#definitely updated this on ao3 days ago

[pedgito]

𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | Joel Miller x reader — Series Masterlist (part i)

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summary | Moving in with you soon-to-be stepfather is the least of your concerns while under the unfavorable regime of your mother—but then there's Joel, Tommy's brother, who always know just how to soothes your worries.

author's note | this was originally supposed to be a tommy x reader idea that morphed into joel and here we are. special thanks to @chaotic-mystery and @swiftispunk for lending me their beautiful minds and helping this make more sense <3

content warning | 18+ smut, DDDNE - this is very loosely stepcest, so if that's not your thing, ignore. that's the only warning i'm giving on that, additional warnings: no outbreak, step-uncle!joel, age gap (20/late 40s), religious trauma, parental trauma (mentally, with one instance of physical), und*rage drinking, contradiction all over the place, joel is a broke man who makes horrible decisions, reckless behavior for reader, mast*rbation, voyeurism, one-sided flirting, joel can keep your secrets <3

word count —9.2k

PART TWO, PART THREE (tbd)

“Married?”

There’s the wiggle of your mother’s fingers, the shine of the small diamond under the natural light streaming through the window to your shared two bedroom apartment—being twenty and still living your mother wasn’t ideal, but it was all you could manage at the moment. You force a grin and take her hand, examining the jewelry.

Tommy had actually talked to you weeks ago, a prerequisite to going through with the whole ordeal, making sure that it was okay with you. It wasn’t that you minded Tommy, he was a good man—too goddamn good for your mother, who always seemed to find a way to ruin something. Everything. You wanted to warn him, but even as much as you despise your mother on most days, he made her happy.

“It’s been a year,” You comment offhandedly, “you’re sure he’s the one?”

She snatches her hand away with a bitter gaze and fiddles with the engagement ring, pacing her way around your shared living room.

“Can’t you just be happy?” She pleads, so petulant and whiney. Like a child, “For once?”

You shrug, “I like Tommy, he’s a good guy. It’s just—he’s the only man you’ve dated since…”

“Baby, I know what I’m doing.”

Your eyes flick up under a lazy gaze, seemingly unconvinced. But, you mask it well.

“So, are you going to elope then?”

She shakes her head, suddenly shaking with a subtle excitement that has her bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“No, honey—we’ll be planning a wedding. Small, of course. You know Tommy doesn’t have much family.”

Just a brother, whom you’d never met. You never heard about anyone else.

“And—“

That’s a tone you don’t like.

Anticipation. Hesitation.

“We’ve been looking for a house.”

“Oh?”

So, she was kicking you to the curb. Time to leave the nest, grow up—blah blah. 

But, she continues.

“And in the meantime, we’re going to move into Tommy’s childhood home!” 

You cringe externally at the excitement, “What’s wrong with our place?”

“We’re gonna be saving every penny we can, cutting costs where it seems easier. Joel is offering to let us live there for the time being rent-free, given we take care of the place.”

Joel. You knew a name. Not a face. A personality. Only that he was Tommy’s older brother. Worked with him, spent weekends with him. That was it. He seemed like a lonely man from a distance.

“So, you’ll do just that,” She remarks, a definitive look that allows no argument, “we’ll be out of here by the end of the month.”

“That’s next week, mom—“

“Then, I suggest you get to packin’.”

Unbelievable.

“You can’t be serious—I don’t even know him. Do you? Have you even met him?”

“Once or twice,” She shrugs casually, “He’s a private man, but he’s nice enough. I’m not questionin’ it, honey. Tommy is a good man, I can assume Joel is, too.”

Your mother spots the disdain the moment it crosses your face, a finger held up in reprimand.

“You are as ungrateful as they come,” She bickers and then follows the shame, “what would he say?”

Your eyes drag up toward the ceiling, feeling the echo of a scripture you’ve heard time and time again—different words, same meaning, “Thou shalt love thy—“

“—neighbor as thyself,” Your mom finishes, a prosperous grin on her face, “Go on, wash up before bed.”

Even as you graduated and started college, still living under the conveniences of your mother, she felt the need to guide and protect, preaching whatever bullshit she’s swallowed down the past twenty years of your life.

She wasn’t like this before, in fact, it was strikingly opposite. But, she’d had you young, regretted her choices, and while trying to be a good mom had found something to cling to, to help guide her back to some semblance of sanity and safety. 

Unluckily for you, it means years and years of strict teaching and rules that made no sense to you now. Hell, they had stopped making since long before that, given the way your mom has relaxed on her morals since she met Tommy, a man that was nowhere near religion or under the constant fear of something other.

You questioned it everyday—tried to fight it, but then the guilt creeped in.

It was your own mother’s doing; a rigorous and methodically set out schedule when you were young, everything followed by prayer or reminders from your mother. He’s always watching. As you grew older, into your body and started to question—it was never outwardly, but your mother took notice and found that shaming you for your inherent provactiveness was easier than guidance. In fact, punishment was an even easier route, most of the time.

“They’re having a cookout tomorrow,” She calls over her shoulder as you depart quietly to your room, somehow more exhausted from a five minute conversation with her than anything else you’ve done all day, “so, best behavior, alright?”

You don’t even try to hide the roll of your eyes that time, sighing softly and answering with a tired, “Yes, of course.”

It would have been hard to predict how that day would change the trajectory of your life completely.

—

The house is beautiful, really. Deep in the back of a suburban neighborhood, right in the middle of Austin. It was lively—kids playing, neighbors conversing over gates from their lawns, music blaring through the streets. 

But frankly, it was fucking weird.

You're halfway up the driveway when Tommy opens the door, spots your mother first and swoops her up into a hug that lifts her off her feet, a squeal escaping her.

When it’s your turn, it’s a gentle but quick hug. An even softer pat on the back as he welcomes you in.

Welcoming you to what would soon be home. 

Temporarily, at least.

“Come on,” He calls back toward you both with a nod of his head, “we just got finished on the grill and the game is about to hit kickoff, y’all are just in time.”

You step past the threshold, enveloped in the homey smell of vanilla and citrus, something a little savory—which you assumed was the food, and some of the scent from fresh cut lawns from the neighborhood seeping in through the open windows. 

Tommy’s closing the door behind you before he comes around your side, yelling out with his hands cupped around his mouth.

“Joel, get ‘yer ass in here!” Tommy yells, slightly jarring as you flinch at the loud sound. Tommy seems to notice and offers an apology with a kind rub of his hand against your shoulder, “Sorry ‘bout that, sweetheart. He’s hard of hearing—“

“I’m not,” The man grumbles as he rounds the corner from outside, walking through the sliding door with a tray of freshly cooked patties lined up in rows, “my hearin’ is perfectly fuckin’ fine.”

Tommy seems careless to dismiss it as your mother offers Joel a polite greeting which he returns with what you can immediately spot is a forced smile. Then, Tommy introduces you. Your smile is just as forced, but out of the inherent nervousness of the situation, offering a small wave that Joel returns with a nod.

“Food’s done,” Joel offers as a change of subject, “game’s starting so—“ He waves vaguely at the array of food, “have at it, I guess.”

“Did you wanna say grace, baby?” Tommy asks, looking over at your mother.

“No—no, I’m sure you and Joel don’t do that,” Your mom looks at you, rubbing a surprisingly gentle touch over your cheek, squeezing gently, “We can say it to ourselves right, sweetie?”

Your eyes avert toward Joel who looks more uncomfortable now then when you walked in. You nod regardless, shrugging away from your mother’s touch. She doesn’t argue and returns her attention toward Tommy, thankfully.

You move curiously, examine the different toppings and add-ons, sides, and different treats. It was far more than you were used to—a nice change to your mothers botched box dinners and takeout ordering that always ended up wrong. 

Joel moves mechanically, eyes on the screen as he slaps his burger together, sliding you the bag of buns like clockwork, almost as if he sensed it. It was the only tangible acknowledgment he’s made aside from the nod. But, beyond that—it was silence.

He was an odd man. Quiet, reserved—part of you understood. It was uncharted territory, two mostly strangers in his home. You’d be a little annoyed too.

But, you remember your mother’s words. So, you make an attempt.

His hip is digging into the counter at the edge of his kitchen as he holds the plate to his chest and eats his burger, messily and starved, scarfing it down in very few bites. He catches you staring at him curiously, shamefully taking the first small bite of your own burger. He doesn’t react at you, but he does consciously wipe the mess of grease around his mouth as he sets his plate down, aiming to set himself up with another burger.

“It’s nice,” You say suddenly, the lack of elaboration apparent and Joel raises his eyebrows in unison, “—your house, it’s…nice.”

Above the low rumble of music playing on the radio—something you can determine is a rock song, of what band or song name you have no idea, and the sudden voice of Tommy yelling over a fumbled pass, which Joel also echoes his frustration with as he catches the screen over your shoulder. You jump, turning over your shoulder to look. 

Joel seems to notice the way you startle, “‘M sorry,” He apologies kindly, “and…thank you.”

It was hard to settle and feel comfortable, knowing that normally, in any other situation, your mom would be judging them—the music, the course language, the entertainment of boys throwing a ball around and tackling each other. It wasn’t in her taste or her faith to condone such things. 

But suddenly, with Tommy, none of it mattered. It was jarring, to say the least.

Joel leaves you after that, taking a seat on the separate recliner from the couch your mother was sharing with Tommy, somehow entranced in the game and Tommy’s answers to her questions. Everything was overwhelming and in the midst of another yelling match at the screen with your eyes locked on the sight as you blindly walked backwards into the counter behind you, you felt your elbow hit a can and suddenly the liquid was spilling over your feet.

You yelp in surprise, catching only the attention of Joel. You scramble, picking up the can before sliding it into the sink, stepping out of your now ruined sandals and feeling suddenly overwhelmed by everything—the noise, the smelly, sticky mess of liquid all over you and your clothes.

Joel’s footsteps are heavy but swift, his plate sliding over the island as he rips off a wad of paper towels over your head and turns on the faucet, “That’s my bad—forgot my beer was there,” You look up at him wide-eyed, feeling him guide your hands under the stream to wash away the mess, “you alright?”

It feels like someone was twisting your gut in their grip—you’ve never heard those words aimed your way before and the anxiety engulfs you. Joel was already crouching down by then, scooping your ruined sandals into his hand and nodding toward the backdoor, “We can wash these off and leave ‘em outside to dry.”

You nod dumbly, watching him run them under the water, but his eyes examine you closely and the quick rise and fall of your chest, “You can follow me outside, if you’re needin’ a break.”

Again you nod, but you’re sure that time. You step over the small puddle on the floor and your face scrunches up in disgust, sensing the presence of your mother as she comes into view.

“Oh, honey—you made a mess.”

“She’s alright,” Joel stresses, “I left my beer there, s’nothing some napkins and water can’t clean up.”

There’s a silent reprimand behind her eyes, something you would hear about later or something she was storing for another time, “C’mon,” Joel’s voice saves you and you follow, shying away from the piercing look of your mother, feeling the wave of relief after Joel closed the backdoor behind you.

“Accidents happen,” Joel offers as a reminder and a sense of comfort, placing your sandals on the concrete as he reaches for the hose, turning the spout and watching as it sputtered out slowly before it steadies and he spray them down before catching your feet, washing away the foamy liquid.

You jump slightly, mostly from the change in temperature against the humid, sticky heat of the sun as it beats down over the house, “You got that look,” Joel says offhandedly, reaching over to turn off the spigot and wrap the hose up.

You glance up at him, stepping out of the puddle of water, “What look?”

“Like someone stuck you in a cage full of bears and you ain’t got a clue how to respond,” The comparison makes you laugh, not because it was ridiculous, but because it was true. “I got—I got a place you can sit for a while, if you need the silence?”

There’s a weight lifting off your chest, one you hadn’t realized was there until he says the words.

You nod and Joel crooks a couple fingers your way, beckoning you to follow. 

Joel leads you back into the house, but takes a sharp right to the set of double doors leading to a separate room—bookshelves and stacks of unorganized papers, a desk cluttered with random items and an old desktop, an even dustier radio stuffed away in a corner.

“It’s my office, don’t use it much anymore,” Joel explains, but taps at the open double doors, “but it’s a good place to block out noise, if ‘ya need a minute.”

You step past him curiously, leaving a trail of wet footsteps that Joel would eventually clean up later. It was cluttered in the room but somehow brought a sense of comfort, clearly a place that Joel seeked out himself from time to time.

“There’s books, magazines—feel free to use the computer,” Joel waves vaguely, “although, I dunno how well it works, haven’t turned that thing on in ages.”

“Thank you,” You tell him sincerely, watching him nod as he closed the doors behind him and gave you free roam to look around, be curious.

And naturally, you were.

He had a large collection of music—CDs and cassettes, a shelf full of vinyl albums. Books, tons—something you assumed he’s collected naturally over the years. Most of it seemed fairly boring, non-fiction books on various topics; how-tos and instructional guides, nothing exciting. Your gaze tracks to his desk, running your fingers along the chair before you’re pulling it out and taking a seat, the plastic creaking with age.

You press a key on the keyboard but the computer refuses to come to life—you chew at the inside of your cheek, looking around at the pattern of squares on the wall, like missing pieces plucked from the wall—like dust collecting around picture frames that were no longer there. Your fingers dance along a drawer, twirling in your seat as you pulled at the handle and find a drawer full of thick files. But, on the top, a book with a sticky note is sitting alone, completely out of place.

Leave it, you tell yourself. 

Still, your fingers reach for it.

It’s a thick book, a soft-matte touch from cover to cover. It was mostly unsuspecting, a plain cover of a mirrored forest, the post-it stuck over the title but you’re too scared to remove it. You flip it over, reading over the summary on the back. The summary is dull, unsuspecting, but as you flip through the book, skimming from chapter to chapter you realize it is not that.

And to be fair, you knew this type of genre was something people were interested in, never laying eyes on it yourself. But, to see it stuffed away in the desk of one Joel Miller, is a fair surprise—you examine the text, hanging on every word as you delve deep, deep; into a scene of voyeurism amongst a group. Somewhere between that and the next chapter you get lost, only resurfacing when you hear a knock at the glass door to the room.

The book snaps shut as you spot Joel, who’s peeking his head in with an emotionless gaze. He could just be checking to make sure you’re not snooping too deep, but then he’s walking toward you at a leisurely pace, a fresh beer in his hand as he squints, looking at the book in your hand.

He plucks at the post-it and chuckles slightly.

“Forgot that thing was in there,” He tells you, “Tommy bought that—year ago, I think? One of his stupid gag gifts.”

“You’ve never read it?”

Joel shakes his head, lips pulled in a tight line of indifference as he sipped at his drink.

“If you like it, you can take it with you.”

And then he realizes his misstep, your eyes meeting awkwardly.

“I mean, I’ll be here permanently come Sunday, so—”

Joel smiles slightly, a subtle quirk of his lip, “Well, least I know you’ll bring it back.”

You follow his movement, his fingers gripping the aluminum can and the perspiration from the can wetting his fingers, sweating down his wrist and you subconsciously lick your lips before your teeth are dragging, digging into the flesh of it. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing with the movement and Joel catches you, your intrigued gaze and volleys it with a question.

“Did you want a sip?” He says, mostly as a joke.

He remembers the time Sarah had come to him, piling onto his lap and with her constant stream of questions—he’d let her have the tiniest sip as she kept pressing on it and Joel knew there was no use in fighting the steadfast energy of an eight year old.

She hated it, immediately retching in disgust. Joel gave her a chuckled “I told ya so, kiddo.”

This was different, though. 

“I’m not twenty one,” You counter, mouth quivering down into a slight frown and your shoulders shrugging instinctively, “and my mother would kill me.”

But, you want to—not even driven by an act of rebellion. It was genuine curiosity.

Joel tilts his body, peeks around the corner and spots the pair still sat on the couch.

“What she doesn't know won’t hurt her,” Joel crosses that line for you, your hands cupping around his larger one as he guides it to your mouth, “s’not like you’re gonna go get piss drunk, right?”

You giggle softly at that, lips pressing into the can as he tilts it into your mouth. The vision of him is…overwhelming. Stood over you in the mostly unlit room, barefoot and jeans rubbing at the top of his feet, dark cotton shirt pulling over his shoulders and a few weeks of facial hair unkempt and outgrown. 

If your mother were to see, it would have been you.

Your fault. And again, maybe it was.

But Joel, he towers. You’re nearly eye-level with his waist but admittedly, they never leave his face. You sip gingerly, fingers curling around his own as you tip your head back and consume more, until your cheeks are puffing out with the liquid and you swallow, immediately grimacing at the taste as you pull away, sputtering out a soft cough as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Joel defends, not even bothering to wipe the rim as he takes another sip, somehow finding that more intimate than any of what had just happened between you both.

Neither of you say anything and you shake your head, fingers curling around the book in your lap.

“I’ll take your word for it,” You nod, but Joel can see the disgust for it on your face.

“Go on, take the book home,” Joel offers, “ain’t gonna be missed ‘round here.”

You smile sweetly, licking over your lips and tasting the remnants of the alcohol, a sign of sin amongst the many you had just committed, but the lack of guilt was startling. You couldn’t even begin to care.

When you leave, the book is tucked away in your bag and hidden. Joel is already cleaning up by the time your mother is rushing after you out the door and to the car, leaving a curious Tommy to linger around, helping Joel sparsely before he’s bugging Joel for a lighter.

Joel had quit smoking long ago, but still had a few lighters tucked away in his study.

Tommy searches around aimlessly, sifting through cups and drawers until he’s pulling open one, pausing, calling over to Joel curiously.

“You finally put up that book I gave you a goddamn century ago?”

His answer is your name as he turns the faucet off, wiping off the final dish.

“She seemed interested so I let her borrow it,” He calls over to Tommy, who’s leaning up with a wide-eyed but amused expression—it was clear that his brother was sometimes just as oblivious as him.

“Joel, you never read the damn book, did you?”

“Was I supposed to?”

Tommy makes a face, a smug smile fading in for a brief moment.

“Tommy, what was the book about?”

Tommy eventually finds the lighter, snatching it up with a ‘aha!’, trailing back over to Joel before he finally answers him.

“Thought I’d spice up your nightly reading, brother.” 

Joel can piece his words together; the innate smugness and tone that was edging toward a full-on chuckle, it wasn’t an appropriate piece. And given the stuff he did know of your mother, the worst choice of a genre for you to sneak home with.

“Did I do a bad thing?” Joel asks, “I mean, that girl is an adult—”

“Twenty, yeah. But, her mom—”

“Your fiance,” Joel clarifies, “she’ll be your step-daughter soon too, you realize that?”

“She can be a little—”

“Judgemental?” Joel finishes for him, drying his hands off with a dish towel before it toward the empty counter, “Freakish? She’s got your ass goin’ to church every Sunday, ain’t seen that before.”

Joel sighs, a clipped noise as he scratches at his forehead.

“I’m not judging, I swear. But, her moving here—I’m not feedin’ into that whole schtick.”

Tommy holds his hands up in defense, “She knows—”

“I fuckin’ hope so.”

—

The vision of the scene is imagined under the safety of your room that night, squinting to read the text under the dim light of your bedside lamp, words amongst feelings that weren’t foreign but often weren’t welcomed. You’ve had boyfriends and kisses, experiences like any other girl has, but you’ve shoved it away for far too long—it was years of high school, shying away from boys and girls only to finally find the freedom to branch out in college, but under the constant reminder of you mother’s generosity to allow you to finish schooling without the stress of work or the responsibility of earning your keep. He’ll guide you, she’d always remind you. A constant reminder that you were under his watch, more of a threat than anything. And your mother knew that.

The hand tucked under your chin switches to the other, your now free hand trailing down your chest and under the sheets, slipping past the snug waistband of your underwear. The scene was vivid, descriptive as the man pulled the female characters legs apart, exposing her, doting her with the kind of words that made your stomach swirl and your gut twist, dragging your middle finger down the center of your pussy and sighing at the slick that was already there, gathering up the wetness until you could guide it over your clit in quick, hurried circles.

You snap the book shut, biting on the corner of your pillow as you squeeze at the squishy fabric, squirming under the feeling of your impending orgasm, muffled moans slipping from your stuffed mouth as you feel it crash over you in a wave, eyes squeezing shut so tight you start to see the light. 

The comedown is slow, rolling over onto your back and silently slipping the book under your pillow and the guilt you usually feel is filled with nothing. You were empty, thoughts filling with vague images of someone, a man—faceless, but if you dug hard enough you’d know. 

So, you do. 

And with his face comes something you felt so often but pushed away.

Desire.

And for the one person you know you shouldn’t. 

—

The move takes place a few days later, endless hours spent packing boxes and putting the rest away in storage, several trips back and forth from the apartment to Joel’s house.

You often had to remind yourself it wasn’t Tommy’s. It was Joel’s—but Tommy was his brother and he wasn’t going to turn him away, so if there was anyone to respect, it was Joel.

The house had three bedrooms; Joel’s, the one Tommy and your mother would share, and the room with a door painted purple and covered in various things. Butterflies, flowers—it was off-limits and you didn’t attempt to make anyone budge on that matter. It was a sore spot for both of the Miller brother’s and when Joel offers up the attic, you’re quick to take it.

He’d even taken the time to make it somewhat liveable. A fresh coat of white paint, storage for clothes and some of your belongings you’d decided to bring along, a space for your bed and plenty of the furniture you couldn’t part with. Besides, it was nice having a level away from everyone else.

“The ladder does get stuck from time to time,” Joel admits as he stands a few feet away from you, watching as you look around curiously, “so, just give a holler. Hopefully one of us’ll be home if that happens.”

You laugh softly, dropping your bag to the floor and crouching, unzipping it and reaching in for a very specific item, pressing it into Joel’s hands as he’s expecting. His fingers curl around the side of the book and there’s an unspoken tension that fades as he speaks.

“Our secret, alright?” Joel’s eyes don’t leave yours, waiting for the confirmation of a nod.

You nod meekly, “She’d kill me, you know? I mean, not physically, but I’m sure she’d have an opinion on it.”

Joel nods in understanding, “Like I said, our secret.”

And given how rough the day was on everyone and once your bed was finally assembled in your room, you find yourself passing out without a moment of idle thinking, the exhaustion taking you the moment your body hits the sheets.

You wake up when the day has already gone, crickets chirping outside and the distant buzz of street lights outside the window above your bed. It’s dead silent in the house otherwise, aside from the hum of the central air and fan tucked in the corner of the room. You roll over and tap at your phone. It was a few minutes from midnight, one day fading into the next without waiting for you to catch up.

You rise groggily and rub at your tired eyes, placing your feet on the hardwood floor before deciding to take a walk down to the kitchen, feeling the dryness of your mouth as you licked at your lips. You’re careful as you open the entrance to the attic and lower the ladder, careful and quiet footsteps as you make your way down and close it, surprised at the growing hum and voices coming from the living room.

