rewrite called Clavem - let’s just say I made many mistakes. I had this picture in my mind of what a perfect writing process and perfect writing had to look like, so I did all this stuff thinking that I was obligated to. I plotted, tried to draft as fast as I could and even did NaNoWriMo in 2019. But: drafting wasn’t fun anymore, scenes stopped playing in my head and writing became a chore. I was just forcing myself to write to finally finish it, to have it off my to-do list.

It also, objectively, turned out quite bad. But I always thought that I could make it work when editing. Well. 

In March 2020 I was at 70k words and ...suddenly knew that in order to ever be satisfied with Jack’s story I had to change everything completely. Again. But this time I’d do it in a way that I’d be happy with. 

I’m currently at roughly 6k words and it was so! much! fun! writing them! I loved every second of it. 

I freed myself from expectations that I thought others might have. I’m pantsing again, I’m taking my time with drafting, I do several rounds of edits whilst writing and also ...it’s not genre anymore. I’m doing the LitFic Thing™ now (because when writing short stories I fell in love with it and figured that this is what I actually want to do).

Current State

Currently I’m at 6065 words and that’s actually the first chapter. It’s called MIRROR BLUEPRINT (German title: SPIEGELENTWURF). 

Here’s the opening paragraphs(translated, I’m sorry for any mistakes): 

Once I had a brother but then he died. We shared a mother and a children’s room and were cut by disparate fathers. When I turned eigtheen, we said goodbye in a chapel’s ruins, our cheeks stained by patches of light.

Our paths streaked for five years without ever crossing. You texted me when he visited, so I escaped to the airport. At family gatherings, we materialized like varying moon phases. At dawn, Edwin irrupted at your fiftieth birthday, left me to dusk when there only remained three sprinkles and one huckleberry on your washed-out dishes.

At grandmother’s funeral, he steered the car while I pressed my fingerprints against the window. Abandoned ashes and grey fields passed. We did not share grief or words. When she was buried he handed me a metal shovel, speared my with his eyes, so it dropped to the icy ground.

Kind of a weird beginning so I may or may not change it in future editing. 

In this chapter, we follow Jack as he is on Southwark Bridge in London minding his own buisness, a.k.a. stealing :) people’s :) purses :) as you do. :)

Edwin finds him and they have a litte ...conversation accompanied by a lot of bird action. Idk why, it just happened. 

Here’s a bit of description of them both although it’s not all the description that is in this chapter:

His hair was ink-black and oily. He rubbed it with gel every morning and hid his streaks under a custodian helmet, assorted every strand when he removed it. My curls protruded like bristles of a worn brush, varied between   mahogany and the colour of rust, ends frayed.

He outdid me by one head’s length, his shoulders sprouted outward where mine retracted. 

Also, here’s a part of the conversation they’re having. Just normal stuff you talk about with your family, am I right?! By the way, Edwin is a policeman, so he is not impressed by Jack’s career.

“You'd like an alibi?” My eyes came off the boat. “I heard the news.”

He inspected my as if he could figure an answer on my jawbone. Cars rushed past us. I breathed exhaust, static petrol against my tongue. 

“So it’s your case?”, I said.

“Correct.”

“And I’m your suspect?”

“Right.”

After this scene there are two more which are kinda hard to describe because they are in a non-linear order. 

We meet Lucy, a university student doing her master’s degree in chemistry - what a queen - ...oh, and she’s also Jack’s partner in crime. So here’s a short  thingy with her:

Wind whirled a single strand of hair from her braid, eyes flitted away and turned over to the city. Her chest barely rose and fell as if she were just a marble statue, but breath hissed between her lips. "Oleander." She flicked her head to a bell-shaped bush with deep green leaves and wilted pink flowers, hiding between two rhododendrons.

That’s everything I have to share for now!

-- Cookie!

[raendown]

The next chapter of my Amends to the Dead series, commissioned by the wonderful @birkastan2018 who has been amazingly supporting of my works and provided so much inspiration. 

Pairing: None Word count: 4239 Chapter: 1/4 Rated: T+ Summary: Months after the village is built Izuna is near his breaking point. Peace is nice, don't get him wrong, but he could do without the pale shadow that follows behind him everywhere he goes. All he wants is to understand. What the hell is Tobirama's obsession with watching him?

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header! 

Chapter 1

Grey clouds and a dreary sky greet him when Izuna leaves the administration tower this afternoon, a dour forecast for the evening’s weather. Determined to keep a positive attitude, he tells himself that at least it is holding off for now, will hopefully keep itself in check until after he finishes his inspection. That massive dream-headed idiot of a Senju wants a wall around their settlement but as much as Izuna freely agrees with the tactical benefits of such a barrier he is glad Madara has managed to talk the man in to waiting rather than just springing something up out of the ground willy-nilly. Although several clans and minor villages have already emigrated to join them there are still others they hope to bring in to the fold as well. If Hashirama grows a wall around them at their current size it will ostracize any new districts built in the future – not to mention that such a short-sighted buffoon will almost definitely forget to leave room for population growth as the years go on.

Hence why Izuna has saddled himself with the boring task of trudging his way around the outskirts to scope out where they can expand, how far, whether some portions of the surrounding terrain should be left available to grow crops, that sort of thing. Trying to keep his thoughts grand scale, the first thing he does is make the long climb up the mountain face overlooking them all. From there he is granted a wonderful view of all they have built so far and all the space they have to build upon in the future. Izuna does his best to sketch what he sees on several different pieces of paper and includes the surrounding terrain as little symbols. Later he can use these sketches to create different proposals for wall construction.

Considering how often he changes his mind he intends to make at least five copies. He only gets halfway through the fourth before his hand freezes in place and his eyes slowly roll to one side, looking around without actually turning his head. It’s a useless endeavor anyway. Even if he turns all the way around and carefully inspects every inch of the space behind him Izuna knows he will see absolutely nothing.

Tobirama is better than that.

Weirder than the fact that his counterpart has been following him around like a lagging shadow for weeks now is the fact that there doesn’t seem to be a reason for it. The man hasn’t even gone to the trouble of suppressing his chakra. Izuna might not be a sensor type like his brother is but he isn’t so chakra-blind that he can’t tell when someone he’s spent years on the other side of a war from is nearby. He might be tempted to think the other man is mocking him somehow if not for the fact that Tobirama never once alludes to his little stalker habit when they are forced to interact in the tower. If anything his habit worsens during work hours. Very few days go by when Izuna does not turn around to find Tobirama hovering over him or staring intently from across the room.

Knowing that his old rival has been up to the same idiocies all day – just as every other day – is not very comforting but it makes his movements a little less awkward as he decides that he’s taken up enough time loitering here at the top of the cliff. It’s odd, the things one can get used to after being exposed for long enough. Having someone follow him around isn’t exactly comfortable but it’s something he learned to live with as soon as he concluded that it isn’t a statement of the Senju’s lack of trust. Not the clan as a whole, at least.

If there were anyone they don’t trust it would be Madara and no one follows him around. Izuna cannot imagine them wasting their best on him while assigning someone lesser to tailing his more dangerous older brother. The Senju have never been a stupid enemy.

Almost worse than the strangeness of knowing that he is being followed is trying to decide how to act. Izuna packs his sketches away and does everything he can to resist the urge to turn around and search for the face he knows is watching, reflecting that he isn’t actually sure what Tobirama will do if he confronts the man. When this first started Izuna hadn’t really known what to think of it, held off on reacting in any way in case he was misinterpreting something, and now that he knows for sure that the other is following him he realizes he’s let it go on for so long that bringing it up now will only be more awkward. They need to talk about it at some point, obviously. Just maybe not right this second.

Using that excuse only gets less and less valid with every day.

With a grand overview of the village fresh in his mind Izuna refocuses himself on the task at hand and begins drafting a few tentative blueprints in his mind while he scales his way back down the cliff. Halfway down he makes a mental note to suggest they install an easier way to get up here somehow. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that any tourists or visitors will be very interested in the view of a village so important to the history of the five great nations, the first of its kind. Then he pushes the thought away in to the corner of his mind for ‘things to deal with later’; he has much more important business at hand. Before they can welcome any tourism they need to be more solid in their defense of the people already here.

Senju Touka stands in the center of the road leading in to their settlement from the north when he arrives. Izuna is quick to hide the grimace that appears as soon as he catches sight of her. Enemies they might not be any longer but Touka is not likely to ever be his favorite person. Too brash, too hard, and too focused on being a warrior without ever allowing herself to still be a woman. Izuna enjoys a tough skin as much as the next shinobi but he needs friends and lovers who allow themselves to unclench at least once in a while. The woman before him carries a look on her face even when making no expression which tells him she probably hasn’t unclenched since the first time she learned to wield her body as a weapon.

“Nothing to report,” Touka’s voice rings out sharp even when she speaks quietly. He nods once to show that he understands.

“Border inspection,” he grunts back.

“Already? With all the paperwork that goes through the Tower I had guessed it would take at least another week for anyone to even think about doing something useful about their own ideas.” She snorts and this time Izuna allows the grimace that slides back over his face.

With a rueful sigh he shakes his head. “I gave myself the job for just that reason. This needs to get done.”

“Lots of things need to get done,” Touka mumbles dryly. Her eyes flick back down the path and her chin dips to signal someone else. “The others can walk the road; if I’m going to guard the wall when it goes up I’d like to hear your thoughts on where it’s to be built.”

Since there is really no polite way to refuse her Izuna shrugs and turns away without waiting to see if she follows. If she can’t keep up that’s her own problem. He isn’t the one who invited her along. Just as he finishes the thought her footsteps come from behind and her severe face returns to his peripherals with the blank expression of someone waiting to form an opinion.

That gives him an idea, actually, speaking of opinions. As the two of them travel in silence he lets his eyes roam around the terrain on all sides, mentally comparing it to the visual he remembers from above even as another part of his mind races trying to find the wording for how to broach a subject that many still consider sensitive.

“If I may, I’d like to ask about the climate in your clan,” he says eventually. Touka gives no physical reaction, betrayed only by the caution in her tone as she replies.