You edge close, soft and gentle footsteps as you pry the cabinet open and reach for a clean glass and turn on the faucet, filling it up halfway with water—that’s when you hear the hmph that warns you that you weren’t alone, spotting Joel turning over his shoulder to look at you. 

He seemed half-asleep too and you suspect he fell asleep on the couch, insomnia or exhaustion getting the better of him, you offer a quiet apology as you sip at the water.

“You’re alright,” He assures, rubbing two hands over his face and through his grown out locks, curling around the side of his neck and around his ears, “I was heading to bed anyways.”

Unlikely, you think. 

“What are you watching?” You speak softly, arms crossed your chest as the glass cup dangles from your fingertips, bare thighs pressing against the edge of the couch and Joel adjusts slightly, subconsciously making room for you. 

“Dawn of the Wolf,” Joel answers through a long yawn, “you seen it before?”

You tilt your head with a raised eyebrow, “Joel, come on—”

“Right,” He chuckles tiredly, “It’s some cheesy action movie I’ve seen a thousand times, it’s a—sometimes I just throw it on for background noise, hate sleepin’ in silence, you know?”

“Could you make it a thousand and one?” You ask curiously.

The bed he was heading toward was suddenly forgotten, watching as you eagerly climbed over the side of the couch and curled up on your own cushion, smiling slightly as he reached for the remote and started the movie over.

“Were you actually heading to bed?” You ask as the opening credits begin to play, “Because, if you were I won’t be offended—”

“I mean, I could. Probably need to, the havoc this couch does on my back.”

You offer a kind but lazy smile, half of your mouth arching up, “Besides, I’d ask way too many questions.”

Joel never does move, though. Almost like he’s resigned himself to that position until the movie was over, watching you occasionally with that familiar glaze over your eyes. It was the last movie he’d watched with Sarah before she passed, a few weeks shy of her fifteenth birthday.

By now, it was more of a foolproof method to help him sleep.

It was mostly poorly choreographed fight scenes and a dialogue heavy relationship between the two main characters that progressed unrealistically fast, forcing a laugh behind your palm after the male character professed his love after two days of knowing the other character and even Joel shakes his head at that. But, as the penultimate point of the movie comes, it hits a peak.

They’re sitting around a fire, obvious and unspoken tension lingering that snaps in an instant, one touch on the other and they’re on each other—Joel leans forward, reaching for the remote to skip past the scene, “No, don’t,” You tell him gently, your hand pressing against his palm.

The remote loosens in Joel’s grip and he settles, feet crossed over the coffee table.

Your head tilts, “It doesn’t even come across real,” You comment, “or believable, I guess.”

The sex—or lack thereof, a swarm of lust-filled gazes and strategically placed camera angles. It was mostly heavy pants and moans and Joel coughs into his balled fist to break the silence. You snicker softly and pull your legs up near your chest, head resting against your hand as you watch.

“Probably because it doesn’t work like that,” Joel comments after a while, pulling your attention to him suddenly, “sometimes it’s just—”

“Fucking,” You answer crudely, “for the sake of fucking.”

Joel looks like he wants to keel over, his face contouring in surprise as the words slip past your lips. It’s a sight, a matching set of pajamas he’s sure your mother gifted you, covered in some pattern that mimics the innocence that lies within you, a soft pastel color on satin fabric and that definitive cross that dangled at the center of your neck, slipping just between the press of your breasts—and yet, here you were, speaking to him like sin incarnate. 

“What?” It was amusing, in a way, “I got a strict mom, doesn’t make me a total prude.”

“Okay,” Joel feels the line drawing itself in the sand, or in this case, the middle of the couch, “you’re right—but we can move on from that.”

You offer a soft hum of acknowledgement, smiling at the way Joel continues to shake his head, biting back his own amusement in response.

Somewhere between there and the end of the movie, you both end up asleep on the couch, your feet tucked away in Joel’s lap and his hand resting over your ankles. It was easier falling asleep knowing Joel was near, oddly enough.

—

Things are set into motion very quickly after the first couple days. With wedding planning in full swing and your mother returning to her night shifts at the hospital, it was a sudden newfound freedom that you’d never experienced. Tommy and Joel were gone often too, sometimes for days at a time to work on site, only popping in every so often for little things. Showers, food, before they were back out for another twelve or so hours.

And with your semester of college over, you were left with the void of summer to fill up your time. It does take some convincing, but eventually your mother isn’t hovering as hard. Truthfully, you could thank Tommy for some of that.

“She’s not even a teenager anymore, she’ll be alright.”

It didn’t ease any of the restrictions she put on you in the past and it didn’t make you feel any better for feeling like you had to lie, hide—doing normal things that even if she did as a young girl, would find any reason to shame you over.

But, you were thankful with her infatuation over Tommy because it gave you a break.

Late nights at the beach with friends or last minute trips to the drive-in, it was a sorrowful peek at what you could have had for years, but only had the luxury of exploring recently, somehow always ten steps behind, still feeling that familiar strum of nervousness run through your body at the sight of a crush, somehow even more unavoidable now.

And Joel, well he hasn’t helped either.

Eventually, his own curiosity gets the better of him and he does read the book. His reader’s perched on his nose as he leaned back in the recliner, knowing that if he’s caught onto your schedule well-enough, you’d find yourself downstairs within the next few minutes.

You blamed the insomnia, but you always liked Joel’s company. At night, without the scrutinizing gaze of your mother when she was around, it was easier. 

You’re spreading peanut butter on a plate of sloppily sliced apples when you hear Joel flipping through the page of a book, the cover obscured by the knee he had propped up to lean it on.

“Anything interesting?” You ask casually, screwing the top back on the jar of peanut butter and leaning up on your toes to return it to the top shelf, ignorant to the eyes that catch your backside and the stretch of your top as it exposed your ass and the small piece of your underwear that peaked over the waistband of your shorts. 

You could blame it on the heat and that was partly the reason, but Joel notices the longer you settle in, the more comfortable you get, the conservativeness becomes less and less. It was subtle, shirt pulling up over your midriff or the collar of your shirt dipping a little lower than usual.

This time it was the shorts that hugged your ass and gave him an idea of every curve your body had been hiding and he felt his throat closing up at the thought, clearing it instinctively.

Joel sips on his beer, nursing it more like, as he shrugs and flips to the next page.

You’re curious, sliding the plate into your palm and making your way toward him, finger sliding over the cover and lifting it. Joel doesn’t stop you, but he rolls his eyes at the grin that breaks out on your face, tongue pressing into your cheek and you know–he knows.

“Good, isn’t it?” 

If he only knew how many times you found yourself knuckle deep inside of your cunt with a whisper of a sigh on your lips, shame for the obscure pictures of the characters slowly morphing into him—it wasn’t like you had tried for that, your own subconscious betraying you. 

Something in the bridge of your words and the look on your face has him pushing his glasses up his forehead and into his hair, swiping an apple off your plate and into the thick peanut butter before he’s shoving the fruit into his mouth and biting into it with a loud crunch.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” You smirk, walking backwards slowly until your calves hit the couch and you took a seat, turning it to a random channel playing some televised drama, legs stretched out in front of you and the gentle slope of your shoulders on display as you shoved the apple slice past your lips, licking up the remnants of peanut butter on your finger and Joel almost forgets what he’s doing, feeling the book slip from his hands and hit the glass bottle still half full, sending it pooling into his lap and you look over with a tickled expression. “Too much, I guess?”

“You’re a little shit, you know,” Joel comments as he tosses the book aside and departs quietly, bedroom door shutting behind him as he turns in for the night. There wasn’t an ounce of bite in his tone.

Joel doesn’t know what he expected of you—maybe something more docile, but you were anything but as time grew on and you realized that under the obvious distraction that your mother was dealing with, you found yourself pushing that line more and more.

There’s a particular night when an argument with your mother ends up with Tommy and Joel getting caught in the blowback of it, leaving both of the men at a loss for words. It was the first time they had seen the real, full extent of a meltdown from your mother. Tommy had seen glimpses, blips—but, Joel. It was a first.

It started over a simple question, harmless.

“It’s one dinner—I’ll be there and back before midnight. I don’t see the big deal?”

“Big deal? Honey, we’ve got plans tomorrow. Dress shopping, cake tasting—I was cooking a nice dinner tonight that we could all enjoy, as a family. Seein’ as we’re all somehow, by the grace of god, under this damn roof at the same time for once. And you leavin’ looking like that? I don’t think so.”

Family. Joel seems to find distaste in the word, his eyes flicking toward his brother briefly. He doesn’t understand her final point either, jean shorts and a tank top in the humid Austin heat in the middle of June seemed like a perfectly reasonable option, but it clearly struck a nerve.

“I don’t even know why I’m asking,” You counter, “I mean, this is Joel’s house, after all. Shouldn’t I ask him for permission?” You turn to him, a low blow at your mother, “Joel, do you care if I—”

Joel hesitates for half a second and you thought he might answer.

A sharp, but swift blow to your cheek has you stopping cold, eyes pulling up to anywhere but your mother and of course, they land on Joel who’s jaw is clenched so tight you think it might snap, matching Tommy’s shocked expression but Joel's was laced with an undertone of rage, simmering slowly.

There was nothing but silence, shoving past her with a charge of your shoulder and then past Tommy who has just enough time to side-step and catch your mother as she turns after you, the realization of her actions settling with her, her open hand balling into a closed fist before she drops it.

Joel was quickly discovering that this living situation was a lot more than he’d bargained for.

–

Tommy had taken your mother out for the night, rented out a hotel after dinner and allowed her the space to cool down but Joel had stayed up, mostly in anticipation that you had forgotten the spare key he’d given you in the quick flee, walking halfway down the block and then some, desperately waiting for your friends to swoop in and save you.

It was just supposed to be dinner at the local diner in town, but catching up with a classmate you hadn’t seen in weeks quickly turned into a night drive that reached well past midnight, eventually pulling out front of Joel’s house, receiving the less than gentle kiss the boy had been building up to all night.

Joel hears the low roar of the engine outside of his house, lowering the volume on the television as he walked toward the door and glanced through the window, fingers curling the small curtain that covered it and there’s a moment where he decides—do something or do nothing, but even then he doesn’t take his eyes off of you.

Not as you lean over the console of the car and into the lap of the faceless person in the driver’s seat, his hand all over you—Joel knows, you’re hoping that your mother would catch, that she’d end up more furious than she was earlier and then some.

The horn beeps as you fumble inside the car, the heat of the moment broken as your back dug into the steering wheel and his breath was hot against your neck and suddenly you wanted nothing to do with this, watching the glow of television through the front window of Joel’s home, knowing he was awake.

There’s a shadow that crosses the window and confirms your suspicion—you weren’t ever truly free, there was always someone watching. Joel seemed like the likely suspect and that was worse than your mother when you actually took the time to think it over.

The departure is quick, shoes scuffing against the pavement as you meet the front door, jiggling with the doorknob before it’s being opened from the other side.

Joel’s eyes follow you as you walk inside, toeing your shoes off near the door and finding that you don’t even have the energy to make a remark at him, nothing funny, nothing snide. You look over your shoulder briefly and find him watching, not so much staring, but he was following your movements. You’re right around the corner as he finally speaks and you stop, closing your eyes as you take a slow, deep breath.

“She’s not home,” He informs you, “left with Tommy about an hour ago.”

It was unwanted information, unneeded. You mumble an acknowledgement but he’s speaking again when he notices you move, forcing you to turn on your heels and look at him.

“Are you doin’ it to piss her off?” Joel asks. His intention was unclear, whether he was trying to get under your skin or not, but with the rage still lurking in the back of your mind, it takes on a mind of its own.

“What do you care, Joel?”

“She ain’t my favorite person, I think you know that. But, if she’d caught you just know, she’d have your ass—”

“She didn’t,” You retorted. It’s the first time you see Joel frustrated, his brow creasing and the hands at his side slide into his pocket.

“You’re actin’ out,” Joel concludes and there’s a squint of your eyes as they narrow that tells Joel he’s right, “and under my roof—”

“Oh, so that’s what it’s about,” You tell him, arms crossing over your chest as you step toward him, floorboards creaking under bare feet as you approach him, “what—are you gonna punish me then?”

“Not my business,” Joel tells you, “I ain’t like your mother. But you keep doing this, actin’ out. Something bad is gonna happen soon enough.”

“Then—what?” You ask, trying to surmise a path to both please him and shut him up—unfortunately for him, you know just how, “Would you rather me act out with you?”

“Now, that ain’t what I—“

“Make sense, don’t it? My mother would be so grateful you’re keeping your eyes on me, watching after her little girl.”

“I suggest you tone it down,” His voice is different—nothing you’ve heard before and it should scare you, but it doesn’t.

“Or what?” You retort carelessly, “You’ll do it for me?”

There was that face again, jaw clenched. His gaze never left yours, only following you as you grew closer.

“You can teach me all the stuff I’ve missed out on,” You smile slightly, “I mean, you’ve done alright so far.”

He says your name and for a moment, it scares you. But, it was a warning—don’t cross that line, don’t blur it.

“I’m messing with you, Joel.” 

It’s a believable lie, one you can even convince yourself of.

His breath hitches slightly, breathing out through his nose as he nods at your response, “Just, be smarter. Alright?”

Your aggressive approach breaks, offering a sweeter smile as you back away, hands falling to your side. He can see the smear of your gloss at the corner of your mouth, half-tempted to swipe it away and clean you up.

“I will,” You appease, “can I go up to my room now?”

Joel offers a lazy glare of dissonance, not giving you an answer before he’s brushing by, off to his office that you hadn’t been able to spend much time in since the cookout. 

If he could be stubborn, so could you.

—

The tension between your mother doesn’t settle, but she does attempt to be civil. You often thwart off any attempt at a conversation that would lead into anything other than necessary communication. It feels wrong, you know it is—but you couldn’t bear the thought of trying to explain to your mother how you were beginning to believe her so-called beliefs were a complete joke, pushing an insane and untenable rhetoric on you.

Joel isn’t as warm either, keeping his distance beyond the night you had lost your footing with him and slipped, offering him an opening that would lead you both down a dangerous path. It had mostly been a joke but you could never admit to yourself how badly you wanted him to agree. The idea of it.

There is a point where under almost constant supervision of one of them, all of them flitting out of the house at some time or another, that you find a window (figuratively and physically) to sneak out of, preparing yourself for a night that your mother would have shamed you about until you found yourself six feet under. It was hypocrisy, actually–knowing your mother was doing similar things at an even younger age, with much less mindful thinking. 

And you might have pushed it a little too hard when you reach the front door that night, the floor spinning as you fumbled with the lock again—though, of course, Joel was saving the day.

“Do you ever sleep?” You gripe, eyes squinting as you stumble inside and out of your shoes with a wobbly wave of your arms, reaching out blindly for anything but finding nothing, almost tumblring over the motion but Joel is catching your arm silently, holding you upright. 

He knows that smell, you reek of sweet alcohol and cheap booze.

“I was makin’ sure you got home,” Joel admits, “that a crime?”

“Yes,” You slur softly, “and crime—” You giggle slightly, stumbling closer and pressing your hand into his chest to steady yourself, “means punishment.”

Joel looks down carefully, watching your fingers curl over the collar of his shirt and the sensation of your body, warm and so soft as it pressed against his own.

“Unless, you’d rather punish me,” You offer, the deep buzz of alcohol inflicting your mind and thought process as you pull at his shirt, feeling the stitching rip slightly under your grip and you make a delighted noise, instantly leaning forward to press your lips to his neck.

Joel should’ve pulled you away minutes ago, but again, he’d allowed it to go a step too far.

A step closer to breaking—closer to complete corruption.

Joel wraps his hand around the back of your neck and squeezes, pulling you back easily despite your desperate grip, eyes blown out and wide as you peer up at him, so dazed he isn’t even sure it’s you talking.

“You can,” You admit, mouth parting open as you lick your lips, “I want you too, Joel.”

Joel’s nostrils flare as he forces your hands away more sternly, throwing them at your side until the dejected look forms on your face, stumbling back sadly.

“You need to sleep this off,” Joel tells you

But, you already have the idea in mind as you shove him away, stepping around him awkwardly until you can reach the couch, your limbs falling lazily against the cushion as you curl up, hazy gaze meeting his one final time before you eyes close and for once, Joel fides security in his room and tries to calm his rapidly beating heart—a mix of worry and guilt, knowing if he’d had enough alcohol and inhibition in his system he wouldn’t be as strong, given so easily into that temptation as you had.

But, if routine proved you right, it wouldn't be the last time you’d speak to him that night.

—

Joel was a creature of habit.

The nights that he is able to sleep have been few and far between and he can hear you moving around upstairs, early hours of the morning when he’s in and out of an exhausted daze and in your own similar nature, he hears it. There’s a creak and slow footsteps that traverse the floor above him, but there was no world where he could face you right now. He’s not sure when you decided to move upstairs that night, a curious but lucrative thought in the back of his mind.

Do you remember?

He spends the last hour flexing his achy fingers to distract him from the subtle ache in his pants.

Joel wasn’t a father anymore, the part of him was buried away and long-forgotten, the pieces of that part of him dissolved away through the years of tears and alcohol and constant repression. 

Watching after her little girl.

It’s asinine, knowing you were anything but. He had no intentions of being that sort of figure over you, you didn’t need watching—or guidance from him, even. A protector? Maybe, but that wasn’t his job either.

Keeping your eyes on me.

He couldn’t keep his eyes off you, in fact. And as the realization clicks, he knows he’s fucked.

He’s barricading himself in the bathroom before he puts himself through the suffering of another nightly conversation with you, especially after how things had left off hours before, turning on the shower in a hurry as he hears the latch to the attic release and your impending arrival.

He strips, pulling his shirt up from the center of his back and over his shoulders, working hastily at his jeans and climbing into the shower, palms pressed against the tile wall in front of him as the stinging, hot water hits his back and soothes the soreness that lingering in his joints. It did nothing for his cock which had gone from half-hard in his jeans to standing proud, insistently.

He couldn’t ignore it—and he knows under the safety of the constant stream of water, muffling out the ragged sigh that escapes his lips as he fists his cock in a tight grip—he hasn’t ached like this in years, knowing he was well past his prime, in his mind. 

Unfortunately, the unraveling of it all would come down to the slippery lock on the bathroom door. It only stuck half of the time, eventually worming its way out of place and leaving the steam to slip through the cracks, but Joel is oblivious.

You find your footing as you step off the ladder, still reeling from your drunken stupor as you make your way down the hall, spotting the faint flickering of a light from the bathroom that told you Joel still hadn’t changed that lightbulb, but also that he was in there—it couldn’t be anyone else. You only vaguely remember your actions from earlier, but you didn’t forget the look on his face—the frustration. The want. Your footsteps are quiet, praying feverishly that they wouldn’t creak under the pressure of your feet as you peek your head into the crack, eyes scanning the mirror placed over the sink and suddenly, they stop.

Freeze, more like.

The shower curtain is shifted back just enough that you catch the front of his chest, so broad that it doesn’t even capture the full width of him, muscles in his shoulders straining as your eyes follow the length of his arm and down, until your eyes connect with the sight of his cock, fisted in his hand as he jerked himself earnestly, unabashedly with impatience. His head is hung too, water damping his hair over his forehead and obscuring his face.

You can hear him, though. God, you could fucking hear him.

His knuckles curl into the tile wall where his other hand still rest, balling into a fist as he punched it out of frustration, grunting with how tightly he was squeezing himself and the pace at which he was fucking his fist. 

It wasn’t the first time you’ve seen such a sight, but with Joel it was bigger, intimidating—in every sense of the word.

His cock, for one, was larger than any you’ve seen before.

And with shame, your mouth watered at the sight. 

His groans, a gentle guh that sounds like a prayer of something else but is strangled, his movements becoming jerky as his speech becomes slightly clearer, “God—fuckin’,” He heaves, the sound of wet skin and water under the speed of his movement, “—girl, always testin’ me.”

You swallow at the mention, fingers curling dangerously around the door frame—one misstep, one slip and you’d swing that door right open, revealing yourself. 

He leans his head up suddenly, eyes closed as his arm works furiously. Your ears are locked on his face now and you see the way his lips form around your name as he utters it, so quiet you barely hear it but it was you. There was no mistaking that.

He comes a few moments later, his thumb rubbing over the tip of his cock and circling as he shot his load into his palm, knowing that he could make a mess if he wanted to but decided not to, using his slick covered hand to drag over his cock a few more times as it softened in his hand.

Fortunately, you’re long gone by the time he’s reaching for a towel, back upstairs like you’d never even been there in the first place.

There was no denying it now, though. It wasn’t in your head—the temptation was real, tangible, and just within reach. 

Because with that temptation came doubt, followed by mistakes.

And really, you wish you were strong enough to resist.

Unfortunately, you weren’t. So, you plan. 

He was already a broken man, but you needed him shattered.

-

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

[wolfjackle-creates]

Hi!! I haven't been on Tumblr for a while but I used to read a fic you made out of a prompt (?) Someone else made about Danny who freaked out when he realized the Waynes are the Bats and accidentally shot Bruce(?) And if I'm not mistaken you made a part 2 of it (idr remember if it was a wip or finished) but do you have a masterlist so I can re-read it :D? So sorry if I sound weird (´⌒｀;)

It is absolutely never weird to ask an author about their works!!!! Thanks so much for sending this in.

It's been ages since I've worked on this one, but it's definitely on my short list to get back to. Especially since I'm pretty close to having it finished?

Here's chapter 1 on AO3. And the Subscription Post.

Chapter 2 is limited to Tumblr right now, only two parts currently. Part 1 can be found here.

Currently it's called Want to Hold on and Feel I Belong. However, when I do start updating on AO3 again, I plan to change the name. (I'm just waiting so people who have subscribed are more likely to remember what they're getting an email about.) Mostly I refer to it as my Bad Reveal AU. Though I get that's not a great working name as that's usually reserved for the Fenton parents reacting badly rather than Danny reacting badly.

Also, as a thanks for reminding me that it's been a while since I've posted anything about this fic (or, well, in general), have the next bit!

Here's a random 1.5k.

Previous

-----

Having a potential lead so close meant the hours until J’onn’s arrival were spent in prep mode.

Every uniform had to be checked for the slightest damage and upgrades done where possible. Supplies and go-bags were organized so they could leave the moment they had a lead. Fuel levels in every vehicle were checked and topped off where necessary.

And finally, the zeta tube activated and J’onn stepped out. “Good day to all of you. I heard my assistance was needed?”

Bruce went to greet him. “J’onn. Danny’s room is upstairs. Did Clark explain the situation?”

“Yes. He said that your newest ward has density shifting powers and left things behind in his walls and floor before running away a few days ago.”

Bruce nodded sharply. “Follow me. Clark will show you where the items are hidden so you can retrieve them.”

Dick happily zipped up what felt like the hundredth bag he’d had to pack and joined them. “Hey, J’onn. Welcome. How have you been?”

“Greetings, Dick. It has been a long time since our last meeting. I have been well. I want to wish you luck in finding your brother swiftly and easily.”

Dick nodded his thanks. “Same. We’re really hoping he left behind something to help because we haven’t had much luck so far.” Dick pulled out his phone and notified the family of J’onn’s arrival and requested they meet in Danny’s room.

On the way, Bruce and Dick filled J’onn in on the situation. At the implication of government experimentation, he face went hard and he vowed he would help them however he could.

Clark, Jason, and Alfred were already there when the group arrived and the rest weren’t far behind. With everyone present, the room felt crowded.

“Where should I start?” J’onn asked Clark.

“Behind the NASA poster. I think that’s where he keeps the weapons. One of them is an object that looks like it might be the same as, or at least similar to, the weapon that shot Bruce.”

Under Clark’s direction, J’onn removed not just two more energy guns, but also a glowing-green net, a boomerang, a tube of lipstick, what looked like a weird, high-tech thermos, and a wooden baseball bat with a sticker that said “Fenton” on it.

Dick couldn’t help but whistle at the pile. “Damn, he was packing all this?”

“Apparently,” said Damian. But Dick could tell his youngest brother was impressed and mentally reassessing his beliefs of Danny. “Perhaps he is not as helpless as I previously believed.”

“Why’s he got lipstick?” asked Steph as she picked up the tube.

“Don’t!” ordered Bruce even as she opened it and released a laser beam that left a small scorch mark on the ceiling.

She stared in shock before laughing. “Oh, damn! When he comes back, I’m so asking if he could get me one of these. That’s so cool!”

“Can I see that?” asked Barbara.

“Wait until we’re in the cave,” said Bruce with a sigh. Both women grinned at him.

Dick reached down and grabbed the net. Despite the color, it seemed normal enough, maybe a little smoother than most rope he’d handled. He pulled out a pocket knife and was able to slice through one of the ropes easily enough. Jason came over to look at it with him.

“Anything weird about it?” he asked as he reached out to touch it. “Huh, that’s odd.”

“What’s odd about it? Seems pretty normal to me.”

“It just… It feels weird. It almost hurts to touch.” When Dick looked at him sharply, Jason quickly added, “It doesn’t hurt, but it feels like it should. If that makes sense.”

“Feels normal to me.” Dick showed him the break he’d made.

Jason shrugged. “Dunno, then. I just get a weird feeling from it.”

Damian picked up the energy gun, Tim the thermos, and Duke the boomerang when Alfred cleared his throat.

“Before we get distracted, might I remind you that there is more to find? We can bring everything down to the cave to examine them with no more damage to Master Danny’s room.”

Everyone sheepishly put down the things they were holding. Dick bit back a laugh when he noticed Clark push the baseball bat away from himself with his foot.

“So, J’onn,” Clark said. “I think the next area of interest is behind this poster.” He gestured at a poster of the horsehead nebula. Dick had helped Danny find it and hang it up and the kid had talked about nebulae for over an hour as they did. The memory caused his eyes to burn.

From this stash, J’onn pulled some notebooks and two external hard drives, which Barbara took. Dick and Bruce both grabbed a notebook. Dick opened his to the first page.

Journaling is such a stupid idea. I don’t have any time for it but Jazz says I need to get my feelings out. Pointless. So what if I can’t sleep and Skulker attacked me again today during English getting me another detention. Its not my fault! Shit, haven’t done that essay for Lancer. If I miss any more assignments he’s gonna fail me for real.

Everyone knew Danny had been failing before he’d been brought to them, but he’d refused to discuss why. Once he was in school in Gotham, he’d gotten straight A’s. Even if he did ask for the occasional help in English from Jason.

But this raised so many questions. Who was Skulker and why were they attacking Dick’s little brother during English class. He flipped through the pages. Interspersed between journal entries were drawings of schematics. Dick thought he recognized some of the designs as the weapons they’d uncovered.

His eyes caught on an entry that started with a string of curses.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. My parents saw Dani today. In ghost form. They actually managed to hit her. Only her second visit and I couldn’t keep her safe. Some big brother dad cousin whatever I am. I did get her to the Far Frozen. Frostbite fixed her up. Taught me what to do if it happens again, too. And gave me the medicines and supplies to do it. I’m so glad I have friends in the Zone now. It makes it so much easier. I can’t get the image of Dani’s blood staining my hands out of my mind. Going to Tuck’s tonight. I can’t be around my parents right now.

Stomach dropping, he flipped a few more pages until he found one with a photo. It was a grinning Danny with white hair and wearing a jumpsuit standing on a curved balcony. Behind him, spire buildings rose into the air, many rounded in a way not often found on Earth.

Clockwork took me to Mars today! Holy shit it is so cool. Just, everything. We went back to when they were thriving and I had to stop an invasion. But that’s not important. Everyone here can go intangible despite being alive. Some of their buildings don’t even have doors because they’d be pointless! And the plants and animals are all so different, too. Clockwork helped me find some books on Martian history and biology and evolution. He’s also gonna show me where the Martians exist in the Zone so I can learn their language. Maybe one day I can go to Krypton or Tamaran as well?

Dick stared back at the picture. It did have that distinctive feel of wrong that extraterrestrial landscapes always had. He swallowed. “Uh, J’onn?”

“Yes, Dick?”

“Um, Danny. This is his journal. He said he went to Mars. Before… Just, before. He’s got a picture. Is this real?” He handed the photo to J’onn who hesitated a moment before taking it.

J’onn froze as he stared at the simple image. “I… Yes. This is my home. How…?”

Dick shrugged and wished he had an answer for the last of the Martians. “Someone called Clockwork brought him there apparently. To stop some sort of invasion? He didn’t discuss that much. He was too interested in the planet and people to talk about what he did. He was hoping to visit Krypton and Tamaran, too. Also said something about Martians existing somewhere he called the Zone. He wanted to meet them to learn the language.”

The look on J’onn’s face at the mention of other Martians existing somewhere was heartbreaking. Maybe Dick shouldn’t have said anything? When Danny came home, would he maybe want to talk to J’onn about Mars?

With clear reluctance, J’onn handed the picture back. “This is your brother in the photo?”

“Yeah. I mean, Danny usually has black hair and blue eyes, but that’s him. Do you recognize him?”

J’onn nodded. “Of course. He is the Omen. His coming foretells death and destruction which he will then try to avert. I know what invasion he is speaking of, it is, was, taught in our history books. He saved all of Mars that day. We thought him a god.”

Dick’s mouth fell open. His little brother? A god?

-----

Did you enjoy your little surprise update tonight? Let me know what you think!

[asyisnotok]

Ten Questions for Writers

@mangogreent thanks for the tag!!

1. how many works do you have on ao3?

I started writing in 2022. As of right now, 4! Soon to be 5. I would maybe have more if I didn't lose steam halfway through!

2. what’s your total ao3 word count?

My current WC is 49, 519. Hoping to get to at least 100k this year!!

3. what fandoms do you write for?

In the past I have written for the Dream SMP (unfortunately) and Sonic the Hedgehog. Right now though, I'm all about One Piece!! Let's hope that sticks with me, LOL

4. do you respond to comments? why or why not?

Yes! I try to respond to as many as I can. Sometimes it gets daunting! I'm not entirely sure what to say when people ask for updates...

5. have you ever had a fic stolen?

No. Hopefully I never will.

6. have you ever co-written a fic before?

A REALLY long time ago me and my online friend loosely worked on a BNHA fic that I really wanted to see come to fruition, but we lost contact shortly after. It never got posted. Maybe one day I'll find it again...

7. what’s your all-time favourite ship?

ZoLu is my favorite, I've never quite seen a dynamic quite like theirs! I definitely enjoy it but I can also see them as just being platonic as well. One Piece is unique like that.

8. what are your writing strengths?

This one's a bit hard to answer, I think. For me personally I think I'm good at characterizing and coming up with interesting situations for the characters to figure out. I'll have to ask my friends sometime what they think.

9. what are your writing weaknesses?

This is also hard for me to answer - one man's trash is another's treasure! I would have to say I think I am not good at writing characters I don't have a lot of emotional attachment to/don't get much screen time, and while I have the idea I can never quite get it on paper in a way that makes sense.

10. first fandom you wrote for?

The first fandom I ever wrote for was TMNT!! 2012 specifically. I wonder if I'll ever get around to publishing it...

TAGGING:

@maofa @scribbyizback

[0vereasy]

Life’s Creations and Love’s Manifestations - Dr. Ratio x Female Reader- Chapter 3

Summary: Your promotion as one of the heads of the Security Department at Herta’s Station was full of many headaches, one of the biggest being a visiting scholar from the Intelligentsia Guild, and delegate of the IPC, Dr. Ratio.

When you were forced to team up with him to solve several crises emerging at the Station, how will your tense relationship change? And what exactly is the Doctor hiding?

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A/N: Happy New Year! Hope everyone had a fun New Year’s Eve - I spent mine in a way I think the reader would, drinking with friends. I’m officially back in Uni now, so updates will be slower (~1-3 updates a month) but my semester is lighter so I’m confident I’ll have the time to update. In other news, I officially finished pre-farming for Ratio! He’s gonna be the first character I max out traces for!

Chapter 3: Touch Deprival

“Question: Are you sure you are alright?” as usual, Screwllum’s voice was monotone and flat, sending no hints to reveal how he was feeling at the moment. Consequently, he had to express his feelings in other ways, rubbing your shoulders soothingly as you tinkered with the camera equipment in front of you, “Affirmation: it is your day off, you can easily save this task until tomorrow.”

You couldn’t have looked any more different from this morning, crop top and shorts now replaced with comfy sweatpants and a button-down white shirt which looked suspiciously similar to the one your robot companion wore under his suit jacket. Your back was pressed firmly against the front of his metallic body as you both sat on the floor in the Seclusion Zone in a room full of two things; plants and the little creatures that Ruan Mei abandoned after leaving the Space Station a few hours ago. A few of the little creatures hoped around freely, as if happy for the company, “Given all of this,” you gestured to the creatures around you, “we should’ve put cameras down here months ago,” you let yourself lean further back against your companion, savouring the feeling of his arms kneading your tense flesh, “might as well get it over with before someone else decides to run a fucked up experiment down here.”

He didn’t rebut the content of your statement itself, rather responding with a simple, “You did not answer my first question, dear,” his metallic hand trailed further down your back, massaging the space near your shoulder blade through the white shirt. You muffled a groan at the relief that shot through your body, a sign that had him continuing the motions with a firmer grip. You didn’t know how the robot managed to give the most amazing massages, but his hands were definitely missed whenever he was forced the leave the station. 

“I mean, as good as someone can be after almost dying a few hours ago, I guess,” your tone was neutral, your gaze and fingers focused on the security cameras in front of you, which you were attaching to camera mounds to place on the walls around the Seclusion Zone. You knew if you dared to look back at Screwllum, he would see through your words in an instant. His title as a genius wasn’t just for show after all, “I mean, it obviously was scary when it happened, but I can’t take up more of your time. Herta’s probably already out for my head after you left your meeting with her early.”

“Affirmation, I did not tell her the reason of my sudden departure,” he replied, one metallic hand drifting from your back to your face, tilting your head so that, even from in front of him, you two were forced to make eye contact, “It was hard not to abandon my work when you texted me to inform me you were using the bathtub in my room with no context,” he let his hand drift from your cheek to cup your chin, “I care about you, my dear. I don’t want you to push yourself.”

Ah, the bathtub. It was silly really, how someone like Screwllum, who couldn’t use a bathtub in the first place, had one in his quarters while you were stuck with a shitty shower with absolutely no water pressure. It just so happened that all the guest rooms in the Space Ship were equipt with bathtubs, and though Screwllum was a frequent visitor of the station, he had no official permanent quarters of his own, though, at this point, the Station staff just gave him the same room in the Space Station anyway, making that particular room his unofficial permanent quarters.

Of course, when you finished cleaning the incubator room in the Seclusion Zone, hands covered in smelly bug guts, you had abandoned your computer and water bottle in favour of taking the elevator to the floor housing the living quarters and used your FOB to unlock Screwllum’s room solely for the purpose of his bathtub. With your one-track mind on trying to get the smell of bug off of you, you had neglected to check your phone after sending Screwllum a text letting him know about your tub use, which ultimately led him to check on and fuss over you, a pattern of behaviour that was still ongoing now.

“And I appreciate your company, as always,” you flash him a smile, pushing the camera you were working on to the side so you could turn and face him, straddling your legs over his own. You pressed a brief kiss to his cheek before pushing your body against his own, sighing at the familiar feeling of his hands wrapping around you, “But you’ve been with me all afternoon; go take a few hours, finish your work,” you let your hands trail down his chest, shuddering at the cold feeling of his metallic frame below his suit, “I’ll be here when you’re done - remember, you still owe me dinner and drinks.”

“How could I forgot?” Screwllum chuckled as you pressed another kiss to his cheek, though he made no movement to leave. You both knew why; the answer hanging between the two of you, but remaining unspoken, as if you two were playing a game to see who could avoid bringing it up the longest. To avoid doing so, you snuggled yourself into his chest, inhaling the scent of his laundry detergent as he rubbed a cold hand up and down your back.

“Ahem,” Screwllum’s hand stopped moving at the sudden sound of another voice breaking the relative silence, albeit the irregular mewings of Ruan Mei’s cat-like creatures, in the room. You forced yourself to sit up, regretfully removing yourself from Screwllum’s arms to face the new presence in the room. “Sorry if I am… interrupting something,” as per usual, Dr. Ratio’s features were hidden by the alabaster head, leaving only his toned body on display to you and Screwllum, who exchanged looks as you moved to sit beside the robot.

“You are,” was your simple reply. You forced yourself to grab another security camera from the mess of items you had scatted on the floor around Screwllum and yourself, attaching it to the camera mound to control your anger at the Doctor’s presence, “You can go away now.”

“How rude, to think you would treat a delegate of the IPC like this,” he placed his hand to his chest in mock offence. You pictured his eyes rolling underneath the alabaster read to aid to the sarcasm radiating off of his body, “I expected more from you.”

Noticing your anger and lack of motivation to carry on the conversation, Screwllum allowed himself to speak, “I don’t believe we have been formally introduced,” he stood up, you frowning at him as he took a few steps forward, sticking a hand out to the Doctor, “I am Screwllum, number-”

“Number 76 of the Genius Society, ruler of Planet Screwllum, leader of the resistance against Rupert I,” Doctor Ratio rambled out the list of title, counting each on his fingers like a child may do when trying to solve a math problem, albeit the Doctor’s action was clearly mocking in nature, “Don’t patronize me, Mr. Screwllum. I work for the IPC, of course I am aware of your identity.” He huffed, removing the alabaster head to reveal his own features, hair slightly out of place due to the action. He looked unamused, crossing his arms with another dramatic huff.

“Affirmation; your tongue is as sharp as your looks, as I have heard, Doctor,” Screwllum’s tone was even, though he retracted his outreached hand, which had gone unanswered, plainly and obviously, making the tension in the air obvious.

You resisted the urge to groan in frustration, instead stating, “Why are you here, Mr. Ratio? I’m sure you have better things to do than lounge around in the Seclusion Zone all day,” you resisted the urge to smirk at him, “keep this up and I may just report you to your employer for time fraud - its not like you’re doing any work around here anyway.”

“You’re the one who told me to come here, remember?” he questioned, leaving your quip unanswered and raising an eyebrow. He sighed at the blank look at your face at his words, as if disappointed, “Pity, it was quite a dramatic comment, I would have suspected you to remember it. What was it again?” he put a hand to his chin as if in thought, though the mocking smile told you the words were already committed to his memory, “Ah, yes, ‘We are definitely having a chat about this later’ that it.”

“Yeah, later, as in not now,” you said drily, pointing to the army of cameras surrounding you, “I’m clearly busy.”

“I seem to recall that you entertained a conversation with me just fine earlier today when you were also busy,” he sighed dramatically, leaning against one of the tubes full of plants cultivated by Ruan Mei, “I suppose idiots truly can only multitask for so long during the day; pity, I truly enjoyed our conversations.”

You opened your mouth, a retort on the tip of your tongue, but were silenced when Screwllum spoke first, “I do not mean to interrupt,” he spoke, glancing between you and the Doctor curiously, “However, I do need to depart to a meeting,” he turned from the Doctor, walking to where you sat and placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder, “My dear, don’t you think allowing Mr. Ratio to accompany you may allow you to finish this task quicker? I’d hate for you to waste more time on this venture.”

Screwllum’s shining green eyes bore into yours, almost as if he was daring you to rebut him. You knew what he was playing at as he rubbed familiar, soothing circles into your flesh. It was another silent dare, for you to bring up what you knew was on both of your minds. Of course, you didn’t, an action you knew that your companion expected. Your eyes drifted briefly to the Doctor, who was watching you two curiously as if you were a math problem that he couldn’t quite solve. 

“Fine, fine,” you relented, putting your hands in the air in mock defeat, meeting the Doctor’s eye, “I’ll let you stay, only if you help me put up these cameras once they’re ready.” You hated the smug look on the Doctor’s face at your words as if he had emerged victorious from the exchange somehow, his hands moving from being crossed at his chest to instead resting on his hips like some sort of superhero. 

“Quite bold of you to ask a mere visitor to help you with such a menial task,” he started, though he walked towards you and Screwllum nonetheless, “However, if you insist, I suppose I can help. The Station will benefit from my adept hand, after all.”

“Ah, yes, I can already hear Lady Asta gasping in pleasure when she see’s your expert camera placement,” you rolled your eyes as you shoved another camera into its mound, earning a glare from the Doctor. Once again, Screwllum saved the day, breaking the silence before he could retort.

“With that settled, I will take my leave now,” he gave your shoulder a small squeeze, your eyes transfixed on the Doctor, whose eyes were equally as focused on the small act of intimacy, “Conclusion, I will see you later tonight, my dear.” He let his metallic hand remove itself from your shoulder after being sure to give it one last squeeze.

“Can’t wait!” you smiled at him, dragging your eyes away from the Doctor to watch your companion retreat, keeping your focus on his form until he was completely out of your sight, before you reluctantly dragged your eyes back to the Doctor. He stood a few feet away from you, as if unsure exactly where to go or what to do. You huffed at his reactions, “What, does a genius like yourself not know how to socially interact with people? Sit down already!”

“You must forgive me, the IPC doesn’t provide lessons on social etiquette regarding sitting on the floor,” he replied drily, awkwardly taking a seat next to you on the cold metal floor of the Space Station, his eyes looking over you as you continued your work with the cameras, “We sit in chairs, like civilized people. I do not understand your logic of working here.”

“Come on, Doc, live a little, sitting on the floor never killed anyone,” you shrugged, your voice light, but lacking the usual passion you preferred to give to your retorts. Too tired to really care, you ignored his gaze to continue your work, “Plus, it’s easier to work here anyway, saves me lugging cameras around later.”

“I must say, you lack your usual passion that you provide to our oh-so-delightful conversations” he scanned the immediate surroundings as if searching for something, “Is this what you’re like sober? I dare say you make a much more entertaining conversationalist when you are slightly tipsy.” It’s only then that you realized he held a bottle of wine in his hand, a brand you didn’t recognize, “Drink then, so we can speak like intellectuals.”

“Wow, aiding my alcoholism? You must be in a good mood,” you raised an eyebrow in suspicion, though you were quick the grab the opened bottle anyway, taking a few large gulps of the wine. It was a dry wine, definitely not your favourite, but it was strong, the red liquid burning your throat as you swallowed. 

“You could at least pour yourself a glass first,” the Doctor shot you a glare, grabbing the bottle to wipe away the stain of your lipgloss at the opening, “I’m beginning to suspect you have no concept of manners.”

“Do you see any glasses around here?” you retorted, both you and the Doctor looking around the room, the only signs of objects other than cameras or plants being Ruan Mei’s little cat-like creatures. That seemed to be enough to shut up the doctor, at least briefly, as he spent the next few minutes watching you construct cameras and drink wine in silence. Of course, though, the Doctor could only stand to exist without hearing his voice for so long, leading him to break the silence.

“You did not answer my earlier question,” he replied, voice even, though containing less of an annoying edge than usual. Aeons, what was it with these men and their persistence to get an answer out of you today, “Why are you colder than usual?”

You shot him a glare, standing up from the floor in anger, as if you wanted to punch him right then and there. Of course you didn’t, instead allowing yourself to pace the room, a few of the cat-like creatures hopping alongside you as you did, “You really have to ask me that? And you call yourself a member of the Intelligensia Guild?” you scoffed, pausing your pacing to stare him down directly, thriving in the way he squirmed slightly in his uncomfortable seat on the floor, “Not only did you use your stupid looks to sneak into the Seclusion Zone, but you witnessed Ruan Mei’s psychotic experiment, knew what was going to happen, but didn’t tell anyone about it, instead basically sending myself and the Trailblazer to our impending doom!” Your words were cold, harsh, streaming out like a river, as if you couldn’t hold them back any longer, “I know were not exactly friendly, but holy fuck, draw the line somewhere, right?”

He held his hands out in front of him, arm muscles flexing as he did so, “I understand you are upset, however-”

“Upset?” you scoffed, a sarcastic laugh leaving your lips, “Wrong, I’m pissed off! Is my life a joke to you? A few more seconds of fighting that stupid thing and I wouldn’t be here right now!” you pointed an accusatory finger at him, “Imagine if we did die, huh? Were you just goint to lounge around the Space Station as if you didn’t send us to death without the tinest warning? Or were you going to celebrate since I was finally out of your hair?”

“I wouldn’t have let you die,” he replied, tone cold, disappointed even, as if you were in the wrong for claiming he would do such a thing, “I’m sure you noticed that I returned to the Seclusion Zone before you left.” You had noticed. Of course, you did. You had been forced to halt your cleaning job temporarily to get the Trailblazer back to the Storage Zone. Mysteriously, despite the Trailblazer never having pressed the button for the elevator, the elevator was awaiting your arrival, as if the previous user had taken it downwards to the Seclusion Zone, despite you having seen the Doctor taking it upwards before you headed off to your impending doom. The Doctor took your silence as acknowledgement, “I was prepared to aid the two of you in defeating the creature if required.”

You didn’t speak for a moment, processing the new information to add on to what you already knew. You weren’t sure of what to make of the elevator incident til now, not knowing if the Doctor came to help you or mock you. Somehow, you found the later to be more preferable than the reality. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” you rebutted, sitting down on the floor again, keeping a few feet distance between you and the Doctor, “Knowing that you could help me defeat a monster that you failed to tell me about in the first place?”