“You may ask your questions.” He notices that she has promised him no answers.

“Tensions were high for a while after we first merged our territories. Obviously it’s going to take a number of years before our people can coexist with true ease but – for my own clan at least – I’ve noticed massive improvements. What I mean to ask is: what of your own clan?”

“What of them?” Touka grunts.

Careful not to show his temper, Izuna keeps his voice low so it will not carry to other ears following along behind them. “Have the tensions eased in your people? Or do they still fear mine like enemies?”

“Fear isn’t exactly how I would describe it,” his unwanted companion muses. “Caution would be more accurate.”

“Do they distrust us so much?” he presses.

To his utter lack of surprise Touka turns to give him a sharp warning look. “Don’t go looking for trouble where there is none, Uchiha. Our people distrust yours no less than yours return in kind. Like you said yourself, it’s going to take years to erase the effects leftover from generations of war. Those of us who lived through it may never recover entirely. But”-from the corner of one eye he watches her move both hands away from her weapons in a deliberate motion-“we recognize and accept that the Uchiha want this peace to work. “

“Ah. Thank you for your input, Touka-san. I had thought that was how things stand but at this stage assumptions aren’t safe to be relied upon. Let’s change the subject. We’re thinking of building out from the current settlement to allow for growth but I don’t think this particular area would be good for that. Doesn’t the ground here turn in to swamp a few miles out?”

While she does allow him to change topics without comment Izuna notes the lingering gaze from the corner of her eyes to the corners of his own. He lets her stare. If they truly are allies then he has nothing to fear from a couple of eyes that don’t even have the advantage of a Sharingan. Rumor says this woman is nearly as good with genjutsu as any Uchiha but it would need to be some kind of skill indeed to trap him in an illusion he can’t escape – and besides that there is really no reason for her to do any such thing unless she wants to start another war.

Instead the two of them trade mild opinions on the surrounding land and discuss construction plans all while pretending they don’t notice the acid undertones or the barbs hidden in their words. Much as he is loathe to admit it, by the time they make a half circuit around the village and Touka declares it time for her to turn back he almost finds himself reluctant to see her go. Almost. Sometimes it’s nice to find someone who can withstand the worst of his vitriol. He is still firm on his belief that Touka will never be one of his favorite people but perhaps they can stand each other a little better than he first imagined.

The rest of his patrol around the perimeter is done in silence with no one to talk to but the thoughts inside his own mind, probably the most intelligent conversation he is likely to have all day. Rather than give that Senju woman any reason to look at him funny again Izuna ends his inspection by ducking in between some of the housing built on the fringes like afterthoughts.

He could have done without some of the man’s habits and opinions but if there is one thing Izuna wishes their brothers had actually listened to Tobirama about it’s the road planning. Caught up in their dream as they had been, Madara hadn’t so much held Hashirama back as he had egged the man on to raise frames and rooves without a single thought for the carefully drawn street maps Tobirama had been trying to present them with. Now everyone else pays the price for it as they wind their way through crisscrossing streets that often follow no logical direction whatsoever, haring off towards wherever Hashirama had raised the next home. Surely it can only be the mercy of the kami that made him finally stop and listen to his sibling before he made a similar mess of the village center.

Finding his way through the busy foot traffic is infinitely easier once he reaching the districts where the streets are wider than his own wingspan, leaving plenty of room for Izuna to duck and weave around the gaggle of children chasing each other, wild laughter ringing over the crowds with no regard for the different clans they each belong to.

This, he has come to understand, is the peace that Madara has been dreaming of since they were young boys clinging to each other with all their strength, the last of their siblings and so desperate not to lose any more. In some ways he wishes he had understood earlier. He also hopes that the idiot following along behind him on a nearby rooftop understands the same.

When he reaches the tower Izuna heads straight for his office and rather pointedly shuts the door behind him, relieved to note Tobirama’s distinctive chakra moving off to hopefully be productive somewhere else. How the man gets anything done when he’s following other people around all day is a mystery but Izuna is just as glad to finally be alone. It’s much easier to concentrate on drawing up a few difference proposals for wall construction when he doesn’t have some part of his concentration occupied with the ever-watching eyes over his shoulder.

Unfortunately for all that he’s always been fast at coming up with plans he is also, given the time, a perfectionist. What should only take him a mere twenty minutes to sketch some rough blueprints turns in to nearly two hours of meticulous lines and painstaking notes along the edges of every paper to list the benefits of each different proposal. Izuna is already rolling his eyes at himself by the time he finally drags his body up out of the chair with a firm mental declaration that any further additions will be a waste of time. Only one of these proposals can be chosen as the final plan and the entire council will be looking over it to add their suggestions. No one expects him to think of everything himself.

Seeing Madara roll his eyes as well when he lets himself in to his brother’s office makes him stick out his tongue, a gesture the man returns without pause. Dignity isn’t exactly a concern when they are alone.

“Took you long enough,” is his greeting. “Didn’t you leave to do that just after noon? It shouldn’t have taken you that long just to walk in a big circle and doodle a couple outlines. What did you do, take a nap in a tree somewhere?” Madara tuts and shakes the handle of a brush at him, then he frowns and looks down at the parchment he’s just splattered with ink.

“Pardon me for doing my job well,” Izuna grumbles.

“Well give them here then. Looks like you have several ideas. That’s good, actually. I know it sounds counterintuitive but the bloody elders actually decide faster if we give them more options.”

The two of them share a tired look and Izuna nods understandingly as he tosses his papers on the desk. “Fewer options always means one person picks a favorite right away and another person takes exception to that. Best to let them talk it all out first, I get it.”

Madara spreads the sketches out and fiddles with the end of one, lifting it only to turn his eyes to another.

“Do you have any you’re particularly attached to before I look them over?” he asks.

“No.”

He should know to watch his tone. It’s only a single word but the moment it leaves his mouth Izuna winces, pinned in place under the sudden scrutiny of dark eyes that know him just a little too well.

“You sound upset by something,” Madara notes. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah, I wouldn’t say wrong, precisely. I’m being followed around again and I still don’t like it.” It’s gratifying to see the other man scrunch his face up with distaste. At least he isn’t the only one who finds this situation endlessly odd.

“Still not talking to you about it, I suppose?”

“Not a damn word. Any time I bring it up he just stares at me with these…empty eyes. Honestly sometimes I’m tempted to worry that he’s been possessed by some demon with a grudge against me. Somehow that would make more sense!” Izuna shakes his head, stepping around to slump his body in to the single visitor chair available. Then he squirms uncomfortably as a floral scent wafts up his nose. It’s easy to tell who usually sits in this chair.

Fingers twiddling absently at the edges of the papers spread out on his desk, Madara rolls his eyes at such dramatics but makes no comment on them, which Izuna takes to mean that his sibling agrees in his own way. He wishes he could say he is only being silly and dramatic but deep down he truly believes that Tobirama being possessed by a vengeful spirit would make more sense than for the man to follow him around as though suspicious of his intentions. Still ridiculous, of course, but somehow more plausible.

He hadn’t been stupid enough to believe Hashirama's vague words about recovery during the first few meetings of peace between their people. The longer time went on without the Senju second heir appearing the less anyone had been willing to believe such nonsense but it was the look in Hashirama's eyes which stilled their tongues as the months stretched out in to a full year. Not anger or exasperation, no nervousness that they might be taking offense. What earned their silence both then and now had been the worry in his eyes, the fear for another which he tried so desperately not to let them see, the flash of uncertain terror that shadowed his eyes with every mention of his brother. Izuna has seen that look in the eyes of those who worry for their loved ones even when there is no wound to worry over.

“And he’s not…aggressive?” Madara asks.

“No!” Izuna throws his hands in the air and slumps further in his seat. “At least if he was angry or something I would understand that but this silence and following me around, it’s just weird! I don’t know how I’m supposed to react to it.”

“You could, oh I don’t know, ask him to stop?”

With the bitchiest look he can summon Izuna nods exaggeratedly. “Oh of course, why didn’t I think of that? Ah right. Because I did. And all that accomplished was a big fat load of nothing.”

“There’s no need to be so sarcastic,” his brother grumbles. When Madara turns away to pout Izuna rubs at the space between his brows.

“Do you have any idea what his problem is? Serious question, any idea at all? Has your best friend for life not said anything or dropped any hints? I’m at my wits end here.” What small hope he has is dashed by the shaking of the other man’s head.

Madara shrugs as he says, “Not a clue. It’s weird but Hashirama doesn’t actually talk about his brother very much.”

“You mean they don’t like each other?”

“No, not like that. But every time Tobirama comes up in conversation, if it’s not work related Hashirama will get this really weird look on his face and change the subject. Usually in such a way that I don’t think about it till later. You know how he is, all loud and distracting.”

“He’s certainly not as dumb as he pretends to be,” Izuna agrees.

The two of them sit in silence for a minute or two, thinking of the all the unexpected similarities between the Senju siblings and all the ways they’re still so different. For all that they are both unexpectedly intelligent it seems to be only in their own respective fields. Where Tobirama’s intelligence is nearly unparalleled when it comes to science and political machinations he seems to be quite useless when it comes to human interactions and yet that is where Hashirama shines – earnest Hashirama who can only stare with a blank smile whenever his beloved sibling goes off on some in-depth explanation of a new tax code proposal.

Shaking his head to clear it, Izuna takes a deep breath and decides that sitting around moaning about his own confusion isn’t getting much done. There are still other things he needs to do that day and he can’t do anything of them while staring across the desk at Madara.

Leaving the man to his work is as easy as reminding him that he has a lot of it and suddenly Izuna finds there is no more attention on him, the perfect time to slip out the door and wander slowly back to his own office. It is only his perfectionist nature which leads him to hearing what he does then. Were he anyone else he might shrug it off when he notices the wrappings around his left ankle coming loose, something that can certainly wait until he sits down to be fixed, but he stops instead and leans against the wall just before a turn in the corridor to bend down and fiddle with his ankle. Not until he is already busy unwrapping and retucking does he realize he is in the perfect spot to overhear two people just around the corner.