The Doctor sighed dramatically as if he was a child caught stealing from a cookie jar, before beginning to speak, “I… apologize for my actions,” despite his extravagant sentiments before speaking, his words were surprisingly genuine, his usually snobby voice reduced to a volume barely above a whisper, “I was confident in your ability to hold off the creature, however I should have told you about the threat it posed… I am sorry.”

You blinked dumbly a few times before bursting out into laughter, scootching closer towards the Doctor to grab the wine bottle, taking a swig between your giggles, “Wow, it’s that easy to elicit an apology out of you, Doc?” you smirked, “I should’ve recorded that shit, ahhh it was so satisfying!” 

“You-” he glared at you, yanking the bottle out of your hands in anger, “Were you faking that temper tantrum the whole time? Are you capable of holding any conversation without emotional manipulation?” You continued to giggle, laughs only edged on by the warmth rising to the Doctor’s cheeks, which he tried to hide with his hands.

“I mean, I was, and am still upset,” you shrugged, snatching the bottle again from where he placed it on the floor to take another swig, sighing at the taste as you pulled the bottle away from your lips “But, why would I let that get in the way of me teasing you?” she mused, “Maybe I should’ve took it further, hmm? Waited until you got down on your knees and begged for my forgiveness before-”

“Enough of this insolence!” he exclaimed, an angry blush on his clear skin, “I have never met someone with so much gull; someone so infuriating!” he again snatched the wine away from you, though he failed to take a sip from the bottle.

“Hey, hey, you deserved all that after what you put me through today!” you pointed an accusatory finger at him before standing up from the floor, “Now come on, Doc, these cameras aren’t gonna put themselves up, huh?” you grabbed two of the cameras from their resting place on the floor, gesturing for the Doctor to do the same.

“And why would I help you exactly?” he questioned, crossing his arms across his chest, “may I remind you that I am your guest? If anything, you should be grovelling to me to fulfil my every wish.”

“You would like me on my knee for you, huh?” you teased, raising your eyebrows suggestively, causing the Doctor to open his mouth in rebut, though you were quick to cut him off before he could speak, “But you told Screwllum you would help, so too bad.” He sighed incredulously at your words.

“That was before you tricked me into apologizing and embarrassed me!’ he retorted, breathing heavily, as if relieved to finally let a retort escape his lips.

“Embarressed you in front of who exactly?” you cocked an eyebrow, looking between the Doctor and Ruan Mei’s creatures, “I don’t exactly think they’re the type to spread gossip ya know?” The Doctor and you watched as the creatures continued to jump around aimlessly, “So come on already, the sooner we do this the sooner we can leave each other alone.” The Doctor sighed, though he picked up two cameras nonetheless, trailing after you as you made your way through the Seclusion Zone. Your first step was the area overlooking the primary home of Ruan Mei’s creations, who seemed to longue by a toilet-like device nearby to where you were sitting. You easily began positioning a camera at the corner of the wall a few feet away from the toilet, allowing the device to display a view of the whole area.

“May I remind you that I have no loyalty to the Genius Society; I do not owe Screwllum my word, nor do I owe you anything,” the Doctor rebutted after a few moments of silence, as if he had been thinking of the retort, “However, I will help you this time out of the kindness of my heart.”

“Wow, isn’t this amiracle,” you ensured the camera was at least partly secure before turning to face him, placing a mocking hand to your chest, “The asshole Doctor caring for others? I’ll make sure to remember this moment; make sure to have your ghost writer reach out to me for your next autobiography so that I can tell them all the wonderful times we had together!”

“You read my autobiography?” he raised an eyebrow at you, though you didn’t notice due to your back once again being turned to him. You sensed the change in his tone though; less snarky and self-centered and more teasing, “I never knew how much of a fan you were; you should have told me Ms. Y/N, I would have gladly signed something for you.” You finished positioning the camera, turning to glare at the mocking smile on the Doctor’s face, “Is your propensity to teast me related to your infatuation with my work? It would explain why you make it you life’s mission to cause me strife; its akin to a child pulling their crushes hair on the playground!”

You scoffed, the Doctor trailing after you as you walked to the other side of the room near some plants that had been cultivated in the Seclusion Zone, and near a place where a few other of Ruan Mei’s creations had been lounging. The creatures were quick to give you some space to position the camera, “You wish, Doctor, I just find your reactions amusing,” you mused as you fiddled with the camera, “Screwllum lent me the book; I’ve got to say, eight doctorial degrees? Like holy shiy, at what could you’ve possibly learned in the eighth that you didn’t already learn in the seventh?”

A moment of silence passed again, you figured because the Doctor was looking to retort again. You weren't complaining though, the silence allowed you time to realize how fuzzy your head was becoming from the wine, and allowed you to find a suitable spot on the opposite side of the room near a staircase to plant another camera. You briefly glanced at the Doctor as you grabbed one of the cameras from his hand, earning no notable reaction. With a shrug, you tuned and began to position the device before the Doctor spoke again, “If I may be so bold… what exactly is your relationship with… Mr. Screwllum?”

“Huh?” you weren’t expecting that question, nearly dropping the unsecured camera, which you barely managed to pick up before it hit the ground. You turned to face him, as if searching his face for the intention behind his words, “What, you’re worried I’m taken? I’m flattered, Doctor, this is the second time today you’ve implied you wanted me to worship you on my knees. You sure don’t hold back on your kinks, huh?”

“Are you capable of responding to anything seriously” he exclaimed awkwardly, brushing off your attempt to deflect the situation. His eyes scanned your figure, taking in Screwllum’s button-down shirt that trailed down to the top of your upper thigh, “You clearly have… some romantic relationship with each other. I am merely curious how a man of his standing has the ability to put up with someone like you.”

“Believe it or not, I’m quite a pleasurable person to be around, you just bring out the worst in me, Doc,” you joked, pondering if you should place the camera or focus on the Doctor, but opted for the latter after you determined your next words, “The relationship Screwllum and I have is pretty simple - were just fuck buddies.”

You weren’t exactly sure how the Doctor would react to that information, though you would have never expected the mere word ‘fuck’ would cause him to open his mouth like a fish, sputtering as if he was speechless, his face red with embarrassment, “W-What?”

“What, eight doctorial degrees and you don’t know what the term fuck buddies is?” you cocked an eyebrow, a smirk growing it’s way on your features, “Ya know, friends with benefits, a situationship, meaningless sex, booty call-”

“I understand the concept!” the Doctor practically shouted, as if begging you to shut up, his face growing redder, “I just cannot comprehend how someone like him would be in a… sexual relationship with someone like you.”

“What, like you can’t picture how we do it?” you questioned teasingly, curving your middle and pointed finger in a ‘come here’ motion, “Come on, use your imagination, Doc! I’ll let you know that Screwllum is great with his fingers!”

Your actions only seemed to spiral the Doctor further into an embarrassed mess, one of his hands moving to attempt to hide the heat on his cheeks, “That is not what I meant,” he sighed, frustrated, “I merely wish to understand how one of the most notable men in the universe ended up being close to a mere security guard.”

“Oh,” you shrugged, turning away now to refocus on the camera, “I mean, that’s nothing special really if I had to be honest. Screwllum visits pretty often, so naturally we ended up talking at some point,” you looked over your shoulder at the Doctor, “Plus, haven’t you seen him? Dude’s smoking hot, of course I’d flirt with him after we got to know each other. It’s as simple as that.” By the strange look the Doctor was giving you, you were pretty sure he didn’t share your enthusiasm regarding the attractiveness of robots, not that it really mattered - more for you to have after all. 

“And yet you’re not dating,” the Doctor commented, trailing after you again as you once again wandered around the room to the wall opposite the stars to put up another camera. You barely glanced at him this time as you grabbed the last camera from him, quickly turning away. 

“We're not dating,” you kept your tone as casual as you could, focusing your attention on positioning the camera on the wall. You doubted the Doctor was the best at picking up on emotional cues, but you wanted to be safe nonetheless by avoiding his questioning gaze.

“I see,” he spoke simply before continuing, “I suppose that’s self-explanatory,” he commented offhandedly as you continued to avoid his gaze while focusing ion your work, “You don’t seem like the type to commit to a long term relationship; both you and Screwllum must have greater satisfaction with this… arrangement.”

God, if he was going to make you talk more about your sex life, you definitely would need more wine in your system, “Ah, Doctor, falling into assumptions of character?” you murmured as you secured the camera, “I expected more from your eight doctorate degrees.” Not seeing a way out of the inevitable, you half-hazardously finished placing the camera before wandering back towards the wine to take a swig, the Doctor once again on your heels.

“I do not understand your assertion,” he watched you impatiently as you took some swigs, the bottle nearly drained before you forced yourself to stop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You were quick to grab two more cameras, motioning the Doctor to follow you once he grabbed two more of his own.

“... I was not the one who suggested our relationship be casual. It was Screwllum,” you once again kept your tone even as the Doctor followed you up the first flight of stairs, where you decided to place a camera beside the door to an experimental room. You looked at the Doctor over your shoulder after a moment of silence, “What, no witty remark for that one, Doctor?”

“I am merely confused,” he confessed, his tone curious. You preferred him more when he was mocking you, “I must admit, I am not familiar with your relationship with Screwllum, but he clearly showed care for you earlier.” Your mind wandered back to the robot, his touch on your skin, his reluctance to leave, the way his fingers expertly massaged your flesh, the way you were straddlingly him when the Doctor had found you. You shoke your head, as if to brush the memories away.

“That’s the thing,” you commented with a shrug, turning to face the Doctor now that the camera was secure to the wall, “At the end of the day, Screwllum will never seriously date someone because of who he is,” you shrugged, as if speaking those words didn’t pain you, “I obviously see him as someone extraordinary who is honestly a lot kinder than a lot of humans I know,” your eyes trailed down to the ground floor, eyeing Ruan Mei’s creations, “But at the end of the day, he’ll always be scared that he can never truly love me because he’s a machine,” you admitted, “Screwllum doesn’t think he’s capable of genuine love, so he won’t get himself in a situation where someone feels that way about him on a deeper level.”

“And yet you have feelings for him,” the Doctor commented as you walked into the experimental room after the first flight of stairs, placing another camera on the other side of the door. Your mind was foggy now with the wine, as if you knew you should stop talking but couldn’t. Maybe one of the Doctor’s degrees was in psychology, considering he seemed to know exactly how to make you spill your inner demons. 

“I think I did at one time,” you said honestly, “But I accepted that whatever I wanted with him won’t ever occur, and I moved on.” With the camera secure, you turned to face the Doctor, “You’re awfully curious about my failed love life, huh? What ‘bout you? Some cute chick waiting back at the University of Veritas Prime?”

“I have no time for romance,” he spoke plainly, crossing his arms over his chest disinterestedly, “There are much more pressing matters for someone of my standing to deal with than something a fickle as a relationship.”

“Spoken like a true virgin,” you clasped your hands together with a mocking smile, “How sweet, Doctor,” you turned away from him, the Doctor again trailing after you as you left the room and walked up the second flight of stairs, “Though, honestly, if I had to deal with your attitude everyday, I wouldn’t fuck you either. I’m sure hearing your voice day after day everyday while getting a degree would be enough to drive me to drop out. I pity all the women who had to deal with you year after year.”

“Very funny,” he spoke, sarcasm dripping from his tone, “Unfortunately for you and myself, many women have the propensity to throw themselves at me,” he sighed, as if recalling the incidents, “They are dull minded and not worthy my time, attention, or energy.”

“Hmm, curious,” you commented, unceremoniously climbing on top of a few metal boxes at the top of the stair case to reach an adequate area on the wall for your camera, “And yet you seem to always find me for some obnoxious conversation? Does that make me special?” you turned, smirking over your shoulder.

“We simply keep running into each other, you are not special,” the Doctor brushed off your comment, shooting you a judgemental stare as you descended from one pile of boxes to make your way to another file on the opposite side of the landing, grabbing the last camera from his hands before climbing up the boxes again.

“Awww, don’t be shy, Doc,” you teased, eyes focused on the camera instead of him, “You know there’s more to it - you’re the one who sought me out this time, after all,” you looked over your shoulder once the camera was secure, “If you’re falling for me, might as well tell me now so I can reject you before it’s too late.”

You turned back to the camera, one foot taking a step back so you could better check the accuracy of the angle. You gasped when your foot felt nothing to rest on, flailing your arms as your body began to fall backwards, cursing the stupid wine as you did so. Through your drunken haze, your mind attempted to think of any solution to get yourself out of this situation, though any logic snapped away when you felt him.

Doctor Ratio was quick to react, arms wrapping around your waist as your body fell, pulling you away from the boxes and closer to him. He made a small grunting noise as your body collided with his chest, his warmth surrounding you as he pulled you close to him. In his arms, you truly realized the extent of his physique, feeling the muscles in his chest against your back, and truly acknowledging the size of his arms as he held you against him. His body was hot, almost unbearably so, your body used to the cold metallic arms of your usual partner. It was comforting though; as if you were wrapped in a blanket. What overwhelmed you most, though, was his scent. His clothes smelt clean, as if they were fresh from the laundry, giving him a soft smell, a harsh contrast to his more harsh figure. However, as if to cover the softness up, there was a hint of cologne, nothing too strong but definitely something there that tickled your nose as you inhaled the musky scent. His breath tickled your exposed neck as he breathed, giving you goosebumps despite the overwhelming scent surrounding you.

“If anything, it seems as if you are the one falling for me,” he whispered into your ear, voice lacking its usual arrogance, replaced by something you wanted to label as flirtatious, but were afraid to do so. He chuckled at your lack of response, “It does feel nice to finally have you at a loss of words - as if I’ve finally reached a checkmate against one of my opponents. 

“No wonder women don’t like you,” you forced yourself to speak, voice lacking the confidence you wanted it to possess, “you just see them like chess pieces - a game to you.”

“I can reassure you, you’re the only one entertaining enough to resemble a challenge,” he laughed, making sure your feet were on the ground before he moved to release you. Your head was practically spinning then, a mix of the alcohol, closeness to the Doctor and some resemblance of dignity that was now absence after your tumble. You immediately felt cold at the absence of your skin, a feeling you usually were okay with. But now… now all you were craving seemed to be heat. 

He let out a yelp when you pulled his body back to yours, your back against his chest again, “Aeons, this is embarrassing,” you muttered, before turning your head to look at him, “...but can you hold me a little longer?” He hesitated slightly, looking you in the eye as if to see if you were testing him somehow. When you merely stared back at him, no hint of a smirk on your features, he sighed, moving his arms to adjust to your body again. You sighed in relief at the feeling of his arms wrap around your waist again, resisting the urge to nuzzle back against him.

“How drunk are you exactly?” he groaned in annoyance against you, though he didn’t make a move to leave your side, “This type of behaviour is ridiculous, even for someone as idiotic as yourself.”

“It’s not my fault that I want some comfort!” you defended, words slightly slurred now from the alcohol “You try fighting some stupid mutant bug and washing bug guts off yourself for two hours, and get back to me about how you feel!” you huffed, forcing yourself to move away from him, “Just forget it, let’s go grab more cameras and-” You gasped when he pulled you back towards him again, this time picking you up bridal style. The feeling of his strong arms against your legs made your shudder, the less PG part of your mind wondering how they would feel in more skin tight pants compared to the sweats you wore now,  “What the hell are you doing, put me down!”

“As if I’d let you walk after you almost cracked your skull open,” he scoffed, descending the stairs with you in his arms, his demeanour completely normal despite your weight in his arms, “Though I must say, your comments do make your behaviour this evening much more understandable.”

“I’m not some stupid puzzle for you to try to solve, bastard,” you resisted the urge to flail your way out of his arms, not wanting to fall on your ass again today.

He ignored your protests, continuing to speak, “I have to say, my intentions of asking about Screwllum were to try and dissect the curious behaviour you too displayed,” he began, descending the second flight of stairs, “If there truly is no romantic feelings between you two, why did he hesitate to leave? Why did he continue to touch you for as long as possible.” The Doctor carefully placed you down on the floor near the cameras before placing his hands on his hips, not batting an eye as you reached towards the wine, “It makes sense now; the anger, the reluctance to be alone, the mentions of fighting to the death.” He paused for a moment as if adding dramatic effect.

“You were scared. You don’t want to be alone. You want someone to comfort you - it is the only thing I can hypothesize behind Screwllum’s motives to suggest I remain here with you after he depart - he was worried about you.”

You downed the rest of the wine, bottle now empty as you placed it down, “Why do you have to be so smart? It’s annoying,” you murmured, the bottle falling to the ground as you failed to place it down properly, “So what if I wanna little comfort after almost dying, isn’t that normal?”

“And why, exactly, do you want this comfort from me?” he asked, cocking a curious eyebrow at you. 

It was a question you asked yourself too - why him? In all honesty, your two, now three, interactions with the Doctor had all been a pain in your ass, keeping you from doing something else that you wanted to do to deal with tiring conversation with some pompous asshole who had no desire to do anything but insult you… Yet you had to admit, the conversations were fun after all. Compared to the other people you surrounded yourself with at the Space Station, Doctor Ratio was new; exciting. He wasn’t afraid to poke your buttons to see what response he would get, something that you couldn’t really say about any of the other researchers. You supposed to closest thing was Herta, but even she couldn’t be bothered to talk to people most days, too focused on the damned Simulated Universe to give a shit about you. That was it - it had to be. You were craving something, or rather someone, who could challenge you, and it just so happened that this Doctor could.

…Not that you were going to tell him that, though. 

“I don’t exactly got a lot’a options here,” you gestured at the room, the only surroundings being Ruan Mei’s creations, “What, am I gonna rant to a stupid cat thingy about my fear of death?”

“You could have saved the rant for Screwllum,” the Doctor commented, eyes flickering from you to the empty wine bottle, “But you instead agreed to rant to me - you are smarter than to make excuses for your actions.”

You huffed, crossing your arms across your chest, “Aeons, and you say I’m the emotionally manipulative one - how did your stupid fancy University teach you to get information out of people so easily,” she sighed in defeat, “I’m not the type of person who wants to reflect on my emotions, and you’re the type of person to give me a distraction, that’s all there is to it.”

“I see,” the Doctor smirked, confidently sitting down beside you on the floor cross-legged, his knee briefly touching yours as he readjusted, “I’ve got to say, this sudden confession of your feelings towards me has me flustered. Perhaps it is you who wants to grovel at my feet, despite you suggesting the reverse.”

“Oh shut up, asshole,” you groaned, wishing you had more wine to drown your sorrows in. You attempted to stand up, extremely wobbly on your feet, “Lets put the rest of these stupid cameras up so I can get the hell out of this place.”

The Doctor grabbed your wrist as if to steady you, though the action didn’t seem to cure the wobble of your figure, “You’re clearly not in the condition to continue working. Why don’t you rest here and continue work later…” he trailed off, as if thinking how to finish his sentence, “...when you’re not stumbling around like a light weight.”

“Lightweight!” you exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “You try drinking a bottle of wine and see how you act!” The Doctor ignored your words, gently pulling you to the ground, placing one of his muscular arms around your waist, as if to prevent your escape.

“Just go to bed, the Station will be better off for a while without you stumbling around down here,” he stated bluntly, repositioning you so that you could rest your head on his chest, the rest of your body curled up beside him.

“At least let me sleep in my room,” you groaned, wiggling against his grip, “No offence, but my bed is a lot comfier than you’re stupidly buff chest.” He snorted slightly at the comment, arm still firmly holding you in place.

“You can barely walk,” he reminded you, “And I do not think either of us would benefit from the rumours that would result from me carrying you towards your room,” you could practically hear the gossip now - its not like researchers had much better to do than start baseless rumours anyway. 

“Ugh, you’re so stupid, Doctor,” you mumbled, accepting your fate and shifting your body slightly to get more comfortable, “You and you’re stupid eight Doctorate degrees, why are you so fucking frustrating?”

“Veritas,” he said softly, making you open your tired eyes to look at him. He gazed down at your figure from where you on his lap, “My name is Veritas. If we are going to be familiar enough to do… whatever this is, you may as well call me by my first name.”

“Veritas,” you tested the name on your lips, “First telling me to sleep on you, and then telling me your first name? What’s next, a marriage proposal?”

“Just shut up and sleep,” he huffed, holding you against his chest, letting you rest your body weight on him completely. You could hear his heartbeat as you rested there, a sound so unfamiliar to you considering your usual cuddling partners. However, somehow the rhythmic thumping was relaxing - a sign of life that showed you that there was someone by your side. It scared away any thoughts of that Aeon-forsaken bug that threatened to invade your mind.

“Dr- Veritas,” you corrected yourself sleepily, “You’ll stay with me, right?” your words were muffled as you spoke into his chest, eyes fluttering with the sleep that already wanted to flow over you.

“It is not like I have much of a choice given our current predicament,” he sighed, though his grip did not loosen on you. You smiled at his words, though your mind briefly wandered away for a second.

“I wanted to ask you,” you said softly, “Early today, you told the Trailblazer that you stumbled upon Ruan Mei’s research after coming down here for your own purposes…” you mumbled, forcing yourself to finish the question despite the desire to sleep, “...Why exactly were you down here in the first place?”

He was silent for a moment, though it was so brief that you wondered if you had made it up, “I will tell you when you awake, I promise.” You nodded, tired mind finding some sort of solace in his words, allowing you to finally let sleep overtake you.

It's only when you wake up the next day, Screwllum shaking your arm urgently, that you realize the Doctor went back on his word.

[stylinsoncity]

Hiiii! I know it’s been a while but first! I want to just confirm that I’m definitely alive and well! I’m also back with a new fic, which you might have already seen if you’re subscribed on ao3.

‘Hard times in elmsmere’ is the vampire/witch time travel au I mentioned a while ago and it is now published in its entirety. I hope you enjoy it!

I also want to talk candidly about where I am re: fic writing in general. I’ve been feeling distant for months as I try to focus on my own personal writing and other interests, hence the long hiatus. I hoped that some time away would kind of reboot that part of my brain. But tbh the opposite has happened.

I will absolutely be finishing penn park and an update is coming very soon. by next week, i believe. i also have one more chapter I want to post for notes on oxford and then I’ll likely mark that as completed. i’m not sure what to do with ‘till the end of time’ so I’ll just leave that open for now. but I think by the end of the year, assuming I’ve added one or two more chapters, i’ll likely mark that completed as well. I do still want to publish caya…and once I finish my WIPs, I think I can get back to editing it bit by bit. I’d also love for SEL to be published one day too, but that seems a little out of reach right now.

I really wish I could clone myself and devote my clone to the task of writing all the fics I’ve ever thought about. But sadly it’s just me! D: 

the bottom line is I won’t really be online anymore and the rate I’m able to update my fics will be really slow. I closed my inbox bc I didn’t want asks piling up or for anyone to feel ignored. my messages are still open for now though so if you need to contact me, pls do. but it may take me a while to respond.

since I’ll be away indefinitely and unable to provide permission, i would really appreciate it if my fics were no longer printed or reproduced in any way, this includes translations or reposting.

lastly, I just want to say thank you very very much for the support! it means so much more than i can even express right now. i've enjoyed all the conversations i've had here and all the love that's been shared. this is not quite a goodbye. there are still lots of great chapters to come. But for now I just want to say thank you for understanding and ily!