“Tetsuo thinks maybe they’re having an affair of some kind,” the first voice says, full of scorn for their own words.

“Ridiculous. That icicle and Izuna-sama? Not a chance. They were rivals for years, they’re not going to fall in to bed only a few months after peace was made!” The second voice sounds vaguely familiar, probably a member of his own clan though he can’t quite identify them.

“I never said I believed it!” the first objects. “But it’s weird, right? The way Tobirama-sama just…hovers around him. If they weren’t enemies for years I would say he’s acting like a nervous parent or something with how he watches Izuna-sama’s every move and how he glares at anyone who says something bad about the man.”

To Izuna’s annoyance his possible clan member feels the need to waste time defending his honor with a sharp, “Who’s saying bad things about him?”

“Oh for kami’s sake, that’s not the point.”

“Hmph.”

“But you get what I’m saying, yeah? I know Tetsuo think they’re rolling around together but my theory is a blood oath or something. Maybe Hashirama-sama set him this duty as penance. I heard one of them almost died in the final battle between your clans and everyone knows Tobirama-sama is too fast to go down easy.”

Much as it hurts Izuna’s pride a little to have someone believe him the weaker in any battle, he forces himself to remain still and continue listening. It takes a moment for his prideful clansman to get past the spluttering and rage over the same issue but eventually it fades in to senseless grumbling and a solid declaration that Tobirama was in fact been the one injured during their final clash. Clearly this person hadn’t been present or else they might not so casually reference that moment.

Very few had known how to process the sight of an elder version of his rival appearing only to turn and slaughter his own younger self.

As the two strangers continue to speculate Izuna swallows thickly and turns away to take another route back to his office, finding suddenly that listening in on a conversation he isn’t supposed to hear has lost its appeal. More than ever his curiosity has been peaked, however. He needs to figure this situation out.

Why does Tobirama follow him?

That will have to be dealt with on his own time, however. Later he will pass on what he heard to his brother and they can speculate to their hearts’ content over dinner. For now he has work to do. Work that, so long as he remains shut away within his own office, he can trust that he will be able to do in the silence of solitary.

Only when the work is done will he turn his mind to the problems that he has already let go too far. Surely one more day of ignoring it all cannot hurt anything. He’ll deal with it eventually, of course, but until then Izuna supposes he can hope that ignoring his problems might, by some miracle, simply make them go away.

[dearduende]

DID

this all really happen? the way it’s written, no— scratched into the spiral bound, composition, college-ruled everything. each waking moment and fights and fears. and the dreams. including those crushes from afar with code names that I must piece together from hints over months and years, and then tracing back cryptic love notes tucked into lockers now pinned as if evidence pointing to the mens rea— the furtive phone calls in hushed tones from my bathroom as if my parents didn’t notice me flush and steal myself away from the dinner table and the nightly status reports. the secrecy (and the hormones) (and the embarrassment of my existence) (but mostly the hormones) blooming acne across my chin, my forehead, my nose within the grooves of its parentheses willing its contents—each pore—to shrink into an afterthought. I remember now how I had prayed to God to absolve my skin problems and to solve my boy ones. even bargained with Him in bed that I’d stop touching myself— or at least a bit less—as if these whiteheads were His chosen form of punishment. a dozen constellations across my shoulders from which my mother would weave the story of her same hidden shame, shared scars and bumps across our backs like labels in Braille of all the parts I want to hide, she promised: it’ll lessen and pass with time.

yet it still manages to haunt the next generation.

pull out the red string and the pins to map the evidence, the eye witness accounts, the threats and the retaliation and the heartache onto the faded bamboo floors of my parents’ house. the times I willed myself not to cry, stone woman as my mother avalanched again over the granite before me her voice booming and crumbling daring to swallow us. the way I stoically thrilled in the lust of our mutual destruction, first: the sticky salt of our wounds lashed by sharp tongues and second: the umami of it seared and grilled to perfection. still bleeding. medium rare. or when my father stampeded the room. seeing red. throwing a metal water bottle, denting it permanently against the wall then landing on the cold tile. how their swear words were only ever in English (that’s when I knew shit was serious) a rare violence uncondoned by both their mothers’ tongues.

I’m just realizing now: no wonder my brother and I, or I’ll just speak for myself, why I still burst into tears in the middle of their war zone, or whatever else might feel remotely like it. I now know instead of acting as an unsolicited diplomat caught in the crossfire it’s safer to seek asylum in the Switzerland of the next room, one ear still wired to their rising voices (I can’t help it) and their talking points, only to draft peace treaties for a civil war where they’ve long forgotten what it is they’re really fighting about anymore. but back then, this was the only way to snap them out of self-destruct mode by overriding their programming with the parental unit fail-safe. their child crying.

I could walk backwards through it with my eyes closed and show you exactly how the sun slants through the windows. how in late spring afternoon the crystals hanging in the dining room explode a universe of rainbows, little galaxies of light scattered among our dark matter, across the white walls and the floors and the crumbs on the pale table cloth. I could point out all the favorite sun spots of Tiger and Lily (may he rest in peace) and somehow always end up back at the grand piano. there is a tenderness only fingertips know.

dig out the mental blueprints from the archives. the different schools. the cliques and the quacks. the start of another year. short shorts and sweaters. (refer to your diaryjournals for the details).

and then another new journal. how they all somehow begin with the just-after-waking subtle scent of short stories germinating in my mind. they seem to disappear just before I can finish transcribing them and then I’m left empty handed, dumfounded, foolish and doubting and then writing the only kinds of stories I do know, the ones I’m still learning to place in the light sprouting tender roots between sheets of paper, pressed tightly like all those flower petals— if only I could preserve their bright pigment tones. but even imagination fades. and seemingly so do memories. these spines loosely bound and knees and elbows now cracked, scuffed, and crinkled. just a bit creased and water damaged. over the years. but mostly tears—watermarks from another era. once, an errant sprinkler jet from the lawn tap tap tapped against my bedroom window just barely cracked open, as fate would have it. waterlogged stacks of books my pillars now pink and black and blue with mold and flooded the bamboo floors. trying to put out the wrong fires a decade too late, or maybe the right fires as in the written ones, to destroy the evidence. I now keep them sealed in a plastic box.

I plead the fifth. there must be some limit after all these years, when it’s way too late to apologize anyway— I’ve considered, and then talked myself down, from texting or DMing all the people I have wronged. and memory serves no one now. if my handwriting has changed at least a dozen times does that mean I’ve lived a dozen different lives? the Hubba Bubba gum tape chewing preteen blowing bubbles over every i and j and under each ! and then there’s the jagged purple glitter pen cursive as if going slower helps it turn out better— one of those things you realize later in life isn’t always true. there’s the one seemingly always in a rush, skinny and slanted and caffeinated (there are coffee spill stains to prove) always as if she’s just about to topple over. breathe, I want to tell her, no need to move so fast. you will concuss yourself doing so. and two weeks later also topple down the stairs. (both true stories.) life will force you to slow down. I almost forget the one more rounded and grounded printed in ballpoint extra fine so as not to bleed but what’s the cost of living for the sake of perfection? what even is my handwriting now? I had to dig out one of my scrap paper lists to figure out how its a blend, less measured and more movement without being driven purely by entropy.

loosely held together.

and now, how often do I write, like with pen and paper the letters carved and inked their ghosts passing through the walls between pages bumping up against other memories. these lives and voices call out to me across the decades, some more familiar than others almost like specimens in a museum glass box too fragile for the dust or the humidity or the air or the light of day. I’m an archeologist glowing at her simple discovery which really just involves showing up onsite and digging and dusting and continued search over and over into the pits of my being delicately brushing away at the dirt around my bones, the silt and sediment compressing into a cross section of history held in my hand. look! here it is.

so I write again, if only for this moment to leave my future self some clues (in no particular order): the return of my freckles. Craigslist apartment daydreams. I’m building my callouses learning a new landscape of metal strings and broken chords. say a little prayer. tonight, I made choong yao bang from scratch with Mom. I’ve been staying up way too late (it’s 4:35am right now... why?) and then falling asleep to ASMR videos (specifically, Emma). Mom and Dad are actually not fighting much these days despite spending all day under the same roof (find your Google doc, love in the time of quarantine).

my younger self might not even recognize these people inhabiting our same house.

Mom and Dad are both still here. and I’m trying not to take it all for granted, I promise. we’re together for now but he’s gone again (eerily, much like 10 years ago but this time on his own terms) or at least he’s far away, who knows, who’s to say. we’re giving him time and space. and we’re learning how to hold each other while we fall apart, sometimes all at the same time. usually in different ways.

how I’m scared and excited for my life to unfurl one leaf at a time. allowing myself the gift, the anticipation, the surprise, and then counting the splits.

reach for the sunlight, keep reaching.

and I still don’t know what I wanna be when I grow up but when have I ever had it all figured out and what fun is that.

and a note to my younger self: PS—not only will you continue to write for emotional release (reference my pure bewilderment of this cathartic power in diaryjournal dated February 10, 2007) you will also connect with other humans in your words and we’ll play in our world and revel in theirs too. keep writing, for yourself. and dare to share it with others.

gather what others refer to as the weeds, make a bouquet, blow and scatter the dandelion seeds.

[rayewriting]

I’m Already Broken

Fandom: Batman, and heavily draws from Teen Titians (2016)

This is the extended piece of my earlier post “Something I’m working on”.

And a HHHUUUUUGGGGGEEEEEE shoutout for the beta reader @cdelphiki​ !!! They dealt with all the mistakes for the first draft and pitched in some amazing ideas too! They are an incredible beta, writer, and person to talk with!!! So if you have not heard of them or read anything by them, you are TOTALLY missing out on some AMAZING fics!! (I know, “Raye, what’s with all the caps?” THEY ARE JUST SO NICE AND AMAZING. I JUST- I JUST LOVE THEM, OKAY?)