[booksandabeer]

Stucky, Fandom Longevity, and "Primacy Bias"

There’s this post that's been floating around the past few days about how the Stucky fandom in its heyday produced fic and art masterpieces like they were all collectively possessed by an unprecedented spirit of creative insanity. It’s a good, fun post and I agree with the person who wrote it. (not rb'ing because I didn't want to hijack their post with something that's only tangentially related).

It was indeed a magical time and the creative output in both quantity and quality in the two-year period following the release of CA:TWS is—with perhaps a few exceptions—unmatched by anything that I’ve seen before and since. However, going through the notes on that post, I noticed something that left me a little irritated and quite frankly sad since it is in congruence with, and to a certain extent the confirmation of something that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.

For one thing, there are so many people in the notes expressing sentiments along the lines of “it was such a wonderful time; I wish I could go back; I miss these fics; I want to read these fics again,” etc., etc., you get it. And it feels a little silly pointing this out, but…you can just do that? Almost all of these fics are still right there, waiting for you to be (re)read. Yes, a lot of people left the fandom after The Great Devastation of 2019, but their stories didn’t just disappear. It's not like there is now a big, black hole where the Steve/Bucky tag used to be on AO3. So, if you miss these fics and you want to revisit them—just do it. Chances are the authors will be delighted that people are still finding and enjoying their stories all these years later. And—since apparently this needs saying, too, judging from the notes on that post: A lot of people seem to be very concerned with losing ‘coolness points’ for openly admitting that they still miss the ship and often feel tempted to dip their toes back into the Stucky pool. I don’t know how to tell you this, but if someone tries to shame you for simply enjoying or missing something, they are an asshole. Not to mention that all this is happening on tumble.com—'coolness' doesn't exactly live here. And that is a good thing, to be clear. Fandom is not about being cool. It’s about being as enthusiastic, as silly, as absolutely fucking unhinged about the things you love as you want to be. So, stop caring what other people think and enjoy yourself.

The other thing is that there seems to be a pretty widespread misconception that the Stucky fandom hasn’t produced any good fanworks after 2016.

First, that is patently and demonstrably untrue. There is so much incredibly good fanfiction and fanart still out there. Not as much as back in the day, sure, but it still exists. And more is being posted every day! Even some of the OG Big Names are still around. One of the most beloved Stucky series that started all the way back in 2014 was updated as recently as December of last year. The artist, who I believe the op is referring to as creating ‘baroque’ paintings, posted their latest Stucky art not even two months ago.

Second, I find this “primacy bias” more than just a little insulting to the many hardworking and incredibly talented people who are still putting their blood, sweat, and tears into creating for this community. And it’s one thing if people who have long left the fandom believe or say something like this, but it’s frankly irritating when I see people who are still very much active—and therefore definitely should know better—feed into that same false myth. Yes, it sucks that the Stucky ship isn’t as big as it used to be, but that doesn't mean there isn't any 'fresh talent' to be found anymore. I’m also not saying we shouldn’t still celebrate and recommend older works—I do it all the time! And it sure as hell doesn't mean everyone has to reblog absolutely everything all the time, either. Your blog, your rules.

But maybe we should put a little more focus on the good things, on the creators and the community we have now, especially if we want that community to still exist in another ten years. I mean, imagine you’re a person who’s just gotten into the fandom (because yes, there are indeed still new people discovering Stucky all the time) and one of the first things you’re being told is “eh, nice that you're here, but you’re about 7 years late; the big party is already over.” Does that seem like a fun space to hang out in to you?

So. Let’s all—and I do not exclude myself from this because God knows, I love to complain—spend a little less time mourning the ‘good old days’ that are never coming back anyway, and instead focus our attention on enjoying and appreciating both the incredible treasure chest of an archive we have AND the wealth of high-quality art and fic that is still being created by this wonderful community every single day. With this in mind:

🥳🎊Happy Stucky Week 2023!!! 🎊🥳

*I want to make it very clear that this is a general thing that’s been on my mind lately and that I’m trying to work through here—probably not very coherently. I'm not trying to tell anybody 'how to do fandom' and I’m most definitely not vagueposting about any particular incident, person, or group in this fandom. This isn’t a callout post. It’s an I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about this and I don’t know what else do with them post.

[kingprinceleo]

Find my Aus sorted by category here: https://deviantart.com/kingprinceleo

Where to find me: Complete List

Ao3 (home to one [1] fic): https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kingprinceleo

Updates:

New summary post ! yay !

Vampire au is getting a total overhaul!

Ships present:

1000 Years Bound-None

Happy Auau- No active ships during the story but hints of Blazamy (married) and Knuxouge (flirting) from a hundreds of years ago. Sonic and Shadow have their typical weird tension with no clear definition as to what they are. (though i may draw non canon fluff art with them)

Fire n Water- None

Vampire Au- Sonadow (Eventual marriage + LOTS of non canon fluff), Blazamy, Knuxouge (flirting)

Desert Vampires Au- Wavouge (exes)

Tag method: Cw (blank)

General/Frequent Content Warnings for my art- Blood, injury, violence, horror themes, body horror, drowning, cannibalism (mostly depicting the urges, minimal straight up gore), gore (very rare, and never extreme)

1000 Years Bound Summary- 500 years into the future, Miles finds himself at the mysterious kingdom of Solar Sanctum, ruled by the long absent King Shadow. Shadow invites Miles to stay as a collaboration of great minds to try and solve the murky state their world has fallen into. It isnt long before Miles starts to realize Shadow is no longer the man he remembers, and starts to get tangled up in his web of madness.

Happy Auau Summary- An au of an au branching off the 1000 Years Bound timeline, or perhaps it's the original…

Sonic the Hedgehog, immortalized by extended use of the chaos emeralds, is alive and well 500 years into the future. His latest adventure leads him to taking down a tyrant king and he finds himself thrust into power when the people of the struggling kingdom declare him to be their next leader. Realizing he's absolutely boned, he calls upon his old friends for help.

Fire and Water Au Summary- Thousands of years ago, the Sol dimension and Mobius had become one planet after a catastrophic event caused by Solaris. After hundreds of years of research and splitting the beast into two halves, Iblis reeked havoc on the planet and threatened to destroy it once again.

Under a time limit and the constant threat of Solaris's return, a baby Sonic was chosen by the royal family to be the vessel to inhabit the flames of disaster.

Present day, Sonic and Blaze's parents have mysteriously passed away and Sonic's coronation is closing in. Desperate, he escapes the castle to pursue a life of freedom as a pirate.

Blaze, with no one left, sets out to retrieve him at any cost.

Vampire Au Summary- Angel Island is the only life Sonic has ever known. Being trapped within the permanent barrier encasing the 8 islands isnt quite his style, so finding a way to destroy it and explore the world below has been his goal for as long as he can remember. Hes got a number of other things keeping him occupied however, trying to prevent both Dr. Eggman and G.U.N from taking over total control of the islands. 

When he isnt fighting them off, hes hanging out with his friends, living his best life being a vampire both day and night. When he wants to get everyone off his back, and feed from his favorite vampire hater, Shadow, he uses his magic staff to change his appearance into an alter ego, Hoax the "Tenrec."

Desert Vampire Au Hook- People are going missing in the desert...

[notsocooljess]

Double Date

finally wrote the drabble i’ve been trying to write for weeks based on this reddit post discovered by @rainymyx in this post. i had so much fun writing this!

i want to continue to add to this based on the original reddit poster’s updates, so we’ll see!

read this on ao3 here

“What can I say? College football days should always be the best days of a man’s life. Now your best days can be listening to me talk about them.”

Ugh. Katniss huffed out a puff of air as she listened to Cato speak. An hour ago, she had been so excited for this date. They were texting for the past two weeks, and their conversation was easy and funny and, most importantly, normal. Now in person, his vibe was totally different than who he portrayed himself as online. Now, he was a thirty-year-old man who wouldn’t stop talking to her about his glory days from ten years ago and the “boozing, blinkers, and babes” that came with them.

After only receiving their appetizers and a single drink, Katniss knew she couldn’t stick around. The thought of having to hear Cato talk about another frat party he attended before The Force Awakens was released was nearly enough to bring her to tears. Desperate, Katniss did what she always did in trying times like these: text Johanna.

“Katniss! Katniss! I need your help, quick!” Johanna’s voice rang through her phone not even a minute later. Her ability to sound like she was truly in agony was as impressive as always.

“Johanna!? What’s going on?” Katniss responded, hoping her acting was, for the first time in her life, passable.

“It’s the baby! I need you here now!” her childless, non-babysitting, kid-hating friend shouted before quickly hanging up.

Katniss darted her eyes to Cato’s, and his brows were knit tightly as if he were trying to to put together the pieces of the conversation that just transpired.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure if you heard. My friend really needs me. She needs help with her… baby. I hate to cut this short, but,” she didn’t finish her sentence as she slipped on her coat. She shuffled through her bag and retrieved a twenty-dollar bill, smacking it on the table.

“Oh, yeah, it’s cool. You still wanna meet up at my place later, right? I have the best surprise waiting for you,” Cato responded while wagging his eyebrows, seemingly uncaring about her fabricated dire emergency or the quality of their date at all. This only irritated Katniss more. Her friend’s fake baby was in trouble, and all he cared about was getting laid!

“Uh… yeah, no. Definitely not. Let’s just forget about this, okay? Have the night you deserve,” Katniss practically snarled as she fled the restaurant.

Once she was in her car, she peeled out of the parking lot and quickly went around the block, looking for a place to park so she could call Johanna. She found a spot located outside of a small pub and dialed her friend.

“How was I this time? I feel like I’m really perfecting my blood-curdling shrillness. What do you say? Any pointers?” Johanna asked as soon as she answered the phone.

Katniss wanted to laugh, but now that the situation was over, she felt defeated. She actually had high hopes for this date, but she again found herself needing to bail.

At twenty-eight, Katniss finally felt ready to do things for herself. Before this, there was never the time. She was raising her sister Prim and taking care of her mother for more than a decade since her father’s passing. Now, Prim was in her second year of medical school where she received full funding for her work, and her mother has a live-in aide to help her with her daily needs. She finally did not have to spend all of her time focusing on school and work and money and bills, and without Prim nearby, she felt lonely. Her friends had convinced her to start going on dates, but after months of failed attempts, she still had nothing to show for it.

“Is it me, Jo?” she responded, “Do I just attract these weirdos?”

“Oh, shut up, brainless. You've been going on dates for a few months. Maybe if you gave yourself a little more practice when we were younger it’d be easier, but some people take years to find something that sticks. You’re hot. You’re smart. You’re caring. Maybe a little hard to swallow with the scowl, but anyone that gets to know the real you is gonna love you.”

She sighed, “Okay.”

“You wanna come over here? I was just going to watch some Dexter reruns, but there’s plenty of room on this couch for two.”

“Actually, I think I need a drink. I’ll let you know what I’m doing after.”

Katniss’s conversation with Johanna ended shortly after, and she made her way into the pub.

The pub was crowded, a symptom of it being a Friday evening in the winter, and Katniss had to shuffle past a group of freshly legal college students to make it to the bar. She wanted something simple, something just to take the edge off, and was quickly handed her rum and coke.

Eager to people-watch while she nursed her drink, Katniss scanned the crowd for an empty seat. Most of the tables seemed to be taken up by a larger group, but a single chair at a small table in the corner of the room was wonderfully vacant. Katniss closed her tab and swiftly made her way across the room.

As she approached, she stopped in her tracks. Hidden from her initial view was a man sitting on the other side of the table, somewhat hunched over with a book in his hands. Before she could backtrack and look for another open seat, he picked his head up and locked eyes with her.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was gonna sit here but didn’t realize you were already here. I’ll just…” her voice trailed off. Katniss had a habit of not finishing her sentences when she was flustered, and after meeting the man’s gaze, she was very flustered. Not only was she not expecting someone to be sitting at the table, but now that he was looking at her, his blue eyes piercing through to her even under the pub’s dim lights, she realized he was around her age and absolutely hot. Her hands began to sweat, and her tongue started to feel like lead.

The man smiled, an endearing smile that quirked more on the left side of his face, highlighting a sole dimple on his cheek. “Don’t worry about it. You can sit here,” He replied, his eyes scanning the room. “Besides, it doesn’t look like there’ll be much room anywhere else.”

“Are you sure?” She asked, and he nodded. “Thank you so much. I promise I won’t even bother you. We don’t even have to talk or anything…” Katniss said as she placed her bag on the table and took her seat.

Katniss started scanning the other patrons of the pub to observe their activities, but her eyes frequently darted back to the man seated across from her. She gathered more bits and pieces of his appearance in the brief moments she allowed herself to study his features. He had blond, curly hair that looked intentionally tousled. His shoulders were very broad, pulling the fabric of his navy henley taut across his chest. He had freckles across the bridge of his nose, and he drummed the table with his left hand while holding the book he was reading in his right.

After a few minutes, he lifted his eyes up from his book and offered her a soft smile. “My name is Peeta, by the way.”

“Katniss,” she said, offering a shy smile of her own.

“You know, I really don’t mind talking if you want to.”

Her grin grew. “Okay, then.” She paused, unsure of where to start, but her curiosity eventually got the better of her when she asked, “Can I ask why you’re reading a book at a crowded bar on a Friday night?”

Peeta chuckled, a laugh that let Katniss know he wasn’t offended. “You waste no time getting to the deep stuff. I actually just moved into my first solo apartment, and as much as I’m happy to have my own space, the silence feels kinda deafening.”

“Ah,” she began, appraising him up and down, “so you find comfort in the chaos.”

“Yeah, I guess I do. I grew up in a house with two older brothers, and the two of them used to practice wrestling no matter where they were. In the dining room, the backyard. One time they threw each other down the stairs,” he chuckled again, “Our mom wasn’t too happy about that one.”

“You’re joking,” Katniss laughed.

“Not even a little bit, I swear. And then I lived in a house with my three friends all the way through grad school. My best friend Finnick used to play eighties pop at all hours of the day. Think, like, Donna Summer or Cyndi Lauper on full blast at three in the morning.”

“And you guys never asked him to stop?” Katniss asked, finding she wanted to know more and more about him.

At this, Peeta hit her with a dead stare, his blue eyes piercing her with a combination of humor and seriousness. “See, that is something only someone who doesn’t know Finnick would ask. If we made any attempts to get him to stop this relatively-harmless-if-not-mildly-annoying behavior, we would only trigger severely worse outcomes for us all.”

“And you said this is your best friend?” Peeta let out a boisterous laugh in reply.

While sitting with Peeta, Katniss found the guard she had put up during her date with Cato had come crashing down.

They spoke about their jobs. Katniss explained how she works as a forest ranger, but she hopes to finish school to become an environmental engineer. Peeta said that he just finished graduate school to become a doctor of architecture.

“I really liked art, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy my parents or pay the bills, so I tried to do the next best thing I could think of.”

“So you became a literal doctor? In a field that’s focused on math and design? Are you a genius?”

“Time Magazine did call me the reincarnation of Albert Einstein.”

“Hm. And to think I placed you more as a Michelangelo.”

They spoke about their families. Katniss spoke about her mom and Prim. She bragged about her sister’s accomplishment in getting a full ride to a great medical school across the country. She felt so comfortable with Peeta, she didn’t even shy away from speaking about her late father, even if it was in the briefest of terms. Peeta nodded his head as she spoke, squeezing her hand across the table when he sensed certain details were particularly hard for her to get out. Peeta, the son of bakers, grew up really close with his older brothers. His oldest brother took over the family business, and while Peeta loves baking, he enjoys it more as a hobby than a career.

This seamlessly led to them speaking about their childhoods. Katniss was mostly shy, harboring two friends, Madge and Gale, through her schooling, despite her being a star on her school’s track and archery teams. University allowed her to come out of her shell and meet friends that didn’t matter her reticent personality, like Johanna. Peeta wrestled, painted, did debate team, and wrote. He had a solid group of friends during school, but he found his lifelong friends in college.

They spoke about the little things. Their favorite colors. Favorite snacks. Movies. Shows. And their answers were so similar across all categories, they had a near total eclipse on a venn diagram of each topic. Their responses were so alike that, at one point, Katniss plastered her face with her signature scowl Peeta had not yet been acquainted with, asking him if he was being totally honest with his responses.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, “Look, that scowl is too intimidating for me to not come clean. So the truth is, I’ve been being honest this entire time.”

Before Katniss realized, nearly two hours had gone since she first sat down with Peeta. They fell into a comfortable silence, and she studied his features more in the muted light. She tried to picture what he looked like out of this setting. Hunching over a sketchbook. Cooking in his kitchen. Laughing with his friends. Cheering on his nephews at their little league games.

She studied the way the dim light caught onto the golden strands of his eyelashes, becoming mesmerized by the way they fluttered against his cheek when he blinked. She didn’t even realize she was staring until he spoke again, causing her to jump slightly.

“So what about you?” He asked, a small grin on his lips.

“What about me?”

“Well, before you asked what I’m doing at a bar alone on a Friday night. But what are you doing alone here on a Friday night so that I, a stranger, was able to take up so much of your time?”

Katniss contemplates what she should say, unsure if she should reveal her failed date with Cato. But as Peeta looked at her with sincerity in his eyes, she has the hunch that she could really trust him.

“If I’m honest, I came here because I had left a really, really bad first date,” she responded sheepishly.

Peeta cocked his left eyebrow expectantly. “How bad?”

“Well… it was so bad I made my best friend call me and say she was having an emergency with her fake baby to give me a reason to bail,” Katniss blurted out, her tone hitching at the end to make her statement sound more like a question. Like she was questioning if she really did that herself.

Both of Peeta’s eyebrows were raised, his eyes glinting with amusement, lips curling in to stop him from laughing. “You’re kidding me,” he managed to croak out.

“In my defense, he only spoke about his college football experiences, and after I started leaving to go help my friend with her fake baby, he still asked if we were having sex later!”

At this, Peeta burst out laughing, and after Katniss realized exactly what she said, she joined him. As Katniss clutched her stomach, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes, she almost missed what Peeta said next.

“That’s why I’ve kind of given up on dating.”

“Given up?” Katniss asked, her voice airy from her recent laughter and something silly like concern that she might have been wrong about the connection she felt with him all night.

“In grad school, every date I went on just didn’t have any spark. They were just mediocre. Then, I got so busy with trying to finish my degree, I just gave up on the whole thing.” For the first time that night, Peeta responded without meeting her gaze.

She’s not sure what made her say it. Maybe it was the second rum and coke she had gotten while talking with Peeta. Maybe it was that she felt like she had nothing left to lose after her first failed date of the night. Or, maybe it was because she knew she’d majorly regret if she didn’t try to continue with the something that she felt burning between her and Peeta, but she had to say it.

“I find that hard to believe considering this is probably the closest thing I’ve had to a good date in what feels like forever.”

At this, Peeta drew his head back in what appeared to be shock. His eyes met her again, an indecipherable expression plastering his features as he searched hers. Katniss shifted in her chair, somewhat uncomfortable with his unreadable scrutiny.

Finally, Peeta’s features relaxed. and he looked Katniss right in the eye with a neutral, if not somewhat strained, expression. “Tell you what,” he began, “I have to go to the bathroom, but when I come back, I’ll ask you out for real.”

Katniss shot him a curious expression, but as Peeta began to move, it clicked. He did not stand from his seat – he wheeled back from the table, towards the back of the bar with the bathrooms. His left pant leg tied off just below the knee. Katniss understood: he wanted her to see everything about him before she agreed to go on a date with him. He was giving her an out.

At this, Katniss’s gut twisted, both with regret and butterflies. She felt somewhat bad for him, wondering if this was a move he made from being rejected for his physical condition before. Wondering how anyone could do that to anyone, let alone a guy like Peeta. But overpowering this feeling were the butterflies. He liked her. He wanted her to see all of him. He was laying his insecurities bare for her. Most importantly, he already trusted her. In mind, body, and spirit, he couldn’t be any more beautiful.

A minute later, Peeta emerged from the bathroom, a goofy grin plastered across his face to perfectly match hers.

As soon as he reached the table, the words came tumbling out of Katniss’s mouth before she could stop them.

“So, I’m free all weekend. What do you have in mind?”

[soongtypehuman]

Boo-hoo update

I’m sorry to say I have an update I was hoping to not ever have to make. Some of you already know that I have some serious health issues, but I've been pretty quiet about the extent of what I'm dealing with.

The gist of it is that I have a rare bone disease called fibrous dysplasia that turned certain bones in my skull into tumors and then those tumors grew inward and started crushing my brain, so I had a craniotomy last year to remove as much as was safe and got a cool new titanium implant in my head to replace the removed bone/tumor. The unfortunate result was encephalomalacia, which is the end stage of liquifying necrosis, and now part of my brain is liquid instead of solid (it’s dead, in a nutshell). Most people don’t survive encephalomalacia, much less remain able to function, and most who survive the initial stage don’t survive the three year mark. Even when you do survive it, it often continues spreading. The last MRI showed it had already taken over about 1/3 of my brain. But I’m a stubborn asshole and am still hanging on.

Unfortunately, things aren’t getting better.

I have to have constant MRIs, EEGs, physical and cognitive therapies, and have been on more meds than I’d like to be in order to control seizures and various cognitive issues. I didn’t mention this before, but I had to go through a series of speech therapies just to learn to talk properly again. And the most unfortunate part of this is that my ability to write has been affected. Since the surgery over a year ago, I’ve only made 10 new posts in the Positronic Rivalry series, totaling around 87k words. For reference, I posted over 200k words in 2022. I’ve posted even less this year, and it’s not improving.

With that said, I have to take a step back. I’m not quitting and I’m not walking away from the fandom. I’d like to think I’ll still be able to post here and there. I just don’t know when and under what circumstances that will happen. I most certainly can’t handle the longer multi-chapter fics I once could. Maybe one day, but not this day. Since I started posting on AO3 back at the end of 2021, I’ve posted every Sunday more often than not. I’m sorry to say I can’t make that happen right now, and can’t say when I’ll post again or what it will be. I won't be able to continue with season 4.

But I’m most definitely not leaving the fandom and the people and the characters I love so much. I’ll still be here interacting and posting when I’m able. This fandom and the people in it are incredible and mean a lot to me. Data and Lore and Star Trek in general are integral to my life and general enjoyment.