Robin was rarely called into Gotham anymore after starting his new Teen Titians team in Brooklynn. So, when Batman called Damian to go on regular patrol in his city, he was a little worried. But while Robin was investing somethings that Emiko needed to look into for some of the Titans’ upcoming missions a few days ago, Batman broke his ankle while fighting Killer Crock and Batgirl got a major concussion after Harley Quinn knocked her out a couple of days after Bruce was put on medical rest. That led to Robin patrolling Gotham with the help of Spoiler and technical support of Oracle for a week, starting Saturday night.

“Oracle, send an anonymous tip to the GCPD on the corner of 15th and Carter street,” Robin reported as he tied up an unconscious man that Robin found, assaulting a teenager, then he turned toward the victim and asked softly, “Are you alright?”

The teen was shaking but tried to pull himself together and nodded slightly.

“The police are on their way. You can either stay here or head to the police station that is five blocks down,” Robin said slowly, knowing the victim was trying to process what he was saying. The teen nodded his head again, then slowly slides down the wall he was leaning on. As Robin grappled up to the roof his mask blinded him with an alert of Scarecrow and Poison Ivy escaping Arkham.

Then he heard over the open comm line, “Oh shit.” Robin just grunted in agreement.

However, nothing happened over the next couple of days. From experience, that usually meant disaster was about to strike. Which is exactly what happened on Thursday as Scarecrow was reported raiding a chemical facility earlier in the day and Robinson Park was growing unnaturally quick during the last couple of hours.

“Robin, Spoiler, head to the cave, we will come up with a plan here,” Batman commands over the comms from the cave.

“On my way B-man. Besides, I have a class tomorrow and need sleep,” Spoiler pipes up, jumping on her cycle and enters a secret passage that leads to the cave.

“ETA ten minutes,” Robin reports, adjusting his grapple to swing towards his own cycle.

“Looks like I’ll beat you there, D, I’m in the tunnels.” Steph says. Robin acknowledges her with an uninterested grunt and begins to pull out of an alley.

“Hold on…,” Oracle pipes up, “I’ve caught Scarecrow down at the Dixon Docks in Chinatown, Robin, head there. Spoiler, Ivy was seen at Gotham’s Natural Museum in the Burnley district. We can coordinate plans while you two head to your new locations.”

“There goes my precious four hours,” Spoiler grumbles.

“Damian, I’ll head down there soon, Scarecrow is not to be taken lightly—” Bruce was saying before Damian cut him off.

“You have not finished healing, Father, and, as much as I find it ironic, you will not be in the field till Dr. Tompkins and Penny-One approve of this move. You being in the field would be more of a hindrance than any help. Do not worry, I will use caution. We do need a plan; however, and that is paramount for any successful mission.”

Oracle jumps into the conversation by adding, “I just got intercepted a 911 call saying that a few men in ‘potato sack masks’ abducted a group of people from Cameron Street.”

“Hack the cameras, Oracle, I want numbers and names; how many people were taken, who they are, and how many perpetrators. See if they lead us to Crane’s location by tracking the hostages’ phones or other devices, or if they put the hostages somewhere else. Maybe Crane is trying to fool us by driving to a different location,” Bruce demands gruffly. “Spoiler any…”

Robin tuned out the conversation as he as he was driving to the docks. As he pulls up to the waterfront warehouse area, he waits for Spoiler to finish her report of the museum, finding nothing amiss there, Robin reports quietly, “I am here, have you figured out a certain warehouse or a group at least?”

“Close, Robin, I’m almost…,” Oracle trails off, the sound of keys clacking rang through, “Got it, the fifth warehouse on your left. I’m pulling up blueprints now.”

Robin starts sneaking over toward the appropriate building, looking through windows on the bottom floors while Oracle begins to hack to find the correct blueprints, “Okay… okay... ah-ha. The building was built with two floors, first floor has no rooms, just a place to stock over-produced goods and the second just a perimeter catwalk with a room at the opposite side of the entry doors. There are ten hostages, three women, four children, and three men. Looks like at least eight muscle-for-hires, I can’t do a facial recognition search of them because of the masks but most have a heavy build body type.”

Robin takes all of this into consideration when he looks into the window of the first floor, “The hostages are bound, gagged, and spread into three different groups, each group has a man, woman, and child. The groups are separated by metal containers or wooden crates, I do not have visual conformation on the last child. I can see five of Scarecrow’s thugs. I’m going to draw their attention towards the alley behind the warehouse and take them down. Hopefully that will spark majority of the hostages to get out while they can.”

Once Batman gives his approval, Robin slowly made his way towards the back doorway, picking up a dark-colored glass bottle along the way, and entering the building. The door closes loudly then after a couple of seconds he throws the alcohol-scented bottle- smashing it against the wall gaining the attention of the closest guards to the back of the building.

“What the hell is that?” Robin hears, most likely coming from the guard closest to the hostages.

“How am I suppose to know? I don’t have x-ray vison.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, idiot.”

“Excuse me—”

“Hey! Knock it off you two, it’s probably a local drunk. You four, go check it out. Report in when you know.”

The henchmen are dressed in all black and have burlap masks around their eyes, all different ethnicities, but their builds are similar to each other. When they reach the end of the warehouse they spread out. The two closest thugs to him, Robin puts in a headlock and holds tightly until they go limp and drags them behind a large crate and ties their hands together. The third one is drawing closer and Robin walks behind him, picking up a metal pipe that was sticking out a crate, and hits him across the head- enough to knock out, then ties him as well. Which leaves the last one—

“Hey!”

Shit.

The last thug saw him and reaches for his radio, but Robin grabs the gun that is in face and breaks the hand and pistol whips him across the head.

“Peter? What happened?”

Robin quickly hides in the shadows of a metal container by the time another goon shows up, which Robin jumps behind him and puts him the same headlock, slightly trickier than the first one but he still passes out. After tying the two men together, Robin makes his way to the catwalk silently walking across till he is as close as he can to the remaining gunman around the hostages.

“What is taking them so long?” the lone criminal asks himself angrily, then into the radio, “What’s happening? Report in!”

“Your associates will not be contacting you anytime soon.” Robin makes his presence known, making the other male turn quickly and aiming his weapon at the costumed hero. In turn Robin throws himself off the catwalk and lands on the man’s shoulders and knocks him out with a well place nerve strike, making the thug slump to the ground.

Robin runs to the closest group of hostages, pulling a knife out to cut into the ropes of the closest adults, an African-American man in his early thirties and a Latina woman in her late twenties. Once he reaches the group, he begins to inform them, “The criminals on this floor are gone, and the other ones are most likely upstairs. I am going to cut you out of your bounds, then you need to help the others out and contact the police. Do you understand?” They both nod quickly and Robin walks to the man’s back, noticing his hands are shaking, “Please try to keep your hands as still as possible, this knife is quite sharp,” Robin says softly, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder.

After the man’s hands slow, he cuts off the rope and repeats the process to the woman while the man unties the pale skin child, “Though I have taken care of the criminals on this level, please do not make more noise than necessary, there is a child unaccounted for and I need to save them.”

The woman speaks up hesitantly, “The criminals grabbed too many kids, according to Scarecrow, so he took her up there,” she points to the offices upstairs.

Robin bristles silently at the information but quits when he looks at the woman, “Thank you for the information.”

The child the man just finished untying, runs to Robin legs and grasps his shirt crying out, “She is my sister! Her name is Opal! You have to save her!”

Robin kneels to reach the child and shushes him, “I am going to try my best, but in order to do that I need everyone out of the building, that includes you, your sister, and everyone else here.” The child nods then begins to walk towards the adults and follows them to the other groups.

Robin starts up the stairs swiftly and silently. “Oracle, I have secured all but one of the hostages. Six men are unconscious, leaving at least two more and Scarecrow.”

“Okay, Robin. I’ll have GCPD parked outside ready for pick up soon.”

“How are things with Poison Ivy?”

“Spoiler is taking care of it at the moment, pretty well. Only a few hiccups, but they smoothed out nicely. Ivy will need pick up soon as well.”

“Very well.”

Robin takes out the two gunmen guarding one of the doors hastily but noisily when one of them got a shot off into Robin’s arm. The sound of the gunshot causes Bruce to loudly worry over the comm device in his ear. Grunting in assurance, Robin engages grappling with the last thugs. He breaks one of older men’s arm and slams him into the wall. Then, he pushes the other one off the catwalk and bolas him while the thug was in mid-air.

The sleeve of his uniform is torn off and blood is leaking into his gauntlet, leaving a few inches of his brown skin vulnerable. Robin opens the office doors slightly taking note of the layout, three wooden desks are situated in the room, and each had one wooden chair in front and a swivel chair behind. The little girl, Opal, was seated on the chair in front of the desk that was opposite of the door, tied and gagged, but seemingly unharmed. He quickly rolls into the room, hiding underneath the closest desk and opens his comm for everyone to listen to Scarecrow’s plan. Then, as quietly as he can he sneaks over to Opal when Scarecrow isn’t looking and unties her hands and feet, then puts his index finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, then unties her gag.

Scarecrow, when threatened, was akin to a rabid dog- jumping at every noise and quick to act- needless to say, very dangerous. His gun was full of needles of fear toxin, aim jumping to all the shadows in the room. After Robin was finished untying the child, Scarecrow sing-songs “Robin, come out, come out wherever you are! Or this little one gets it.”

Robin stands up and walks forward into the light coming from the overhead bulb in the middle of the room, “What is your plan, Crane? Throwing Gotham into chaos and reign the madness? Or something even more asinine?”

“How dare you! My plan was marvelous! City wide madness is always a pleasure! But since you, bats, always seem to ruin it, let’s see what you your actions cost you!” Scarecrow cries as he pulls the trigger that is still pointing at the small child.

Robin shouts out a loud, “Run!” and without hesitation, jumps in front of Opal, the needle harmlessly hitting his armor plate, then bouncing off and landing on the floor. “I do not think I am the one needing to pay my dues, Crane,” Robin quips as he launches himself into an attack, causing Scarecrow to go on the defensive. He hears the door be thrown open and little feet make loud footfalls as she leaves the warehouse.

“Hold still, you little—”

“Shut up, Crane.”

After a few minutes of grappling with the madman, Robin has Crane on the ground. Robin attempts to nerve strike him, but Scarecrow dodges, swipes the fallen needle, jabs Robin in the hole of his uniform, and injects the toxin into Robin’s bloodstream. When Robin gives a short curse, Batman immediately demands for information, but Robin doesn’t have time and jumps away from the mad scientist’s hands as they go for a choke hold.

“Robin, what is happening?” Batman shouts into his ear, and Robin grunts while going back into the fight, not waiting for the illusions to take hold.

“Impossible! That was enough to get Batman weeping! So, how are you unaffected?!” Scarecrow cries as Robin throws a barge of punches at the scientist’s side. The comm unit in Robin’s ear goes silent, obviously the other people hearing Scarecrow’s meaning.

Robin jumps takes advantage of Scarecrow’s distracted mind and throws him to the wall and hogtying his feet and hands together.

Then the teen wobbly leans into Scarecrow’s face and coldly lets out, “I am living my greatest fear every damn day I wake up, Crane. Nothing you inject me with can be worse than my life.”

Silence!

The toxin is pumping through his veins as he pours out his soul unwillingly, “My team does not trust or like me. My other allies are either dead, moved on, or ignoring me. My best friend has suddenly aged and has not even bothered to talk to me. My grandfather just wants my body to possess.”

The toxin! It’s the toxin!

His eyes grow hazy and wide as his biggest secrets flow out of him. “My mother orchestrated my death to prove that my father does not care for me. One of my brothers betrayed me for his own gain with no reason that I can see. Another one is dead and… never cared for me—I will not have the opportunity to prove that I do ever again.”

Oh please, make it stop! Just stop talking!

His heart is pounding so loud in his ears. “My oldest brother does not remember me and therefore does not care for me. My father has shown multiple times that he does not have intention of being around or caring. Any other person I could count on in this city has shown their disinterest or disappointment in either myself or my actions.”

Anything else! Anything else, but this! Please!

He tries to stop the river of words, but he can’t. “But that, that I can handle. The worst thing, the worst thing is that I have brought this all upon myself. And I cannot seem to stop or change enough for people to stop hurting me, or leaving me behind. And your fear toxin cannot hold a candle to those feelings on its best day.”

Leave! Leave now! Go anywhere else but here!

Robin knocks out the scientist, stands up, throws open the office door, walks out. He reaches to his ear to open his comm, forgetting the device had been on the whole time, and when he remembers leaving the channel open, his heart plummets when he realizes that everyone heard.

Shaking his head, Robin forces himself to speak calmly into his still quiet comm unit, “Oracle, Scarecrow is apprehended and is waiting on GCPD pick up in the second-floor office in the warehouse. I am headed to the closest safehouse for a fear toxin antidote.”

His comm unit cracks to life as Barbara quietly confirms his request, then leaves him to his thoughts.

Unknown to him, was the sniffles coming from Spoiler while she finishes up with Poison Ivy.

The tears in Barbara’s eyes while leaving an anonymous tip for GCPD.

The broken china tea cup that Alfred was laying out for Bruce.

The dent in the consoles where Bruce’s hand was laying.

[carmenlire]

Stolen Hearts

Happy Valentine’s Day Part II!

read on ao3

Walking through the Gallery, Alec feels anticipation trickle down his spine. This job was one of his bigger hauls and just the thought of getting his hands on the sixteenth century sculpture has has pulse spiking.

He’s a professional, though, and even if excitement is lighting him up on the inside, he’s outwardly calm and cool.

His black combat boots make no sound on the marble floor as he makes his unerring way towards the location of his target. Thankfully, the owners of this villa were away for the week-- off on a weekend getaway to Napa Wine Country-- and Alec had the place to himself.

Studying the blueprints and security system had been no mean feat and these twenty minutes are the culmination of dozens of man hours and months of careful planning.

Alec’s in the zone-- the plan seared onto his memory-- but he can’t keep his thoughts from straying.

To him.

Shaking his head impatiently at himself, he freezes at Isabelle’s hissed warning that sounds in his ear just as a random red laser appears across his path. He's still for sixty full seconds before it disappears and Alec breathes a minute sigh of relief as he resumes his route.

Making the final turn to where the stature is, Alec allows himself a grin. Truth be told, he was getting to old for this shit and he’d been thinking long and hard about getting out of the game. Everything seemed too tame, too stale. There was no fun in it any longer and Alec had amassed a fortune that he could live on for several lifetimes.

He had two more heists to carry out and then Alexander Lightwood, known in certain circles as the shadowhunter, was disappearing into myth and legend as a notorious thief and member of the White Collar’s Top Ten Most Wanted List.

Alec takes one step into the statue room of Aldertree’s mansion and freezes in his tracks.

“Son of a bitch.”

Isabelle is demanding answers through his ear piece but all Alec can focus on is the fucking cupcake sitting right where his prized Hercules and Antaeus statuette should be.

Putting his hands to his hips, Alec lets his head fall back to stare at the ceiling as he closes his eyes and counts to ten.

He gets to four before shaking his head and moving closer to where Magnus Bane had just ruined everything-- again.

“Goddamnit, Magnus,” Alec swears and he doesn’t even startle as a voice sounds behind him.

“You rang?”

Turning around, Alec glares at the man in front of him. He and Magnus had been dancing around each other for years. It had started out with the two of them bumping into each other while casing the same museum and five years later, Alec was more surprised than not when he didn’t run into Magnus during a job.

Alec’s gaze drops down to Magnus’s hands and he swears again, turning the air blue with his exasperation. “That’s my statue, Bane, and you know it.”

“Do I?” Magnus’s eyes narrow as he studies the piece in his hands. His smile is slow and makes Alec’s mouth dry when he continues insouciant, “Finders keepers, darling.”

“I’ve been researching Aldertree for six damn months, Magnus, and I’m not going to let you come in here at the eleventh hour and swipe Hercules and Antaeus right out from under me.”

Magnus doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, clearly thinking before he starts to nod slowly. “You know what, Alexander? You’re right. It is right dastardly of me to take what’s yours with impunity. Maybe-- just this once-- I’ll let you keep your little treasure.”

Immediately suspicious, Alec studies Magnus from where they stand several yards apart. The Gallery is eerily quiet and Alec can’t figure out what’s going on. Magnus has never let him have anything and it doesn’t make sense that he would start now.

“Why,” he asks warily. “Why would you hand a sculpture reputedly worth thirty two million dollars to me without arguing?”

Setting the statue down on the marble floor, the delicate ping of metal against marble is loud in the silence.

Magnus walks closer towards him and Alec can’t quite seem to get his wits about him. Magnus always looks good-- lethal yet elegant-- and tonight is no different. He wears black to distraction and his fitted pants look painted on.

Alec’s mouth waters no matter how many times he calls himself a fucking idiot for being attracted to the only man who’s just as sought after by the feds.

Magnus doesn’t stop until he’s standing right in front of Alec. They’re rarely so close and it’s been a few months since they’ve seen each other-- not since Alec had joined Magnus for a drink at his hideaway bar, The Hunter’s Moon, and warned him that word on the street was that Camille was about to go turncoat against Magnus in exchange for a lighter sentence.

The sharp intake of breath is achingly audible in the empty room and Magnus’s eyes fall down to Alec’s mouth for an earth shattering three seconds before he lifts them back up to meet Alec’s gaze.

“A little birdie told me that you’re going straight, darling.”

Chuckling, Alec’s eyes warm as he grins. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that if I was you, Magnus.”

Magnus immediately understands the hidden innuendo and he laughs too. Alec knows that it’s not his imagination when Magnus leans closer into his space.

“A poor choice of words on my part,” Magnus acknowledges wryly. “In any case, it looks like I won’t be running into you anymore in these dark, secluded spaces. More’s the pity,” Magnus says with an arched brow, “But I’m happy for you, Alexander. I hope that the next chapter of your life-- while frightfully dull and legal-- is just what you want.”

“So-- what? You’re just giving me Hercules and Antaeus because you want to throw me a bone?”

Magnus’s eyes light up and Alec glares at him, watches in amusement as his arch nemesis and greatest thorn in his side, makes a dramatic display of keeping his mouth closed.

Sighing, Magnus reaches for Alec’s chin. His grasp is firm and it’s astonishing how Alec doesn’t feel trapped. Quite the contrary, in fact. It’s absurd, but he feels safe.

“Want to know a secret?” Magnus doesn’t wait for Alec to agree before he’s continuing, “I’m leaving this life behind, too. Really, I’m already done and ready to set up a legitimate business. A night club in Brooklyn,” he confides to Alec who takes the news with a small pang.

“What are you doing here then,” Alec asks, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“I heard you’d be here tonight and thought I’d give you a send-off. I couldn’t resist having a little fun with you, Alexander. You always make it so easy to ruffle your feathers.”

“So, what’s this? A goodbye?”

Tilting his head, Magnus regards Alec with a warm look, fondness overlaid with something that Alec can’t quite decipher.

“This is whatever you want it to be, darling.” His lips graze the shell of Alec’s ear as he whispers, “Happy Valentine’s Day, darling.”

Letting go of Alec, Magnus takes a step back. Adjusting his ear cuff, he jerks his chin towards the pedestal where the statue had sat and where currently resides a goddamn cupcake.

“I bought that especially for you, you know. Don’t forget it on your way out.”

Magnus is a few feet away when he finally pauses. He doesn’t say anything right away, instead taking the time to study Alec and give him a thorough once over.

His mouth tips up in a grin that barely moves his mouth, even if his eyes are dancing. “I hope I see you around, Alexander. Whatever the case, good luck and best wishes.”

Nodding somberly, Alec replies, “You too, Magnus. Thank you.”

His voice is quiet, trailing off at the end and with a last searing look, Alec turns around and leaves as quietly as he’d appeared.

Alec counts to thirty before he moves and then he goes directly to the pedestal. Once he sees the cupcake in full he laughs-- much louder than he should but he just can’t swallow the sound.

It’s a pink cupcake with swirling frosting. There’s a single candy heart in the middle that reads Cutie Pie.