But!! I’ve nearly completed compiling seasons 1-3 of Positronic Rivalry as well as 2022/23 Kinktobers into files that will be ready to print in physical book format (completely free, obviously), which I’ll make available for everyone to download in various print sizes, complete with covers, which you can then have printed at various POD sites if you’re so inclined. Digital versions will also be available (you can already download various formats from AO3, but they’re not compiled into seasons, don’t have covers, etc.).

I’m also continuing with the Trek-themed crossword puzzles because those are fun and my therapist thinks making them is good for my cognitive rehab.

This update is a massive bummer for me, but I felt it was better to just admit my limitations instead of constantly trying to convince myself that I could continue the way I had been pre-surgery and beating myself up when I couldn’t.

Lastly, I’ve finally taken the suggestion I’ve gotten repeatedly and set up a KoFi. If you’d like to buy me a coffee or toss a coin to your android porn witcher, you can do so right here and I’d be giggling and kicking my feet in gratitude.

Anyhow, I want to thank all of you for being amazing and coming along on this ride with me for as long as you have, and for as long as it might continue in whatever form it takes.

[lucywrites02]

The game of cat and spider Chapter 1

Main masterlist ♡ Miguel O'hara masterlist ♡ The game of cat and spider Masterlist ♡ AO3

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 |

A/n: And here I am with my first Miguel fanfic! I can't say how many chapters this story will have because I am still in the middle of planning out this fic. I hope you enjoy it! I am looking forward to reading your feedback :3 I will try my best and update every week

Pairing: Miguel o'hara x black cat! Reader

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: mention on a wound and blood. There are probably some mistakes since I didn't proofread ups..

Series Summary: You are a criminal and he's a hero. You don't know each other's names, never seen the person behind the mask. You aren't enemies- you are supposed to be but that didn't work out quite well. You liked each other a bit too much, but your relationship was strictly…. Professional? What happens if you meet as normal people, with no masks and responsibilities in your way? What did the universe plan for you? And most importantly…. Will it last?

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

"Here, kitty kitty." The spider-man called, chasing the town's most famous thief- the black cat. You were proud of this title- most wanted criminal in Nueva York. You worked hard to earn that and no person was gonna take that away from you. Especially not a grown us man playing dress-up at night.

It stopped raining hours ago, but the streets were still wet and slippery which meant you had to be really careful. It would be incredibly embarrassing to land on your ass and get your suit wet in front of the town's favourite superhero. Even though it was still summer, the nights got really cold sometimes. Like now. Your suit wasn't made for this kind of weather and if you weren't running you would surely be shivering. The raindrops on windows and the ground reflected the street lights, creating a cozy atmosphere. It was one of the most silent parts of the city- there weren't many cars driving at this hour and people who lived there were already asleep. A typical upper class corner. It was unusual for a metropole like Nueva York to be this quiet, that's why you liked 'working' in this neighbourhood. It was quiet. Almost relaxing. You would probably appreciate your surroundings more if it wasn't for the man in a latex bodysuit running after you.

His costume was soaked after you pushed him into the pool in someone's garden as you were fighting him off of you. The droplets made him shine a little when the light hit him at the right angle.

At first Miguel treated you like any other criminal- you were an obstacle that had to be removed- but you escaped him every damn time. O'hara was beyond furious the first few times it happened. And your flirty comments and constant teasing didn't help at all. That's why he was surprised when he noticed that he started doing that, too at some point. Chasing you became more of a hobby than responsibility and even though Miguel would never say that out loud, he kinda enjoyed it. It's been almost a year since the two of you started that little game of cat and spider and it would be a lie if Miguel said you were an enemy. You were more of a…. Miguel wasn't entirely sure what your relationship was, but you definitely didn't hate each other and even though it's Spider-man's job to capture you, he didn't actually want to do it. But you didn't have to know about that.

"Just give me the necklace back and we can call it a day." The man sighed, pretending to be irritated as you kept running away. The black cat made spider-man's job fun, but the man would never admit it. The 'fights' with you- if Miguel could even call them fights- were different. You were no villain that wanted to take over the town. Neither were you ever going to kill him just because he's spider-man. That's why Miguel actually kinda enjoyed those 'fights'. You were just a thief- a very skillful one, but still. The black cat had a sense of humour that no other person had and Miguel yearned for those interactions. It probably wasn't very hero-like to enjoy talking with a criminal, but O'hara wasn't an ordinary hero. He didn't like doing things by the 'superhero handbook'.

"Ask nicely and maybe I will" you chuckled, climbing over a wired fence. You were distracted by the man and didn't observe your surroundings well. That's why you hissed in pain as one of the wires that was standing out cut the skin on your tight, tearing your suit as well. You had to keep running, but the pain in your leg was slowing you down.

You gasped as you felt strong arms holding your shoulders from behind. Your back collided with Spider-man's broad chest. It made your head spin. Or was it because of the pain?

"Give it back, pretty please." The masked man whispered into your ear. "You will hurt yourself more if you keep running" his deep voice made shivers run down your spine.

"Pff, do you think I'm stupid?" You chuckled, turning your head to the left to get a better look at the masked man. "I worked two weeks to get this, you're not taking it away from me." You heard the spider-man sigh heavily. Your heartbeat quickened its pace and you begged it to stop. Having him touch you so firm, but yet so gentle made your knees buckle and you had enough.

For a moment your eyes met- at least that's what you thought since you couldn't really see his eyes- and you almost melted against his chest. That's when you decided it was too much and that your heart was crossing a line- how dared it make you feel weak and vulnerable?! You kicked the man's leg, taking him by surprise and fled. You heard some Spanish curses thrown your way and giggled. You run, ignoring the stinging sensation and manage to actually lose the hero. Enough adventures for one night.

You patted yourself on the shoulder for a job well done and headed back home. You arrived at an alley behind your apartment complex- that's where you hid a backpack with a simple hoodie and sweatpants. It would be weird if you entered the building as the black cat. You liked risks, but you would never compromise your private life. It was important to keep your secret identity a secret- that was the whole point of the word 'secret'. The neighbours wouldn't be happy to know you're a criminal- they already complained that your cat runs around the apartment complex unsupervised as if that was their biggest concern.

And it wasn't like you were really a criminal! Well, technically you were- stealing is a crime- but it's not like you were doing that for selfish reasons! You almost never keep the money from your heists to yourself. In the eye of the public you are an honourable person- an angel that supports charities, animal shelters and orphanages. They never ask where the money came from- they are simply happy they are getting some support. You still did some petry crime sometimes. Like that one time when some business guy was being rude to a waitress so you stole his wallet. Or that one time where you broke into the house of your best friend's ex boyfriend and stole his watch collection because he cheated on her. The point was that you only stole from bad people. And as everyone knows stealing from the rich is not a crime.

That spider-man guy didn't know about it, of course. You never told him why you are stealing and he didn't really have to know. It was fun to be chased by him- at the very beginning of your journey as the black cat you would always get an adrenaline kick from your robberies. But after a while it wasn't as thrilling anymore… you have gotten too good at cracking safes open and hacking security systems. It became so monotonous and simply not exciting. And then the spider-man came. The masked man made your 'side job' fun again. You got to steal from the rich, give to the poor and get chased by a charismatic hero in a tight latex costume. You never knew when he would appear, meaning you always had to be on your toes. But when he finally showed up, oh boy was it fun. You were worried at first, thinking he was capable enough to capture you, but thankfully you were wrong. The masked man was capable, of course, but not enough to get you. He was definitely a challenge and that's why you were determined to never get caught by him. You were sure that at some point he started enjoying those interactions, too.

You swore under your breath, looking for the keys to your apartment's door in the pockets of your hello kitty themed backpack. The blood coming from your tight soaked into the grey sweatpants you wore over your suit and if one of your nosy neighbours saw you like that you would never hear the end of it. And if they saw the shiny necklace in your bag they would bombard you with questions and gossip about it later. Finally after what felt like eternity you found the keys and with a relieved smile you opened the door. You could still feel his touch on your body…

You were greeted by the loud meowing of your beloved cat, Migsy.

"Yeah, I missed you too, baby" You chuckled, gently patting her head. "I will give you all my love when I patch myself up." You sighed heavily and headed to the bathroom. Your apartment wasn't really big- you had a bathroom, kitchen, living room and a bedroom with a little balcony attached to it. It was enough for you. Determined to make this house a home you spent hours painting the murals on your walls and decorating them with your art and photos. People loved spending time in your apartment- it was so green and fresh because of all the plants scattered across the floor. You always took good care of them and even gave them names. It might have been childish, but it made you happy and that was the only thing that mattered.

You would love nothing but to collapse on your green bubble couch and watch some shitty TV, but you had to take care of yourself first. There was no one else who could do that for you.

The rest of your night was filled with frustrated sobs as you stitched yourself up and the sound of music playing in the background that you put on to calm your nerves. The music didn't help though and you were still a nervous mess. Your head was filled with many thoughts about the man behind the spider-man mask. This little game the two of you played was getting dangerous. You realised it one night after you dreamed about kissing him- you told yourself it was nothing more than a silly crush to make yourself feel better. The man was very attractive after all. At least his body was because you have never seen his face. And that was another one of your problems- you yearned to know who he was behind the mast. Were his eyes brown or green? Did he have dimples when he smiled? Would his lips feel good against yours?

"Meow!" Migsy's cry snapped you out of your daydream.

"Oh, yeah, sorry baby," you apologised, quickly bandaging your wound. "I'm all yours now." You gave your furry roommate a gentle smile and picked her up. "It's time for us to sleep, don't you think?" You talked to the cat and she looked at you with her pretty yellow eyes.

You laid down on your bed, hugging the animal closer you your chest and her soft purring made you relax into the cold pillow.

You fell asleep, hoping that the Spider-man won't visit you in your dreams this time.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ chapter 2 ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Tag list: @serpentstarr @bucketluvr @nxrdamp

[lunarmoves]

Hello its me again and once more I hope you're having a wonderful day/night!

I was wondering if you could give us some DCA fanfic recommendations! I'm very new to ao3 so finding good ones are hard for me :(

- (^⁠_⁠^) anon

nonnie i would LOVE to!! /cracks knuckles/ i have a hoard of them bookmarked in ao3 and im always sniffing for more! since you're new to ao3, ill tell you that when i go hunting for a fic, i usually type something like "dca/reader" in the little search bar and then click the "Daycare Attendant (FNAF)/Reader" tag on the first fic i see. then i go to filters and change the "date updated" to "word count" to sort it. i prefer long fics above all else haha

ANYWAYS. fic rec list under the cut! (all of these are dca/reader btw)

any of bamsara's DCA fics, including Celestial Omens (that really like Fishsticks) (mer au), Solar Lunacy and its affiliated one shots. probably The DCA Fic of All Time for me. it was my introduction to the fandom and i have not been the same since, esp with all the author's art!!

An Eye for an Eye by icedmetaltea. probably discontinued but i saw amazing art for this fic and consumed all 20k of it! definitely worth the read (aquarium/mer eclipse au btw!) also Occupational Hazards is an scp one shot that was v v good and I Watched You Become a Stranger (another mer one shot)

Coiled Around the Fine Line Between Love and Fear by crazedauthor. naga sun and moon! very very very good fic, probably my fav naga au on ao3! it begins on such a good hook and keeps you enthralled!

anything by muzzlemouths! i particularly loveee dreameater moon (we dance in synchronous rotation). all their one shots are SOOO goood and fluffy (mostly. im still hurt by a few of them </3)

Pisces Caelestis by S_V. SUCH a good mer au!! juicy cultural miscommunications and i just lovee moon in this LMAOO. sun is also a ball of sunshine!

Fish Out of Water by imagine_darksiders. a leviathan au that changed everything for me, i think. it was the first fic i read that had masssiveee mer sunmoon and i ate it up!

also literally anything by naffeclipse LMFAOO like, she has 42 fics on ao3, trust me when i say they are all bangers. the first fic i read was In Deep Dreams Between the Waves (leviathan eclipse) and i remember losing it over a certain scene at 4am shdkfsdf. Cryptid Sightings is also an absolute fav. id link more fics but it would be all 42 lmao

copper cogs rusted through by borashore. a post-fire au that i consumed in one sitting a long time ago. i dont remember much, but i know moon made me want to throttle him then hug him LMAO

Dealer's Choice by certified_handler. a club au fic that hooked me in from the START!! i love sun in this, he is written sooooo well and there's a lot of murdery business goin on >:) iirc the sequel is out and posting but im not caught up yet LOL

Weal and Woe by pure_plum. a fantasy/dnd kind of au with amazing descriptions!!! such a gorgeously written fic and sun/moon/eclipse are all sooooo touch starved <3 i need to know what eclipse's deal is!!

Celestial Sundown by pillowspace. THE god au of all time oh my god i cant express how obsessed i am with this fic!! and the art from the author?? phewww i think about sun so often, the designs are lush

The Hermit's Guide to Merfolk by esuerc. another mer fic, ofc, that i dont remember much of bc it's been a minute, but i remember one scene with eclipse that was so vividly described that it took my breath away!! also Supernova which i also dont remember much of, but i know sun was very unhinged in it!

My Baby by xmimi89er. an alien au where sun and moon are literally sooo adorable and angsty and they make u want to wrap them in bubble wrap and protect them forever. good fic for when you want to be the one protecting them. also the author's art is SOOO pretty

Ghost in the Machine by qwille. a multiverse type of fic with numerous versions of the dca! so very well written with good plot, lore, and characters. i'm sure you've probably seen character art drifting around on tumblr, either by the author or from fans. very very good designs, im partial to sol myself

(love is) a seed that grows by starboundpix, a farmer help au that's sooo cute!! very stardew vibes!! i always think about the descriptor that sun and moon have little flower/vine designs on their arms!! it's not too long, but def worth the read!

(In Their) Astral Orbit by rinzydings. my god this is SUCHHHH a good fic like!! it definitely deserves way more kudos than it currently has!! i could gush on and on about this fic, sun and moon are characterized so well and it's literally everything i have wanted in a dca fic

There Are Many Benefits (To Rethinking This Career Path) by moonliched (mer au). the worldbuilding in this is so good and the plot is LUSH!! love the dynamics between sun moon and reader!! constantly thinking about this fic ngl

Star-Crossed by cytokiine. a fae au that honestly had me hooked right from the start! there are a couple of plot twists in here that i truly did not expect. truly i hated moon at first, then i grew to love him within like, one chapter lmao

He's a Little Confused but he's got the Spirit by midnight_mourning. my god i think this fic actually gave me a conniption /pos. sun is written soooo well he is such a conniving little shit!! obsessed with him and it's really interesting seeing engineering details in the fic!

Love, Death and Rollerskates by spadillelicious, an 80s roller rink au with a sun and moon who are so very unhinged!! the interactions with them and reader are very very good. lots of tense moments, sun is definitely scary as hell sometimes LMFAO. lots of fanart floating around for it + drawings from the author, the designs are top tier!

Pluck my Heartstrings by pluck-heartstrings. a medieval times au post pizzaplex that honestly has a dynamic im so obsessed with?? there is so much miscommunication and sun is definitely a teeny tiny bit insane, i love him and moon <3 lots of art from the author!

As long as we are loved by shiracheshire. a living doll au that i just recently caught up on and it is sooo beautifully written! very heartbreaking at times, but i loved reading the progression of sun and moon's relationship with reader!

and that's all i've got so far lmao. i'll probably come back and update this as i read more fic, but!! hopefully this is a good start!

[penvisions]

garnish {chapter 3}

Pairing: Chef! Joel Miller x Bartender! Reader

Summary: Thoughts about Joel Miller have you desperate for something you hadn't sought out in quite a while: human touch. So when your friends suggest a girls' night out, you readily agree. It's just your luck that the very man plaguing your thoughts happens to be at the bar picked out for the night.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warning: alcohol consumption, drunken interactions, creepy flirthing, unwanted attention, fighting, bar fights, nonconsensual touching (not joel), protective joel, injuries, blood, degrading talk, power dynamics, abuse of power, restaurant lingo, triggers associated with the food industry, smoking, cigarettes, joel miller is a conflicted man, kissing, drunk makeout session

A/N: this story is literally keeping me from climbing the walls in my apartment, i've applied to over 20 jobs the last few days and made even more calls to see if places were hiring. the issue isn't finding something, it's finding something willing to pay me for my experience and skill set. but i found out a local coffee shop is opening a new location and i should be getting a call back with interview times for that today, they need cooks and bakers and i can definitely do that

ao3 || series masterlist || main masterlist

It was Wednesday, your normal day off for the week, but Joel had scheduled you two hours of prep, the shift reminder notification early that morning. It had woken you up, having allowed yourself to sleep in after the rather busy shift the night before. It had been a record-breaking sales day, the concert downtown only blocks away bringing increased foot traffic. It had been a week and a half since that terrible Sunday shift where you had finally given into hunger and had ordered food only to be told you had messed up. You had gone hungry that night, nothing in your kitchen at home.

You hadn’t spoken to Joel beyond confirming that dishes were ready to go out and helping to take updated pars out to the servers’ board for them to be aware of throughout services. Lists were left atop the sandwich prep station, and you completed it every shift you had before making your way toward the bar. They were in his writing, some things new with recipe page numbers for the guidebook stored on the expo line.

You had completed a few things on your list and were moving onto the next thing when his booming voice sounded from the walk in.

“Where are the rest of the yellow onions?”

Everyone in the kitchen looked over their stations, including you. The yellow onions you had chopped up for the red lentil soup were sitting in the pot you had atop a portable burner on the left side of your station. Cutting board beside it as you chopped the carrots that were to be added next.

“Whose used yellow onions today?” His brow was furrowed, lips downturned as he gazed around the kitchen. The three confirmations of ‘here, chef’ had him moving intimidatingly through the space, the first two seemed to come out of their interaction unscathed. But you felt like you weren’t about to be so lucky.

“When did you start the prep for these? They look nearly caramelized already.” He stirred the wooden spoon resting in the deep pot, getting a feel on the state of the onions cooking inside. You had stepped aside, hands behind your back as you let him inspect your station. He turned to watch as you answered, professional air about you as you briefly met his eyes with your own. You spoke in an even tone, worried about how he was going to react. He had already proven himself comfortable with cutting you off and denying you food that you had paid with your own money. And that was when you hadn’t actually done anything to warrant that type of reaction.

“I started this half an hour ago, gathered them from the walk in as I gathered everything else, chef.”

“Did you happen to notice that you grabbed the last ones? There are none in the box, left empty on the shelf. That you too? Don’t understand the way things work here, do ya?” He turned with a sharpie held tight between his fingers and he jutted it at the dray erase board beside the walk-in door where things low in stock were to be written down. “In case anyone is unclear on how this kitchen operates: things low in stock are to be written on that board there BEFORE we run out. Boxes or containers that are emptied while grabbing items are to be discarded or put into dish, not left on the shelf for the next person to find.”

“Yes, chef!” The chorus rang out evenly throughout the room.

He turned back to the portable burner and clicked it off, turning the nob off and the whoosh of gas going out was loud in the slight hum of busy work that the kitchen returned to once he had finished speaking.

“Why don’t you go clock yourself out.”

“Chef, there-“ You tried to talk to him, let him know that you had left nearly three pounds of onions left in the box. It wasn’t empty when you left the walk-in. You had been too wrapped up in your work to notice who else had gone in afterwards, though you wouldn’t have sold them out to begin with.

“Go. Clock out, now.”

“Yes, chef.” You wouldn’t raise your face to meet his look. Trying to keep your anger in check lest you give him a real reason to go off on you. Instead, you moved to grab your sharpie laid out over the recipe binder. The small field notes pad of paper beside it with the notations for a double batch written neatly on the page it was open to. Joel blocked your movement with a sidestep, his broad figure blocking your reaching hand.

“Now means now.”

“My-“

“Is now mine. Go.”

Your eyes flicked up and you tried your best not to pin him with the annoyance that was humming through your very blood. This man was nothing but a nuisance, you had only agreed to come into the kitchen because they were short staffed. But it was degrading work, to be around this man who deemed nearly everything below par and had extreme standards for the way things were to be done. The two instances of common decency he had offered you had to have been a fluke, maybe he had been extra tired and worn out those days, didn’t mean to let his guard down. Either way, you were quickly getting over the fluctuating temperatures of his attitude. At first it had been jarring, but you weren’t about to let it get to you any longer. You were determined to face it head on or dish it back out in what ways you could safely do so without risking your job.

You were lagging outside of the back door, standing with the bar back, whose name was Millie and a server who were both on break. You each had a cigarette in hand, swapping stories about the worst pick up lines that you had been approached with. You had removed your apron, it was folded carefully in your crossbody bag to be washed when you got home, simple black long sleeve Henley along with it. That left you in your black denim with that kitschy cute heart belt buckle and a dark green racerback. You had left your hair up in its normal fashion of low buns on either side of your head, short black beanie atop your head.

“You gotta admit,” Your laughter ringing through the air accompanied by the giggles of the two girls in front of you. “He was honest, what better way to start a conversation, though I could’ve done without the-“

All the laughter cut off as the backdoor opened and Joel appeared with a bag of trash. The two younger girls snubbed out their waning cigarettes and scurried inside, deeming breaktime over with his sudden arrival. You watched as Joel tossed the bag over the lip of the nearby dumpster before removing his gloves and tossed them in as well. He removed a pack of his own cigarettes from the breast pocket of his chef’s coat, and you could see the spiral wiring of your notebook peeking out over the top of it. His eyes took in the way your lips moved as you took a long drag from your own, bringing your phone out to ignore him.

The snick snick snick of his lighter resulted in a deep grunt, and you looked at him out of the corner of your eye. The cigarette he had pulled out was between his plush lips and his dead lighter was being pushed back into the pocket of his chef’s pants. When his eyes flicked to you, your attention snapped back to your phone. He cleared his throat, and you cocked an eyebrow up at the sound, turning to give him the barest hint of attention. He was leaning heavily against the side of the building, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he regarded you.

“Do you-

“Nope.” You took the last drag before snuffing out your own cigarette and tossed the butt into the pail beside the door. You started walking toward the parking lot, your truck beeping with a press of the control in your hand. The strap of your bag over your shoulder caught the man’s eye as you began to move away.

“You’re just gonna walk off from your shift?”

“Today’s my day off, chef.” You didn’t look back at him but could tell that your words had affected him.

“Shit, I-“ He straightened up and moved away from the wall, taking a step toward you, his hands coming out from his pockets to take the unlit cigarette from between his lips.

“Don’t worry about it. Now you don’t have to worry me using up all your inventory, right?” You pulled another cigarette out from the pack still in your hand along with your phone and brought a lighter out from your own front pocket. You took a long drag and blew the smoke in his direction over your shoulder, aware of his gaze on your back and you hopped into the cab of the truck.

The next day, everything that was on your prep list had been completed and the one for today had instructions on where to find the mise for each recipe. Everything was already prepared for you and were just combining and finishing the last few steps of each one.