It’s delightfully cheesy and Alec smiles. In the next minute, however, he sees the small white card underneath and is reaching for it before he even knows what’s happening.

The only thing on the front is his first name and when Alec opens it, there’s nothing but a phone number written in elegant script.

Alec feels butterflies kick at the potential this card represents, at the knowledge that Magnus wanted to continue their acquaintance even if they were both retired and logically, didn’t ever need to talk to each other again.

Sliding the card carefully into his pocket, Alec picks up the cupcake and holds it in a gentle hand while he takes the statue on his way out.

His last job is flawless as always and as promised, the shadowhunter is never heard from again, much to the FBI’s lasting exasperation.

For his part, Alec starts writing a book. It’s several months later when he has the draft to the first in a supposed adventure series about the fictional life of a world-renowned art thief finished. Sitting back in his chair, Alec looks away from the blinking cursor on his laptop screen and his gaze snags on the top drawer of his desk.

Reaching out, Alec slides the drawer open and takes out a pristine white card. He turns it in his hands and debates for a moment before reaching for his phone.

It might be a little late but Alec wonders what Magnus would think about an early-- very early-- Valentine’s Day dinner.

He wonders where one gets candy hearts this time of year.

[cheshiresense]

What if: the Gotei 13 offers Ichigo the creation and captaincy of the Fourteenth Division?

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Pinglist: @queen-sands

It takes Kisuke a full seventy-two hours to finish plastering all of District 78 with seals powerful enough to knock a herd of evil rampaging elephants off their feet but that’s just the first layer. He doesn’t have that much reiatsu to expend continuously though, which means he needs a break.

Ichigo of course is still working. The gods forbid he retains the stamina of even just your average Shinigami captain.

He ends up collapsing into one of the camping chairs Ichigo must’ve brought while Kisuke was busy elsewhere. They’re set up at the edge of what will one day be their headquarters, and there’s water and some snacks waiting for him as well, which he dives into gratefully. The spot also gives Kisuke a nice view of Ichigo carting charred debris and rubble to a few separate dumpsters stationed in front of an open Garganta. A few well-aimed Getsuga Tenshous from earlier reduced the remaining buildings to heaps of splintered wood and stone, which helps fit them into each metal container more easily.

Kisuke spares a moment to admire the amount of control Ichigo’s gained in only a few short years once he put his mind to it. The Garganta holds steady even when Ichigo Shunpos from one side of the area to the other, and even three days in, he easily lifts a piece of cement wall like it weighs nothing. He’s shrugged out of the top half of his Shihakushou, letting it pool around his waist, and while he’s sweating and his muscles flex every time he gathers up a new load, there’s not a speck of strain anywhere in the fluidity of his movements.

He’s staring, Kisuke realizes ruefully, and gives himself a mental slap while reciting a mantra he put together a good few years ago - young, former student, screwed over his soul, used him as a weapon, young.

Rinse and repeat until it sticks.

He sighs and tosses his hat onto the foldable table beside him before leaning back and putting up his feet. There’s a stack of files on the table so he picks those up to distract himself. The paperwork is familiar, giving him flashbacks to those captain days he certainly doesn’t miss, and it makes him smirk-- he wonders if Kyouraku would take his bet for how long it will take Ichigo to set his paperwork on fire.

There’s a pen and a slip of paper with Ichigo’s rushed scrawl tucked in the first folder, on which he’s already marked down the end figures for everything he’s had to pay for so far. Thankfully not much yet, but it’s good that he’s keeping track. Kisuke remembers the first time Yoruichi dumped the Second Division’s entire monthly budget on him and he made the mistake of putting it off for later - that was a mess and a half to untangle, and it got him in trouble with Yoruichi, the Ninth, and the Soutaichou-- never mind that it wasn’t even supposed to be his job to begin with. But it taught him the importance of keeping accounts and being mindful of any outgoing expenses, especially when it became clear Yoruichi wasn’t going to stop foisting the management of their finances off on him, so he’s glad to see Ichigo hasn’t neglected it so far even if it might not seem particularly essential just yet.

...Then again, Ichigo did more or less raise his sisters since their mother passed. Quite possibly, he learned the importance of savings and proper budgeting a long time ago.

Kisuke shuffles that file to the bottom. He lingers briefly on the outline of the partially drawn Fourteenth Division insignia before moving past that too. He spends just enough time on the folder of blank profiles to fill one out for himself and another for Ichigo, mostly basic information that the Gotei already has and a bit more that they don’t but never more than the bare minimum. He makes a note to advise Ichigo to ensure the same for the rest of their squad.

There’s a couple more blank pages, and after a moment, Kisuke takes one and begins sketching out a rough idea of some building plans for their headquarters. Administrative building, captain’s office at the top, lieutenant’s right across, senior seated complement’s scattered a floor below. Private quarters for each. A few communal areas, more offices on the ground floor, front desk off to the side, never directly in view of everyone and their dog coming in through the front doors but with a perfect line of sight for anyone manning the desk to carry out a surprise attack should someone uninvited attempt to sneak in.

Barracks, big enough to accommodate a full-sized squad even though Kisuke is fairly certain they won’t have anywhere near that many people anytime soon. Training grounds, more than one. After a moment of deliberation, Kisuke leaves the farthest right area - past where the future barracks would be - blank. He thinks Ichigo might’ve already had the same idea so he should leave some space for it.

There’s forest area all along the back. Kisuke marks that down for where he wants his promised labs to be. A Senkaimon connecting them to his office will have to be anchored in place, perhaps in a separate (hidden) room on the top floor of the admin building. It’s technically illegal but it isn’t as if Ichigo will care.

That’s more or less all the basic requirements for a Division’s headquarters. Even the labs aren’t strictly necessary but Ichigo was right-- Kisuke might actually go into withdrawal or at least blow something up if he’s no longer allowed his own projects to play with.

But other more personal touches can be added at a later time. Maybe separate apartments-- Ichigo will probably want his own place outside of the barracks or the office’s adjoining bedroom, and Kisuke will too. And tunnels of course. Underground safe rooms. Underground workspace and training grounds. Underground everything, in case of a siege and the enemy actually manages to breach the walls. Speaking from experience, Kisuke does not think he is overreacting. It isn’t paranoia when your very existence is about to make some very powerful people very angry and very scared. Besides, Second Division headquarters is similarly outfitted and they’ve never been accused of treason or threatened with execution.

He sets the blueprints aside for now. They’re only a first draft, and Ichigo will want to add his own input.

He glances up again at the sound of approaching footsteps, then reaches down to retrieve one of the bottles of water and tosses it to Ichigo. “Are you finally taking a break?”

“Not all of us have ancient bones to rest,” Ichigo retorts around a grin before guzzling down half the bottle and then dumping the rest over his head. Kisuke very firmly keeps his eyes on Ichigo’s face and no lower, which isn’t exactly a hardship but… well, there’s a lot of bare skin on display.

“You’re finished with the seals?” Ichigo asks, looking around, eyes going half-mast and distant in a way that means he’s feeling for the wards.

“Only the first layer,” Kisuke sighs, levering his legs off the footrest and back onto flat ground. “I’ll need more time to build up all the defenses to an acceptable level, and that isn’t even getting into the seals that can’t be tied in until at least the walls of our compound have been built.”

“...They’re really strong already,” Ichigo murmurs after a moment, blinking back into the present. The look he aims at Kisuke next is full of a genuine sort of admiration that makes Kisuke want to preen and blush and bask in it all at the same time. “You’re kind of amazing, Kisuke.”

Kisuke clears his throat and busies himself with stacking the files onto the table again. “My Kidou skills should hardly come as a surprise to you anymore, Ichigo, or did you forget how I won our last… oh, twenty spars?”

“Shut up,” Ichigo huffs, moving to flop into the other chair. “Hadou and Bakudou are different than this stuff. I don’t see it as much. I don’t think most people even know how to do it.”

Kisuke allows himself a moment of smug pride. “Well, you’ll be seeing plenty of it from now on. But I do need some rest before I get started on the next layer.”

“Yeah, of course,” Ichigo agrees more seriously this time and waves a dismissive hand. “We’re not in that much of a rush. If anybody does come to try and stop us this early on, it’s not like they’ll be able to get the drop on either of us.”

True enough. It’s when Ichigo begins bringing in other people - possibly civilians - that they’ll have to worry. But for now…

“Then,” Kisuke continues, catching Ichigo’s eye even as he reaches for his discarded hat. “If you don’t need me for anything else right this moment, I have some business to wrap up elsewhere. I should be back by the end of the day at the latest.”

Ichigo looks curious but he doesn’t ask, shrugging instead and digging into the bag of snacks he brought. “Sure. I did drag you out here pretty suddenly.” His expression slants into something more concerned. “Just make sure you actually catch a nap or something too, okay? If you collapse on me, I’m gonna hold it over your head forever.”

Kisuke smirks even as he puts his hat back on and stands. “With the number of times you’ve fainted into my arms after a fight-”

“I did not faint!”

“-I don’t believe I’ll have anything to worry about.”

He catches the empty bottle Ichigo hurls at him and throws it back, still smirking. “A Garganta to my shop, if you please, Ichigo.”

Ichigo rolls his eyes but snaps a portal open for him all the same. “Get outta here. Don’t start the end of the world or something while you’re gone.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Kisuke says dryly before stepping through, the mouth of it closing behind him. He has more than enough reiatsu still to forge a simple path under his feet, and the single tunnel of invisible turbulence guides him through the darkness. It only takes a few minutes of travel before the tunnel ends and the Garganta opens again to reveal the foyer of his shop.

Ichigo really has gotten very proficient with this kind of transportation.

The place is empty, not that Kisuke expected anything else. Tessai should still be visiting with some old friends, and Yoruichi hasn’t come by in months. The kids… Actually, Kisuke should probably stop calling them that. They finally grew enough to demand to go to college a few years back when Karin and Yuzu graduated high school, despite the fact that Kisuke could’ve easily downloaded information on pretty much any subject they would’ve wanted to know about into their internal databases. But they insisted, and last Kisuke heard, they were doing well in Todai.