“Hi there, what can I get started for you?” You placed a coaster down on the bar top before a glass of water, eyes coming up as you smiled at the new guest. Your smile faltered a little when the face of your biological evolution professor beamed back at you, but you didn’t let your surprise show other than that.

“I heard a rumor that the bartender here made the best whisky drinks. Here to test out that theory.” His voice was smooth, something you had often spoken aloud to your friends that made the class lectures rather easy. His baritone deep and the ways in which he spoke with such passion and interest in his material was an added bonus to understanding the class subject matter than most.

“Let’s get to testin’, what your preferred whiskey?” You busied yourself making the drinks that had been rung up the last couple of minutes, the man having sat to the side of the well in the last seat along the right side of the bar.

“I’m a Bullet man, myself. But I’m up for whatever you think is best.”

“Oh, well, of course the one I think is best is our top shelf.” You tossed the man a playful smirk, aware that it was a possible line being crossed. But neither of you were on campus, you were at work, and he was one of your bar guests. His laugh was beautiful as he knocked his head back, the line of his throat catching shadows from the strong lights over the bar.

“I actually prefer Woodford, it’s not too expensive but its leagues above some of the stuff on the shelves like Evan Williams.”

He was funny, quick-witted. Matching your jokes as fast as he could. Bringing up documentaries he had recently seen.

“No, but like that’s the thing! There’s been no discovery of this caliber ever before, its unprecedented in nearly every aspect.” You were making a round of lemon drops for a group of girls on the other end of the bar, loading up the shaker and then securing the smaller component over it before lifting your hand and shaking it. As you did so, you reached over to grab the coup glasses you would need for the pour. A figure appeared at the well, taller than the servers and barback, who had gone on break a few minutes ago.

You glanced over at Joel, the man had his hands atop the plastic mats, eyes taking in the organized garnish container and the jars of small straws and picks for the servers to complete their drinks. You nodded at him to let him know you saw him and would be with him as soon as possible before you held the shaker tight in one hand and used the heel of your palm to knock the smaller part loose. Your hand was steady as you parted the two components enough to strain the bright pink liquid from the ice, not looking up from it.

“To actually have fossil evidence of not just any Hominid species, but of a newly discovered hominid species, with a crafted tool in their fuckin’ hand! Like, I got chills, and I was pretty sure my attention was plastered to the screen. Didn’t even touch the food I made that night. I immediately started just taking notes throughout the whole thing.”

“To be fair, it was just as intriguing to find out that the child’s body had been in the cavern wall, not even properly buried like the rest of the bodies in the Dinaledi chamber.”

“Oh my gosh, I know! That opens a whole plethora of questions about what that child was even doing, was he the one carving those symbols into the wall, was he alone- hold on one moment.” You moved over to the other side of the bar, two coup glasses cradled carefully in each hand, and you took the four of them over to the girls who had been watching you make them. They were all bright smiles and excited giggles as you told them you used Meyer lemons for a sweeter drink and added a bit of cherry juice for the color.

“She’s a busy one, guests seem to love her.” Your professor smiled over at Joel, who was watching you flit around behind the bar much like he had been admiring all night. Joel’s eyes snapped to the man beside him and he just nodded, crossing his arms over his chest.

“She knows what she’s doing.”

“Not much of a talker in class, but her papers are beyond wonders. The way her mind makes connections is amazing. And the way she uses her words so carefully, so eloquently.”

“You go to school with her?” Joel questioned, mind going over the small interactions he’s had with you recently. You tended to stutter over your words around him, as if you were hesitant to speak in the first place. He didn’t like the comparison, now, seeing you in your element and recalling the way you had always been professional around him. But this, you behind the bar and completely enthralling as you entertained so many people and mixed drinks like it was second nature. Firing back jokes and conversation as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Your laughter ringing through the space of the dining room. He felt the pull of a frown, not liking the shift he was causing in you lately.

“Oh no, school is way behind me. I’m her professor.” The grunt Joel made seemed to display his trepidation at the revelation and the man was quick to jump into defense mode. “It’s not what it looks like, she’s at work and I’m just here on a friend’s word that it’s a good place. Didn’t even know she was here until I sat down.”

“Sure.” Joel said in a tone that said he didn’t buy a word the man was saying.

You were back with them by the well, professional smile in place as you addressed Joel. You were busy tucking a receipt and some bills of money into your server’s book, secured underneath the counter and atop a cooler beside the drink station.

“Yes, chef?”

“Bourbon for the steak sauce. And whatever amber you have on tap.” He tried to muster up the courage to lighten up his face from a frown, but the way your eyes flashed away from him told him it didn’t work.

“Heard, chef.”

You busied yourself with retrieving the bottle of bourbon he had asked you to tack onto your order. He hadn’t wanted to deal with the liquor vendors himself and sure you would find a better deal than him anyway.

“It’s gonna be a 6.7 percent amber, it’s smooth and the notes of pecan to cut the malt. Only one I have on tap at the moment, that okay?” You talked over your shoulder, picking up on the waves and attention from the other patrons of the bar top, reaching to get more than the one glass needed for just Joel’s request. You poured two blondes, an IPA, and a stout and placing them in front of those who had been nursing them all night before going to pull the tap for the amber. It poured for maybe two seconds before it sputtered and compressed air forced itself out of the spicket.

“I told Millie to change out the keg last night, I’m sorry, chef. It’s gonna take me a minute before I can step away and replace it.” Your brows were furrowed in a worried expression, not wanting this to be something he used against you. You were really hoping to get something to go later, needing to finish a paper that was due tomorrow before class. He must’ve clocked the rising panic in your eyes because he squared his shoulders before shoving off the drink station.

“I gotcha, which label am I looking for?”

“Oh, um, Riverbank Red.”

“Heard.” He turned to move toward the small walk-in just behind the bar, the heavy door opening easily underneath his hands. You could hear him rustling around inside, the hiss of him removing the empty keg and then the clunk of him placing the new one in its place. The two knocks on the wall alerted you that it was all set and you pulled the tap, compressed air working its way through the hook up before foam began to stream. Letting it run for a few seconds, you turned around and grabbed a fresh pint glass for Joel’s drink. You used the previous one and filled it, cutting off the tap and took a long pull from it.

When you lowered the glass after your drink, you found two pairs of eyes on you. You looked between your professor and Joel, both on each side of the corner of the bar. Some of the foam from the outside of the glass when the tap died out had run down your chin and settled on your chest. The cut of your shirt was a little low, your simple, silver chain necklace catching the soft glow of the bar lights much like the foam.

You avoided meeting either of their gazes as you poured a second pint for Joel and walked it over. Before you could place it atop the drink station beside the bottle of bourbon already waiting, he reached out for it and his thick fingers brushed yours. His beautiful, brown eyes flashed down and caught yours, full of something you didn’t recognize, prompting you to pull your hand away as you struggled to catch your breath.

His teeth clicked with the clenching of his jaw, his hands tightening around items he came over for and he turned to make his way back to the kitchen.

“He’s not much of a charmer, is he?”

“He just has an asshole voice, don’t mind him.” With a somewhat fake smile plastered on your face, you turned back to your professor and started making him another drink as more rang through the printer. “Now, what were the most concrete dates we had archived for allusions to tool use?”

The alcohol in your system was washing your stress and anxieties away. Moving your body along to the song that was bumping from the speakers of the bar that held a small dance floor. Your friends’ bodies were moving alongside you, along with you, tangling with your own in a heady and exciting way. It was such a relief to not have any worries at the moment, only blipping thoughts of ‘oooh this is a good song’ and ‘another drink, yes please’.

You were taking a break, downing a glass of water and ordering a round of shots for everyone. There were five of you altogether and they huddled around you as you passed one to each of them, smiling widely at the bartender across from you. He just chuckled with a shake of his head and moved on down the bar to help out two waiting men. If you had been paying attention, you would’ve recognized one in a particular. But you were too preoccupied with the rather loud cheers the girls were trying to agree on before someone finally just shouted, ‘drink up, bitches!’ and you were downing the shot along with them.

The burn of it down your throat was anticipated and you gathered the empty glasses from them while they sputtered and coughed, not able to handle it as well as they normally could with already being more than tipsy. You were leaning over the bar a little, on your tip toes to place them atop the washer on the plastic pad you knew the bartender liked to gather used cups before loading them up.

A large hand found the exposed small of your back, your crop tank top allowing for the skin to be on display. It was dangerously close to the waist of your skirt, and you jerked back with a start, face contorting into one of anger.  

“Hey, who the fuck do you think you are?” You settled back on your heels, the height of them making you a little taller than normal. Your eyes swept over the crowd around the bar and found that your friends had returned to the dance floor, leaving you to deal with this on your own. Not that you couldn’t, but it would’ve been nice to have a witness. The man in question was rather tall, blonde, nice suit, but his forwardness left little to be desired.

“Just helpin’ to hold ya steady, looked like you were about to flip over the bar, little lady.”

“Keep your hands to yourself.”

“Didn’t mean to offend-“

“Yeah, well, ya did. Don’t fuckin’ touch me, got it?”

“C’mon now. You were gettin’ all close and personal with your friends, maybe I wanted a feel for myself.”

The man stepped closer to you, and you could smell the alcohol on his breath, cheap and cloying as it wafter over into your personal space. His hands were coming up as if he were going to wrap them around your hips and pull you to him. His eyes were raking slowly up and down your body, taking in the short skirt and crop tank top you had deemed appropriate for the night. The cleavage peeking out of the top of your shirt glistening with the glitter body spray you had used before leaving your apartment.

“Leave me the fuck alone.” You spat, stepping away from the man only to collide with another’s back who had been passing by.

“Watch where-“ Joel of all people turned around, a scowl on his face. You felt like a deer caught in headlights, totally caught off guard that your boss was here in the same bar. The beer in his grip had sloshed over his fingers when you slammed into him and it was dripping to the already sticky floor. There was another man beside him, similar height and build. He had the same brown eyes and you realized they must be related.

Joel’s eyes took in the slightly panicked air about you, gaze moving behind you to see the man you had been fleeing from in such a haste.

“He touch you?”

“Don’t know if that’s any of your business, old man.” The man stepped forward and hooked a finger on the strap of your crossbody, pulling you backwards and you stumbled at the bold move. “We’re just two friends having an intimate-“

You maneuvered your stumble into a pivot and raised your clenched fist to deck the guy across the face, cutting off his words. You felt the crack of his nose beneath your knuckles, the action splitting two of them open. There was a gasp and a bark of laughter from behind you.

“I said, don’t fuckin’ touch me.” You sneered, anger lighting you up from the inside out. You didn’t pay the dull ache of your new injury any mind as you brought your arm back closer to your body, but you did flinch when the man’s hands shot out and his nails scratched along your neck where he had tried to grab you.

Joel was moving with a grunt of effort before you could fully register that the man had lunged at you.

Body slamming into his and pinning him face down against the bar with a hand tight on the back of his neck. His forehead had cracked against it, and he had shouted out weakly at the pain the action must’ve caused. His arms were twisted behind up, Joel’s right one holding them tight by the wrists. As he did so, the man with Joel had pulled you away from the confrontation, hands far more gentle with you than the man now pinned to the bar.

“You okay?” Joel looked back at you, his eyes hard and his expression schooled into one of control despite the way he had just cracked that man’s head on the top of the bar. When you didn’t answer, he looked to the man who had pulled you further out of harms way. “Tommy, she okay?”

There was no time to answer him, the bartender was out from behind the bar in a second, security that checked identification alongside him and they were forcefully guiding the man toward the door. He was putting up a rather good effort, but the two men were stronger than him. He turned with one last look over his shoulder and spat at you. The spray of it startled you and the tears that formed were angry, wet, ugly things.

Suddenly, the girls were swarming you, all talking at the same time and guiding you toward the bathroom to help get you somewhere safe to gather yourself. You let them guide you away from Joel and what you assumed was his brother, not glancing over at them lest they see more of the tears than they already had.

The bathroom muffled the booming music enough to hear your own thoughts, the lights a little brighter to help you process what had just happened. The girls were dabbing wet paper towels underneath your eyes to wipe your smeared makeup, to sooth the scratch marks on your throat. They plopped you down on one of the chairs off in the corner, removing your bag from around your body and just allowed you to take however long a moment you needed. Someone fetched a bottle of water from somewhere and you gulped down half of it without taking a breath. Your hands were shaking and you lifted your hand up to inspect the damage on your knuckles.

Someone gasped and it startled you, making you jump in your seat and then the bartender was there with a first aid kit.

“Me’n my boyfriend kicked him out, some cops were walking down the way and he taken to the station.”

He said as he kneeled in front of you, tearing open a package of sterile gauze. He dabbed some disinfectant on it before gently taking your hand and patting it across the top of your hand.

You found yourself back up at the bar, seated in a stool with your bag laid over the back of it. Your friends had checked on you again and pouted at your insistence of not going to another place with them. They wished you a good rest of the night and told you to check in with them when you got home, you returned their kind words.

You downed the last dregs of your cocktail, a vodka something, and gathered your keys from your purse.

Heels heavy, you stumbled over your own feet as your head swam and the lights of the bar flared. You reached out for the back of the stool but ended up grabbing onto a man’s arm. It was warm and strong and white-hot desire raced down your spine at the contact. Bringing your face up to apologize, it was lost in your throat as you realized it was none other than Joel Miller you were holding onto. You stepped back, turning from him to properly retrieve your bag this time.

“You’re not the boss of me here, lemme go.” You struggled against the hold he had on your upper arm, where he had turned you to face him. He seemed to realize you were uncomfortable and he dropped his hand, allowing you to turn back to face the bar. Jerry looked from your annoyed expression to the man behind you, taking in the situation and trying to determine how best to deal with it.

“Hey, man, good on you and your brother for helping us get that guy earlier, but I don’t think she likes the attention.”

“She’s drunk, you really gonna let her leave alone?”

“She comes here a lot, knows her limits and she’s got me to look out after her.”

“She’s drunker ‘n you think.”

“I am not.”

“Darlin-“

“I am not your anything, Mr. Miller.” You turned back on him with such a glare he was surprised you could hold the look in your state. He could see the way your head was lolling with every turn, your movements loose and uncoordinated. “This is a public space, I am not your prep cook and you are not my boss. You can’t lord over me and refuse me food here like at work. And I want…I want French fries.”

You stumbled as you turned around to face him again with heat behind your words. Eyes flaring in anger as he tried to reach for you again. Your body sung where one of his arms wrapped around the small of your back, helping you to keep upright as your balance faltered. The heels weren’t helping. You wished you had just stayed home, the sting of being ditched by your friends, the sting of his treatment at work and the workload of your classes, all of it was a lot and tonight was supposed to help you get out of your head, not make things worse.

“You-“ You swayed on your feet, leaning back from him slightly. The length of his forearm supporting you as you did so and stabbed a finger into his chest to emphasize your next words. Ignoring the way that his chest was firm and hot through the fabric of his shirt, he would probably have chest hair and it would be as peppered as his scruff… “You’re mean.”

His brother was doing his best to smother his laughter behind a hand, but you could hear it and you pouted even more.

“Your little brother is laughing at me and you’re a meanie.” You shoved away from him again, the warmth of his arm gone from your back as you turned around to retrieve your bag from the back of your stool. “I’m leaving.”

“The hell you are, you can’t walk, let alone drive.”

“Don���t need help. I’ve been on my own for as long as I can remember.”

“Sweetheart, you-“ Tommy tried to step in, hoping that maybe he could help out the situation. It was clear they were both worried but you were just being so stubborn. Jerry was right, you didn’t like the attention, you didn’t like getting felt up and your boss had been there to witness the aftermath. That he was still there and seeing you in such a way.

“I’m not your sweetheart.” Your voice held more bite than you thought you were capable of in your current state. Tommy stepped back with his hands held up in surrender. His brows furrowed as he shared a look with his brother.

“Lemme call you a cab, please.”

“No, I don’t need anything from you. You made it clear how you feel about me, barking at me all day when I’m helping you with your kitchen because the staff don’t wanna show up and deal with you.”

“Oof, that’s a hard hit, brother.” Tommy reached over to help you drape your purse strap over your shoulder, the crossbody secure over your form and he stepped away as you pushed at his hands much like you had done with Joel. “You really did a number on her.”

“Lemme just, please, lemme take you home. Need to make sure you get home okay.” His voice was pitched quiet, leaning a little into your space with an open expression. His hands were at his sides, not reaching out to touch you again, his fists clenched at his sides. Your eyes lingered on the way his mouth formed around the words and you swallowed the harsh ones you were about to fire back at him. All you could manage was a small nod.

That’s how you found yourself in the passenger side of his own truck, waiting in a short line of a drive through.

Once your fries, and some for him too, had been passed through the window, he was following the spoken instructions to your house. Watching the way you watched things pass by the window as you munched on the salty treat in your lap out of the corner of his eye. The dried blood on your split knuckles making his stomach lurch as he thought of that man putting his hands on you and the look on your face when you tried to flee. The look on your face when you had run into him, eyes wide and panicked.

You had calmed down, now in a lazy mood after the adrenaline packed events of the night.

“You do know what you’re doin’, just don’t think I’ve ever said it out loud ‘fore now.”

“Hmm?” You rolled your head along the back of the seat to face him, bringing a fry up to the seal of your mouth as you did so. He had to look away from the sight, your entire body and demeanor relaxed. Your expression was so open and curious, eyes soft as you looked over at him. Containing none of the animosity and worry he seemed to pull from you at work as you looked him over. He was in a pair of dark wash jeans that his thighs looked good in as he drove, a simple white Henley for a shirt. It allowed for the tan of his skin to pop, the grays that speckled his hair looking good in the lights of passing cars and lamps.

“You-uh-you, nevermind.” Joel’s deep voice wavered before he cut off, not being able to handle the earnest gaze you had pinned him with, his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“Mkay, whatever you say.” You turned back to look out with window, letting him know that your complex was around the corner.

He parked along the curb beside the gate that opened up into the parking lot. Watching him as he hopped out of the cab and toward your side of the vehicle, his expression hard to read. He was opening the door and leaning into the can to undo your seatbelt. Not wanting to risk you trying to do it and spill your fries, knowing you would probably tear up at the mishap should it occur. He said as much under his breath when you asked him what he was doing and you couldn’t help the giggles that bubbled up from your chest as you agreed with him, it would be tragic.

Once unbuckled, he reached for the fries in your hand and put them back in the bag they came in, tucking it into your purse that was still across your body.

“Will you let me help you step down?”

At your nod, his hands came around your waist, the wideness of them allowing his fingers to span across your back in a tantalizing way. He lifted you a little, holding most of your weight as you hopped down from the cab. His arms tensed around you as you felt yourself wobble, forgetting you were in heels for the entirety of the drive. Another round of giggles bubbled up and you found yourself leaning more into Joel’s space. His body was warm where you were pressed up against his front, the scent of cedar stronger tonight than it had been all those nights ago when he insisted on making you food to take home.

“I wish you liked me.” You spoke quietly into his neck, lips brushing against the skin there as you did so.

You felt his fingers twitch where they held onto you before you were pulled back a little so he could look down at you.

“Darlin’, I do like you, that’s the problem.”

“Doesn’t have to be.” You wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, pulling yourself closer to him.

“You’re not in the right state to be talkin’ about this right no-“

Surging up, you smothered the words from his lips with your own. His arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you back. As if he was unable to stop himself despite the words he had just been ushering. It was all teeth and tongue, sparking heat that pooled low in your middle. A whimper sounded in the air, Joel swallowing it as he licked into your mouth. Your nails dug into the curls at the base of his neck and you pulled.

A deep groan rumbled through his chest and you pulled away to catch your breath, looking at the face of the man who had been consuming your thoughts for weeks now.

He looked back at you, took in the way your eyes were blown out and dilated, the puffiness of your swollen lips, the quick breaths you were taking to recover from his mouth on yours, the heat that he was causing was all consuming and you knew that he could feel through your skin underneath his hands. He was swooping back down to capture your lips, his hands moving up to cradle your face in his hands as he did so and you melted at the action.

Consciousness hit you like a jolt and you were shooting up from your bed. The covers fell from you to pool around your waist, and you looked around the room, nothing looked out of place but something felt off, so incredibly off. Your bag was on the bedside table, an empty greasy bag crumpled beside it and your lips were tingling with the memory of pressing them against someone else’s.

“Oh, fuck.”

You had drunkenly kissed your boss.

And he had kissed you back.

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[bxriles]

A while ago I announced that I would be writing a fic about an uprising in the Court of Nightmares. Here’s the summary I gave:

There's a set of siblings in the Hewn City, dreamers who have been abandoned by their High Lord. One of the sisters enters into a political marriage with Rhysand (pre-ACOTAR) and mysteriously ends up dead after discovering that he's found his mate. After the people learn of her death, a rebellion led by the two remaining siblings ensues in the Court of Nightmares and goes all the way up to Illyria.

WELL I am happy to announce that the first chapter will be posted on Sunday, June 16th! I’m planning to post it on my ao3 but I could be persuaded to post it on Tumblr as well if people want that.

As a disclaimer, if you’re someone who LOVES Rhysand and the IC, this most definitely is not the fic for you. If that upsets you, please just scroll on and protect your peace. There is a reason why I mostly used anti tags here.

K THANKS! SEE Y’ALL SUNDAY 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

PS - I’ve gotten lots of questions in my DMs ever since I initially posted about this, so see below for some FAQs:

Q: Is this an anti-Feyre fic?

A: Nah. While Feyre certainly is an antagonist, she is not the villain. Feyre has her flaws, but she’s not who the characters in this story have beef with. That would be Rhys. That said, the Hewn City characters do not like/respect her because of what she represents to them.

Q: Will there be romance/who is the love interest?

A: Yes! I can’t help myself and I loooove to include romance when I can! Eris will be the love interest, but the romance will not be the main focus.

Q: Will this be a y/n fic?

A: No. This will be a story with several OCs. I know people tend to dislike OCs, but the reality is that we just don’t know that many canon CoN characters, so I need OCs to tell this story. Plus, I personally love OC stories and I like writing them. I hope that you’ll be willing to give them a chance!

Q: How many chapters will there be?

A: I’m honestly not sure because I keep waffling with the chapter length. I have 15 chapters outlined, but that could grow into 20 or shrink into 12 depending on how my revisions go. Let’s tentatively plan for 15, give or take a few as time goes on.

Q: When will updates be posted?

A: As was the case with all my other fics, I’ll do my very best to update once per week, usually on Sunday. There may be weeks where a chapter is a few days late depending on how hectic my life is, but I will do everything in my power to update every week! I take a lot of pride in being someone who always finishes my fics, and I don’t want to start leaving them incomplete now!

[clonedchaos]

Moonlight Ball

Orchids and Oranges: A Yasammy Week Special

Yasammy week brought to you by @yasammyweek!