He makes his way to the kitchen, picking up the portable phone on the way before putting the kettle on. He sets the phone on the counter, turns on the speakerphone, and starts rummaging for the tea as he waits for the call to connect.

“Kisuke?”

“Yoruichi-san,” Kisuke greets airily. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything.”

He automatically tunes out the next three and a half minutes of Yoruichi recounting her latest exploits with Sui-Feng. It’s probably terribly petty of him but Kisuke’s never been particularly interested in the zealous mess that was Sui-Feng catering to Yoruichi’s whims, no matter how funny Yoruichi thinks it is.

“It’s good to hear the Second Division is doing so well,” Kisuke interjects after he tunes back in in time to listen to Yoruichi tell him about the new group of Academy graduates they just took in. “Will you be taking over their training or will Sui-Feng-san be making them regret ever stepping foot in the compound?”

Yoruichi cackles over the line. “You say that like I won’t make them regret that. But yes, Sui-Feng asked if I could train them, get’em up to snuff. I’ll even go easy on them the first week.”

“How fortunate for them,” Kisuke says drolly because he knows better than most how difficult a taskmaster Yoruichi is when she’s serious.

Yoruichi chortles again, and Kisuke’s hands hover briefly over the tea set he just took down.

It’s been a long time since he last heard his best friend laugh so freely.

“Well then?” Yoruichi prompts, her mirth fading a little. “That’s all the news on my side. Did you call just for an update or did you need something?”

Has something happened goes unspoken but not unheard.

Once, he could’ve called just to call.

“Nothing urgent,” He replies. “But I was wondering if you could make some time to come visit little old me today. Tessai-san too, if you know where he is. Otherwise, I’ll call him after this.”

There’s a beat of silence on Yoruichi’s end before her voice comes back on, casual in a way that only Kisuke and Tessai would be able to tell it isn’t entirely genuine. “Of course. I know where he is. I’ll swing by and pick him up. Twenty minutes?”

“See you then,” Kisuke agrees. “My regards to Sui-Feng-san.”

For once, Yoruichi only scoffs, amusement twined with an exasperated sort of skepticism because she’s never been any kind of oblivious in her life. But all she says is, “Right. I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear from you.”

Kisuke hums noncommittally in the face of that bald-faced lie, says goodbye, and hangs up. He carries the tea tray over to the dining table and keeps each cup and the pot piping hot with a touch of his finger.

Then he waits.

“So what’s this about?” Yoruichi asks briskly, cutting to the chase after only a perfunctory sip of Kisuke’s tea. Tessai says nothing but he too looks at Kisuke expectantly, with only a slightly worried frown creasing his brow.

“Nothing overly important,” He repeats. He absently swirls the tea in his cup, catching a faint glimpse of his reflection in the pale green liquid. “I assume you’ve heard of Ichigo’s promotion?”

“I dunno if you’d call it a promotion,” Yoruichi snorts, looking amused. “But Kyouraku slapping the kid with a captaincy and his own division? Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s the only thing half the Gotei has been talking about recently. Or at least they’ve heard the rumours.”

Tessai nods in agreement. “The Kidou Corps even received instructions to begin setting up the standard privacy and protection seals around the empty compound that has been assigned to the Fourteenth, but Kyouraku-soutaichou rescinded that order a few days ago. The Kidou Corps has been told to wait.”

Kisuke has to hide a smile behind his cup at that, but also a surge of possessive annoyance at the thought of anyone messing with the seals he’s already started constructing. Ichigo will have some explaining to do, but the Kidou Corps won’t be necessary this time. He wouldn’t mind if Tessai offered to help but there’s no way Kisuke is letting a bunch of nameless Shinigami lay a finger on his future headquarters’ defenses.

“There’s no set date for the induction ceremony yet,” Yoruichi adds. “But the haori’s all but got Ichigo’s name stamped on it.”

“Yes, and that’s what I wanted to discuss.” He pauses, then looks up, first at Yoruichi, then at Tessai, feeling strangely calm and centered in this one moment, with a thread of pride drumming steadily underneath. “Or not discuss. I’ve already made my decision.

“I’m planning on closing the shop,” He announces without fanfare as he reaches for the teapot, heedless of the way Yoruichi’s eyes widen and Tessai stiffens. “Ichigo has asked me to be his lieutenant, and I’ve accepted. I won’t have time to do that and spend my days in this shop waiting for the next Shinigami in need of my particular brand of expertise to show up on my doorstep, and if I won’t be living here anymore, it isn’t wise to let this place sit and gather dust. I’ll inform Kyouraku-soutaichou of course, but I thought I would tell you two first. I know some of your belongings are still in your rooms here, and Jinta and Ururu’s things will have to be boxed up and either placed in storage somewhere or shipped out to their apartment, but you’ll have the next week or so to move it all out before I begin dismantling the place.”

In the ensuing silence, the kitchen clock seems to tick especially loud. Kisuke savours his third cup of tea slowly.

Hmm. Does Inuzuri have a tea shop? Probably not. Well, there will be if Kisuke has anything to say about it.

“You’re… going to be the Fourteenth Division’s new vice-captain,” Yoruichi finally says.

“Yes,” Kisuke smiles winningly in her direction. “Ichigo came straight to me after meeting with the Soutaichou. Apparently, I was his first choice. How could I refuse?”

If there’s supposed to be a sting in his words, he thinks he hides it well.

Yoruichi’s eyes still narrow, cat-like and calculating. “You used to be a captain, Kisuke. Isn’t lieutenant a step down?”

“Well, I was also a fugitive,” Kisuke reminds her sardonically. “And that was probably at least ten steps down, but I managed, so I’m sure I’ll settle perfectly well into a lieutenant position.”

“That’s still not-”

“I never wanted it,” Kisuke cuts her off, and he could probably count on one hand the number of times he’s done that over the course of their lives and still have fingers left over. But he meets her gaze steadily, and he doesn’t blink, and the truth of those words ring between them for the very first time since Yoruichi signed him up for the captaincy trials, harsh and heavy and loud even though Kisuke never even raised his voice.

Tessai sits stone-still off to the side, his hands motionless around his own empty teacup. Yoruichi hisses out an irritated breath, sounding more cat than woman, but for once, there’s a frozen indecision in her expression that suggests she doesn’t know what to say.

“I prefer being a lieutenant,” Kisuke says eventually when the silence stretches too long. He lets his voice lighten to chase away the tension from before. He didn’t actually mean for the conversation to dig into issues best left in the past. “I’m more suited for it. And someone has to keep Ichigo out of trouble, right?”

A pause, and then Yoruichi makes a disbelieving noise at the back of her throat. “You’re as bad as he is, and he’s as bad as you. If anything, you two will be neck-deep in trouble together within the month!”

Well she’s not wrong. It’s probably not even going to take a month for Central 46 to catch wind of what they’re doing.

Kisuke shrugs. “Most likely, but at least it’s been historically proven that we’ll be able to get each other out of trouble as well, so we’ll be fine.”

Yoruichi rolls her eyes, and Tessai’s shoulders finally lose their rigidity again.

“We’ll have to get rid of everything in the back if we’re closing the shop,” Tessai says instead of adding his own opinion to Kisuke’s decision. “Should I donate it or…?”

“Have a sale,” Kisuke suggests. “I can keep the shop open for up to two weeks.  Spread the word that everything will be fifty percent off. Donate the rest if there’s anything left at the end.”

Tessai nods, clearly already making plans for that in his head.

“Do you have a place to move into though?” Yoruichi asks, pouring herself some more tea. “Since Kisuke’s kicking us out.”

She gives Kisuke a sharp grin, all teeth, but the accusation lacked bite so Kisuke doesn’t let it bother him. Besides-

“They gave me my old set of apartments back,” Tessai admits, and the look he sends Kisuke is almost apologetic. “And the current Kidou Corps Commander, he was my former Third, and he’s been asking if I want my old position back. I’ve refused so far. It’s his now, and he’s good at it. But… I’ve been helping them with training and some of their missions. I wouldn’t mind returning to that, and Hachigen-san has been doing the same.”

Kisuke nods. Yoruichi looks between them before jabbing a finger at him. “You already knew. Of course you did.” She frowns. “I didn’t know. I’m losing my touch.” She scowls at him. “I guess you also know I’ve resumed Clan Head duties then?”

Kisuke arches an eyebrow. Yoruichi rolls her eyes again. “Right. Fine.” She sighs. “I’ll move my stuff out in the next few days. I suppose we’re all going back then.”

There’s a moment where they all just look at each other, a hundred years and change playing through their minds.

“We’re the stupidest fuckers in the world,” Yoruichi mutters with uncharacteristic vulgarity even for her, downing the rest of her tea in one gulp. “And if we get exiled again, I’m gonna kick my own ass for actually being this fucking dumb.”

“At least with Kurosaki-dono around and Kyouraku-soutaichou in charge,” Tessai says with a faint note of amused resignation. “Something like that would not be as likely.”

Yoruichi scoffs but doesn’t refute it. Tessai clambers to his feet, nodding to Kisuke. “I’ll get started on that inventory then, Boss.”

Silence resumes in the kitchen with Tessai’s departure. Kisuke offers Yoruichi the last of the tea, and when she shakes her head, he pours the rest for himself.

He still needs to make a trip to the bank. Then he should come and pack up a few pillows and blankets, maybe find a tent-- the shop probably has one. He has a feeling Ichigo will be working through the night, and it feels wrong to come back here to sleep while Ichigo’s still out there.

“Just tell me one thing,” Yoruichi says abruptly. Kisuke glances at her and finds her watching him with unblinking feline eyes. “You didn’t accept the post because you feel you owe the kid, did you?”

Kisuke… well, he thinks back to that conversation not even four days ago, to the honesty Ichigo offered him, to the expectation that Kisuke wouldn’t let him down, to you’re my first choice.

To the trust inherent in all those things.

Debts are fickle. Once paid off, there’s no guarantee of further loyalty.

But Ichigo trusts him enough to name Kisuke his Second, to want no one else for the position, to offer him equal standing in a plan that might just revolutionize Soul Society-- how can Kisuke give him anything less?

“No I didn’t,” He tells Yoruichi, and it’s a truth he’s glad to feel down to his very bones.

Yoruichi stares for a few seconds longer, and then her features soften into something warm and knowing, and kinder than Kisuke’s seen aimed at him in a good long while.

“Alright then.”

“Alright?”

“Yeah, Kisuke,” Yoruichi stretches, limbs going loose and lazy as she cracks a fanged yawn. “Alright.”

Later, Tessai puts it into words, straightforward and to-the-point the way Yoruichi wasn’t.

“Is this what you want, Boss?”

“...Yes.”

“Alright then.”

[Part 5]

[ernmark]

I just really like the vampire!peter porn and I think we need more of that 😭

Funny story: the first half of this has been sitting in my drafts before i got the initial prompt, and I didn’t know exactly what to do with it. Then I tailored it to the prompt, and for whatever reason, I couldn’t figure out how to turn it into porn.

Now it’s actually got porn in it, so just be aware: NSFW ahoy. 

Thank you all for being patient with me while I figured it out.

Something’s happened. 

It’s in the slump of his shoulder, the dragging of his heels, the staggering way he walks. His expression is unfocused and empty, transfixed by ghosts only he can see.

“Juno?” I’m on my feet in an instant, the blueprints on my tablet forgotten. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, like he can’t stand to look at me. His face twists with revulsion. 

I know him well enough to know I’m not the one he’s disgusted by. 

“Juno, what happened?” In a few long strides I’m at his side, and just in time: he doesn’t look like he can make it to the couch on his own. God– the elevator’s out. How did he get up all those stairs? “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” It would be an obvious lie even if his voice didn’t sound so wooden and dead. My hands sweep down his clothes, looking for tears or bruises or broken bones, but all they find are bloodied knuckles that reek of bleach that doesn’t quite mask the other scents. 

“You are not fine,” I snap, my voice too sharp to be comforting. “Juno, you’re bleeding–”

“It’s not mine.” A tremor seeps into his voice. “It’s not my blood. It’s hers.” 

My racing mind takes half an instant to make the connection: the woman who came into the office this morning. Broad shoulders and big doe eyes and a wit sharp enough to make Juno chuckle once or twice. 

My stomach twists before he says it. 

“She’s dead. She’s dead and it’s all my fault.”

“Juno, no–”

“I knew it was her manager. Goddammit, I knew it, but I didn’t say anything– I wanted to be sure– I wanted to make a whole goddamn production of it, I wanted to look good, but he grabbed a gun–” Before his voice was void of emotion; now it’s overflowing with it, pouring out of him so fast he can’t even shut his mouth properly. “I could have stopped it, Peter. I could have stopped it but I didn’t and he shot her and it’s my fault she’s dead.”

“No, Juno.” My arms wrap around him. It’s all I can do to hold him down before he’s washed away by the torrent. “He’s the one who pulled the trigger. He’s the one who killed her. You did everything you could.” We’re so close that he can’t look away, no matter how hard he wants to. No matter where he looks, I’m right in front of him. “It wasn’t your fault. You–”

So he finds another way to shut me up.

He kisses me hard– ruthlessly, painfully bruisingly so. He kisses me like he’s drowning and my lips are made of air, grabbing at my clothes like I’m his one chance of keeping afloat. 

“Please,” he begs into my mouth. “Peter, please, please, please…”

As if I need to be asked a second time. As if I need to be asked at all.

I pull him tight and squeeze until I can feel his ribs scraping against my own. He needs pressure when he gets like this. He needs to know I’m here. He needs me to hold him until the pale rotting things gnawing at Juno’s soul fall from his lips with every rasping breath.

“I’ve got you, love,” I whisper into his ear. “I’m right here.” I don’t know if Juno can even hear me, he’s shaking so hard. The shoulder of my shirt is getting heavy and damp with tears, and Juno pulls me even tighter, begging without words. 

My lips slide down Juno’s throat, whispering assurances that don’t matter as much as the feeling of my teeth against his skin with every syllable.

I know what he needs.

I sink my teeth into his shoulder. 

Juno gasps like he’s coming up for air. His spine arches, his muscles tense, and for that instant the shaking subsides. 

“I tried to save her.” It comes out like a confession, like trying and failing is somehow worse than never having tried at all.  But his voice sounds calmer now than it did before.“I knew I couldn’t stop the bleeding, but I tried.” 

“I know, love.” I fit my lips to the wound and suck. It’s hard and painful– because he wants it to be. He wants to be punished for his failures. But when his blood hits my tongue, I shudder. My fingertips dig into his arms, pinning him into place against me. He couldn't escape if he wanted to.

He doesn't want to. 

At times like this, he doesn't feel alive unless he's dying. At times like this, his life only feels like it's worth anything if he's throwing it away for a cause. 

So I've learned to catch what he throws away, to keep it safe until he feels up to taking it back again. But not as his caretaker, or his keeper, or any of those martyr labels that make him feel unworthy of the people who love him. Because there's one thing that makes me so uniquely suited to this life-- as a vampire, as a master thief, as the partner of a private eye: I am consummately selfish, and Juno Steel is the one thing I want, whether he feels worthy or not. 

I take a long pull and fall back, panting hard against his neck as I catch my breath. Blood wells in the wound and overflows, dripping down his collar. 

His shirt is an old one, cut and torn and sewn back up a few times over by now, and once again it's stained with blood. I'll get him a new one. This one has to go. 

I catch it in my hands and tear it apart, and the sound is loud and destructive and so very satisfying-- almost as much as the blood seeping down his pectoral. I lean in closer, chasing each line and laving it off his skin with my tongue. He’s far too precious to waste a single drop. 

I slide against him again, my mouth rising to his ear. 

"Your pants, Juno." I'm so close that my lips leave a red smear against his earlobe; but I rectify that with a flick of my tongue. 

"Peter..."

"Your pants." I suck again at the wound, like I’m sucking venom out of an animal bite, like I can draw the guilt and self-loathing out of him entirely but the only poison I taste is the bitter tang of cortisol and adrenaline– the chemical evidence of his own despair. I suck harder. It hurts him-- I know it does. I’m sure I’ll find bruises there in the morning. Anyone else would be pushing me away by now, but he draws me in closer, leans in to offer me more. 

We're pressed so tight that he can only fumble one-handed between us, but mine is a lady of many talents. He finds the proper buttons and zippers and clasps and slips them free one at a time, all of them one-handed, and then that hand is on me-- as though he needs to justify me being here, holding him, comforting him, feeding on him. As if his presence in my arms is something he has to earn instead of a gift he gives me every time I hold him. 

So I let him see. 

My breath goes ragged, my shoulders sag, and I pull away to take a proper look at him: with his shirt torn open and his blood pouring down his chest and his pants sliding down his thighs and his cock hard and needy. How could any vampire resist the sight of him? How could anyone at all? 

He doesn't resist when I push him into the couch, only gasps when I climb on top of him, slide against him, grind my anatomy against his while I lap the blood from his chest. 

"Fuck," Juno rasps. His his hand closes around my cock, pressing it tight against his own. I can feel them rubbing together, sliding against each other with a friction that will probably be painful later, but right now I can't be bothered to care. "Fuck, Peter..." 

"If you insist." I snap my hips, and for a moment my entire world narrows to those two exquisite points: the feel of him against my cock, and the taste of him in my mouth. I snap my hips again, and I revel in the sight of his pupils so wide that he looks almost drugged, the feel of his hand moving against me. His lips part, so I kiss him-- hard and bruising, just like every other part of this. I can't immediately tell if the blood in my mouth is from his throat or if I accidentally split his lip, but he doesn't seem to care. He bucks beneath me, growing wilder and more frantic with every thrust. His tongue is in my mouth, all but fondling the sharp edges of my teeth. And then he pulls away, his head thrown back against the couch, and he pushes my face back to the open wound on his throat. 

"Peter-- Peter, I need you-- please--" 

I can only laugh in that way he loves so very much.

As if I would ever leave my lady unsatisfied.

I wrap my lips around the wound and I suck again, long and steady, while I fuck him harder, harder, harder--

And then he's coming hard, hot and wet into my hand. I lean back, still straddling him, and I lick the salt-sweetness of him off my palm, savoring every drop. His breath is still ragged, his pupils blown wide, and his hand is on mine, pumping me hard despite his shaking hands. He's just so absolutely, beautifully wrecked, and still so intent on seeing this through. 

"In my mouth," he whispers, trying to adjust himself without letting go of me. "Peter, I want you to finish in my mouth. I want to taste you. I want..." 

He doesn't have to ask again. I'm teetering on the presipise, my every muscle agonizingly tense, every nerve in my body begging for release. He slides down the couch until his breath is hot against my thighs. 

His lips wrap around me, his tongue slides against my head, and I come. He swallows me down with an impossible enthusiasm, swallowing my come as eagerly as I drank his blood. I can't help but wonder.

"Do you have any idea how exquisite you taste?"

He pulls off my cock slowly, almost reluctantly. I suspect if he could talk without taking me out of his mouth, he would. "I could ask you the same question." 

I hum wordlessly, cradling his face in my hands. "Thank you for that, Juno."

"I didn't do anything..." he begins, but his voice fades. He isn't going to spoil my bliss. 

"Shall we take care of this?" My hand drifts down to the bite on his neck. It's more ragged than I would prefer; it'll take some time to heal, and even then it might leave a scar. 

"Yeah, I guess," he says, and this time he doesn't fight me on it. I know he might, otherwise. Even now, he bristles at the thought of me trying to comfort him. Aftercare, on the other hand-- that's a concept that he understands. He'll accept soft touches if they're meant to soothe the breaks on his skin. He'll take comfort food if it means replenishing the blood that he lost. He'll let me fuss over him if he convinces himself I'm only worried about assuaging my guilt and protecting my food supply. And if doing so will let me comfort him, I am perfectly satisfied with indulging those misconceptions.

I have always been selfish. I can be selfish enough for us both.