Trigger Warning: Minor homophobia (And some tooth rotting fluff and sappy pet names)

Sorry this one was nearly two weeks late, I've been struggling with motivation and I'm slowly coming to terms with having ADHD. Sometimes my brain just won't let me focus on what I want it to, unfortunately. :/ (And a bit of an irl extra update that doesn't really mean much but-- I got a nose piercing a few days ago! Yippee! I love it! It has definitely improved my self image some in terms of boosting my confidence. :D A bit sore, but I decided to write to take my mind off it)

Day 3: Prom Rating: G/PG Summary: Sammy and Yaz have the time of their lives at Prom with their friends… even if a few students aren't accepting of their relationship.

AO3 Version:

Tumblr Version:

“Everyone say cheese!”

”Cheese!”

The cameras clicked, leaving Sammy and her friends slightly dazed by the glares of the flash. The boys were done up in tuxes and ties. Kenji had an excessive amount of gel in his hair and Ben was avidly loosening his seafoam green tie. Darius was, of course, wearing a red tie with faint emblems of various dinosaurs on it.

Brooklynn's hair fell down her shoulders in elegant curls. She wore a strapless black dress with a pink ruffled skirt that fell a little past her knees. Glitter was speckled all over the top, giving it an iridescent glint at certain angles. Her faux diamond heels glinted in the setting sun.

Yaz... Gosh, Yaz was stunning. Her athletic physique fit perfectly in a silver side-shoulder gown with a far less dramatic skirt in comparison to Brooklynn's. A black dress jacket wrapped around her shoulders, the sleeves extending down to her elbows. Matching black flats were just barely noticeable; she said she wouldn't be caught dead wearing heels or anything of the sort. Truthfully, Yaz had preferred to wear her usual tennis shoes-- much to Brooklynn's objection. She had expertly done up Yaz's hair in a high ponytail and curled two strands to frame the sides of her face. The blogger had insisted she could do a flawless smokey eyeshadow effect, but Yaz was comfortable in minimal concealer.

She was gorgeous. It took all the self-restraint Sammy had not to scoop her up and shower her with hugs and kisses. Though she wasn't sure she would appreciate the cherry red lipstick stains on her cheeks. Sammy herself had taken ages prom dress shopping; it took numerous facetime calls with Yaz and Brooklynn to narrow down her specific desires. In the end, she had picked out a red ball gown with a cascading skirt. Pink roses went in a diagonal line down her chest with a few others dotted along the hem of the skirt. Unlike Yaz's, Sammy's dress was long enough to touch the floor and help hide her trusty, comfortable boots. To complete the look, Brooklynn had picked out a pink rose headband.

Their parents were watching them in pride, fawning over their outfits and how "their kids were growing up." Sammy even noticed her father getting misty eyed.

"Woo! Party people! Who's ready to hit the dancefloor??" Kenji boomed, picking Brooklynn up and giving her a little twirl.

Brooklynn giggled exuberantly. "Hey! Quit! You're going to ruin my hair!"

"You of all people would know how important hair is, Kenj," Yaz snorted, wrapping her arm around Sammy. Her heart thudded at the touch.

Kenji set Brooklynn down on the ground. In immediate response, Brooklynn leaned forward and playfully ruffled his slicked back hair.

"I'm so excited! I've always wondered what prom would be like!" Sammy chirped, restlessly shifting her weight from foot to foot. "I mean, is it like all those cheesy high school movies? Will there be drama? Will we break into song?"

"Oh, like High School Musical?" Brooklynn asked.

"I used to love those movies," Kenji added.

"What? High school wasn't at all like those movies," Ben crossed his arms with a raised eyebrow.

Darius chuckled and pat Ben on the shoulder. "Oh, Benjamin. Don't you know? ... We're all in this together."

Ben groaned in disgust as the others burst into laughter.

"Alright, kids. Time to take this show on the road," Mrs. Bowman announced, gesturing a hand to the crew's awaiting limousine. For such a special occasion, their parents had offered they ride in style. This was a night to remember after all!

~

"Ooo! Yaz! Look at that! Or-- look! A photo booth!" Sammy had her arm linked in her girlfriends as the group entered the ballroom floor. The theming of this year's prom was "Moonlight Ball." Stars draped down from the ceiling with a disco ball sparkling in the center like a faux moon. The tablecloths and drapery were speckled with stars and clusters of purples, blues, and blacks to form a miniature galaxy. There were even some colorful mosaic planets that were scattered about the room to mimic the solar system.

"They really outdid themselves with this, huh?" Yaz murmured as she glanced around in awe. Their friends were of similar interest and begun chatting amongst themselves.

Sammy couldn’t contain her enthusiasm as she subtly bounced up and down on her heels. She needed to dance! 

“Yaz! Wanna dance?” She chirped giddily.

Yaz blinked. “Me? Dancing? I don’t really know how…”

”It’s easy! Here, I’ll show you!” Sammy whisked Yaz through the crowd until she found enough empty space. She then turned on her heel, focusing in on the upbeat pop music. Definitely not a slow dance by any means! No matter, the Cha Cha Slide is something she'd learned since birth.

”All ya gotta do is follow what the music tells you!” Sammy instructed over the blaring stereos.

”Right foot now!”

Sammy stomped her right foot. 

Yaz chuckled, moved to stand by her side, and followed along. It took her a moment, but she was a fast learner. Soon the two were laughing and playfully twirling one another in between the choreographed steps. At the end of the song, Sammy grabbed Yaz around the waist, picked her up, and spun her. The two giggled joyfully. The world seemed to fall away as the music faded. It was just the two of them, content to be in the other’s presence. What could be better than that? And the night was just getting star--

Someone laughed.

Sammy paused and set Yaz down, glancing to her left. A trio of girls their age was staring in their direction, all huddled in a semi-circle with heads bent close together. A blonde said something Sammy couldn't hear over the opening of the next song. Whatever it was caused her friends to burst into giggles, all three of them casting Yaz and Sammy side glances.

Sammy's paradise fell away before her. Were they... laughing at them? Sammy swallowed down the lump forming in her throat. Her cheeks flushed.

"Sammy?" Yaz asked. Her hands were suddenly in Sammy’s. Sammy looked back at Yaz to find her eyes speckled with uncertainty. Yaz always had beautiful eyes…

”It’s nothing!” She lied right through her teeth. Sammy hated lying, especially to Yaz and her friends. It reminded her back to the days where she was spying for Mantah Corp. But the last thing she needed right now was to spoil their night with a probable confrontation. Yaz did have a history of being the queen of sarcasm after all. And Sammy knew all too well she wouldn't hesitate to call someone out for their nasty attitude.

”Maybe we should get some food,” She offered. That wasn’t entirely a lie, she did have a hankering for some delectable prom treats.

”Are you sure? We just got started?” Yaz asked thoughtfully. Sammy felt her scanning her features to try and discern what was actually bothering her.

”Can’t dance our hearts out on an empty stomach,” Sammy pointed out and quickly led her off the dance floor towards the food buffet. The laughter began to fade over the overpowering boom of the stereos, much to her relief.

The buffet table had pretty standard food; chicken nuggets and fries courtesy of the local Chick Fil A, various fruit options, sodas, coffee, waters. But what Sammy was looking forward to the most were the desserts— brownies, trays of cupcakes, loaded chocolate chip cookies, and even some mini ice cream cups nestled inside a cooler. Tonight she needed to satiate her sweet tooth!

The duo waited in line before it was their turn to load up their plates. Sammy piled on her plate until she had formed a miniature mountain of a meal.

“Hey, Sammy. Try this.” Sammy looked over to find Yaz dipping a strawberry in a rich chocolate fountain. She held it up to her. Both Sammy’s hands were currently occupied in trying to steady her ever growing pile of food. She leaned forward and took a sizable bite, careful not to nip Yaz's fingers. Instantly her tase buds were hit with a smooth and tangy, fruity flavor. The chocolate coating was pure bliss.

"Mhmm. Thash purfect," Sammy rambled with a mouth full of food. Yaz laughed and gave her a quick peck on the side of the cheek. Sammy was about to return the gesture when she felt eyes on her. A young man their age was standing in line behind Yaz, a disdainful look in his eyes. Sammy's face fell.

Yaz noticed the shift in expression and began to turn to look over her shoulder. "Oh! Yaz!" She stopped midway and turned to face Sammy. "Why don't I go find us somewhere to sit?" She asked, privately relieved Yaz didn't notice the scornful look they were getting.

"In that mess?" Yaz laughed lightly, glancing over at the packed circular tables. "We'd be lucky to find a place on the floor to sit."

"What? No!" Sammy moved to stand by her side and nudged her shoulder. "We can't get our gowns dirty! Brooklynn would kill us!"

Yaz laughed again, sending little butterflies fluttering around Sammy's heart. The two abandoned the buffet, Sammy leading the charge to find a space for them to sit. All the while, she still felt those eyes on them. How many people were staring at them; were talking about them? Whatever joy she had been feeling began to evaporate like morning mist. 

After what felt like ages, Yaz and Sammy finally managed to snag a spot... right next to the table of gossiping girls. Sammy tried her best to ignore them, but she couldn't help but eavesdrop on their conversation as she and Yaz dug into their food. 

"... Do you think those two got together because they couldn't find a guy who wanted them?" She caught the brunette snickering.

"Couldn't be me," The blonde replied in faux sympathy.

"It's a shame too. They must've got loads of secret admirers for being famous," A curly haired girl with jet black hair added. "But instead, they turned them down to be with each other."

"Probably just a trauma response given what they've been through," The blonde dismissed. "Things like that are nothing but a phase. It won't last more than a month."

"Is that a bet?"

Sammy felt sick to her stomach. Is that what they thought? What her and Yaz had was... just a phase?

"Sammy? Did you hear me?" 

Sammy jolted and turned her attention to Yaz, whom was sitting by her side. Her hand met Sammy's. She flinched and pulled away. Yaz recoiled subtly, not something anyone would notice unless they knew her like she did.

"Are you okay? You've been acting off since we've got here..." She asked. Sammy couldn't tell whether she was being blunt, concerned, or both at this point.

"Yeah! I'm fine!" Sammy lied again. Her heart felt like it was breaking. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. But she couldn't. What was the use of causing a scene? This was supposed to be their perfect night.

By the look Yaz was giving her, Sammy could tell she knew she was lying. Yaz opened her mouth, about to say something, but thought better of it. "I'm going to head to the bathroom. Be back soon," She said in a unreadable tone. Sammy's heart split in two.

"Alrighty. I'll be here!" She called as Yaz got up and headed off. The moment she was out of sight, Sammy's shoulders slumped and her bright smile withered. She began to pick at her cupcake with a fork, as impractical as that probably appeared.

"Never thought you'd be one to turn down sugary goodness."

Sammy slightly started in her chair and looked up to see Brooklynn flop down next to her. 

"Oof. My feet are beat," She laughed lightly and leaned down to remove her shoes. "The pain of heels, am I right?"

"Yeah," Sammy replied shortly, trying to crack a smile. 

Brooklynn was already on high alert, her gaze searching Sammy's features. It was hard to put anything past Brooklynn. That girl had a nose for deciphering the hidden and unknown. "What's up? I thought you'd be out enjoying yourself."

"I'm alright," Sammy lied again. She hated lying.

Brooklynn crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward. "I know that's a lie, Sam. Spill it. Please?"

Sammy took in a deep breath and glanced over her shoulder. The trio of girls weren't paying her any mind now that Yaz was gone. So, she leaned closer to Brooklynn and confessed. "Alright. Truth is... Yaz and I have been getting looks. Some have been whispering behind our backs saying... less than kind things... I didn't want to tell Yaz because, well, this was supposed to be a fun night. I didn't want to start any drama. And I know how some react to people like... us... I just didn't want Yaz getting hurt if someone instigated violence..."

Brooklynn's features softened. "Oh, Sammy... I'm sorry. I-- I get what you mean. It wasn't always easy growing up with two dads. Don't get me wrong, they're amazing parents. But ever since I was a little girl, when I walked down the street with them, I always caught those scornful glances and snide remarks. I never quite understood why until I was older, and even then it still doesn't make sense." She sat back and gave her a gentle smile. "But you know what? It didn't matter. My dads loved each other, and they loved me. No matter what others thought of them, that was always true. And no amount of hate would be able to stop that."

"How did they learn to work through it?" Sammy asked, still absently picking at her dessert. "Those comments... they hurt. I know they shouldn't, and I know I shouldn't listen, but... it doesn't feel good."

"Not everyone you come across in life is going to agree with you," Brooklynn answered after a brief silence. "There's always going to be self-righteous jerks who think they know best. Whatever they say about you, or you and Yaz, let it roll off your back. They don't know you two. They don't know how you built your relationship brick by brick. Your love for one another, it's special. If they can't see that, it's their loss-- not yours. What's important are the people that love and accept you. They're the ones you need to remember in times like this... Remember what I said on the isle? What you and Yaz have is awesome--"

"Let it be awesome," Sammy finished, brushing away tears. Shoot, her mascara was running.

Brooklynn chuckled at that and dug around at the purse dangling by her waist. She pulled out some wipes and a mascara tube, then went to work fixing Sammy's makeup. "Now, if anyone else tonight gives you two any grief... come get us. We've got your back."

"Thank you, Brooklynn," Sammy smiled. Her soul felt a little lighter. Her friends had always been there for her when she needed them most. Of course they'd have her and Yaz's back against adversity. "...Where are the boys at anyways?"

Brooklynn tossed her head towards the dance floor. Sammy glanced over, careful not to move her head too much in case Brooklynn accidentally jabbed her eye with the mascara brush. Kenji, Ben, and Darius were all doing the Macarena on the outskirts of the crowd; Ben accidentally kept hitting Kenji with his long arms. Sammy laughed, her first genuine one in a while.

Once Brooklynn had finished touching up Sammy’s makeup, she sat back and begun slipping on her heels. “Alright then. Go enjoy the rest of the dance with Yaz. You two deserve it.” Her voice raised and her eyes slid towards the trio of girls who had begun staring at her again. “And if anyone tries to ruin your night, I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate negative publicity on my blog. Brooklanders are some of the biggest Yasammy supporters after all.” Brooklynn’s gaze hardened into a warning, fiery glare. 

The trio quickly turned away just in time for Yaz to make her way back to the table. “Hey, Brooklynn. What did I miss?”

”Oh nothing, just a bit of a pep talk and a personal beauty appointment,” Brooklynn answered, giving Sammy a side, confident glance. Her lips curled into a mischievous smirk. “Would you like an appointment too, Yaz?”

”Over my dead body,” Yaz snorted bluntly and crossed her arms.

Sammy and Brooklynn giggled at the response. Just then, Kenji came up to them and set a hand on Brooklynn’s shoulder. “C’mon party people! The fun is that-a-way.” He pointed towards the dance floor.

Brooklynn abandoned her chair and took Kenji’s hand, reaching up a smidge to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Alright, alright, we’re coming.” She turned her head and gave Sammy a quick wink.

Fueled by newly placed passion, Sammy stood up. She did a grand curtsy and extended a hand toward Yaz. “May I have this dance, my gorgeous, witty goddess sent from above?” 

Yaz laughed at the cheesiness and blushed as she took Sammy’s hand. “You may, my country strong, beautiful cowgirl…” She leaned forward and whispered, “Sorry, I’m not really good at this pet name stuff.”

Sammy chuckled in response and kissed her on the forehead. “I think it was lovely, mi diosa.”

Yaz’s cheeks were turning as red as a ripe tomato. Sammy couldn’t help but burst into laughter. She’d never seen Yaz so flustered before! It was soooooo cute!!!

Sammy pulled Yaz back onto the dance floor, catching a glimpse of the trio of girls watching them once more.

Let them talk. Let them stare. It didn't matter, not really. Sammy had her family, her friends, and she had Yaz. They were her whole world. And that was all that mattered.

[redisaid]

Strangers - Part 3 of ???

Colors and Photographs

I forgot I love this AU a lot. It's more of the same bullshit I always do, but I don't care. Bon appetite.

5006 Words

Read it on Ao3!

Sylvanas Windrunner—burner of trees, blighter of cities, former Warchief of the Horde, former Banshee Queen of the Forsaken, former Ranger General of Quel’thalas, now wearing the title of repentant prisoner and nothing more—sits upon a ridge, looking down at her camp in the Maw, contemplating. Above it, an arcane flare blazes bright in alternating hues of blue and purple, and it is for this reason that she hesitates to return to it.

Next to her, Dori’thur perches on a spur of rock, silent and staring as ever, though the piercing gold of her eyes feels extra judgemental in this moment. Years of time being stared at by an owl have not prepared Sylvanas for this moment, where it seems to be asking her, “Why don’t you go to her?”

The answer is complex. Too complex for an owl to understand.

That’s what she tells herself, at least. In reality, a drop of water rolls down the exposed skin of her arm, chill on chill, to remind her of the real reason. She’d just taken a bath in Korthia. Her hair is still wet.

“Inconvenient,” she mutters in Thalassian.

Dori’thur, she supposes, must be fluent in it now. In moments where she is more prone to amusement, this makes her grin, thinking about the day she will eventually return, and have the beast somehow hooting in her nasty little Highborne dialect. What then, Tyrande?

She wears the new leathers Vereesa sent for her, and they don’t fit quite right. Not yet, at least. Her old set, worn as they were, were perfectly molded to her unchanging form, but comfortable. These are of a similar, but updated style. The top is too baggy for the fine stitching around the sides and neckline. The leggings are too tight in the calf but not enough in the thigh, and woven with useless ties down the sides that don’t even serve to help her in loosening or cinching where needed. Definitely something Vereesa would choose—style over substance.

Sylvanas prefers her clothing like she does anything—simple, precise, and practical. These leathers offer none of that, but she can fix them, with time.

And time, well, she has plenty of time.

It has been some time since Jaina Proudmoore’s ostentatious arcane flares have lit the monotone skies of the Maw. Keeping count of what might equate to days has been her chore between visits. It has not been a pleasant one. Sylvanas has never enjoyed dwelling on time and its terrifying numeracy.

Still, she knows it has been a while since she’s seen Jaina. She knows she’d prefer to do so with dry hair and properly-fitting clothes. There is still a spark within her demanding she not show her enemy any weakness, she supposes. Her lonesome repentance has not dimmed that yet.

Nor does it change the fact that the living always seem to hold a schedule that conflicts with her own.

She relents, after a time. Minutes, petulantly spent dripping onto twisted stones. Sylvanas has names for all the formations, because what else is she to do but invent geographic classifications. There is only so much of her mind that can be occupied by the endless search for lost souls. This rock she calls Broken Tree, because it has branches or sorts, but all end in blunt ends, their sharp edges perhaps snapped off by a rampaging minion of Zovaal’s long ago, or perhaps not long at all.

What does it matter? It doesn’t. Time is irrelevant. It crawls on, unfeeling, with or without her.

So while Sylvanas doesn’t want to be wet and ill-prepared for company, she doesn't want her company to leave because she’s kept them waiting too long. While Jaina Proudmoore isn’t exactly the most welcome of guests, she still makes for better conversation than an owl.

First, before she descends from the stone branches of Broken Tree, she reaches into the pocket of these unnecessarily embellished leathers. Really, isn’t that just like Vereesa to pick something like this? These damn ties. She never had good taste, and apparently still lacks it. Even the compact that Sylvanas pulls out of her pocket is adorned and impractical, its silver embossed with a hunting motif, a deer leaping over a stream, but the latch sticky and difficult to open.

Sylvanas would rather it remained closed, but she is unfortunately in need of a mirror. She hates looking at herself. It has been a dreaded chore since her first death, her first transformation into something she was not meant to be. Now she is changed again, and the blue eyes that look back at her don’t belong on her face and never have. Her eyes were a soft grey before she died, not blue like her sisters. She misses the distinction, even though this blue is not like theirs either.

But the face that stares back still doesn’t feel like hers. The ashen skin, faded hair, wet and stringy and plastered to her gaunt frame. She only sees the banshee within the body—the long fangs and sunken cheeks, the ghastly hands with too long fingers, reaching out to harm but unable to touch. Embodied now, she is still a ghost. A dead thing lingering and not wholly dead, but never to live again. She is a monster, an abomination, a blemish on her own existence.

But still, she sets the compact on a higher branch of Broken Tree, and uses the mirror to ensure she pulls her damp hair into a respectable and straight ponytail, devoid of imperfections. She might be a monster, but she will be a well-groomed one, even if it kills her for whatever time this death would be.

She catches another set of eyes in the mirror. Dori’thur’s yellow eyes reflect back their own glow. The spectral owl tilts her head, amused by the reflection.

“What are you looking at?” Sylvanas asks of her anyway.

Perhaps she too is vain, for the owl seems to be looking at herself rather than her charge for a change.

“Birds,” Sylvanas mutters to herself as she ties the ponytail tight, and gives one quick glance back toward her own reflection before she closes the compact.

She swears she hears a slight huff of disappointment behind her, but when she looks back, Dori’thur is staring at her as passively as ever. Always watching. Never not. It’s maddening, but Sylvanas thinks she might become concerned to see that damn bird do anything but that, should her attention ever be diverted.

She enjoys a brief respite from those yellow orbs as she begins to move toward her camp, and Dori’thur takes to the grey sky above. There is no color in hell, save for the white and pale teal shades of the owl, the yellow of her eyes, and the odd reflection of blazing blue that meets Sylvanas when she dares to look in Vereesa’s gaudy little mirror now and then.

Well, at least today there’s new colors. Blue and purple arcane light still projects into the sky from her camp, and now that she knows what that means, Sylvanas does not meet it with aggression this time.

She thinks it silly to announce herself. Surely Jaina has sighted Dori’thur circling overhead, and well, there is no one else here. Wandering souls do not count, in Sylvanas’ opinion. They are not even akin to ghosts such as herself, and seem to lack awareness of their surroundings, awareness of her, and the ability to do anything but screech out their confusion and fear.

She finds Jaina Proudmoore an array of new colors in her grey world. She is bent over a crackling orange and red fire she’s conjured for herself, but looks up with eyes of natural and subtle blue through stark white hair, streaked with gold. Today, she wears no armor, no regalia, and dresses casually in a white button up shirt and high-waisted navy leggings that tuck into high brown boots with bright, polished brass buckles. The contrast of her is almost blinding. Sylvanas has to blink away the color so it doesn’t overwhelm her vision all at once.

But Jaina is still there when she opens her eyes again, and she’s offering a kind, polite, and rather diplomatic smile—the kind that humans so famously do where they don’t show any teeth. Sylvanas does not deign to return it, and feels the expression would look too ghoulish on her, teeth or not.

Instead, she nods.

“Before you ask,” is what she greets Jaina with, “I have attempted to keep count. It has been about thirty days since I’ve last seen you.”

A month. There was so much Sylvanas could have done with a month on Azeroth. Troops to be trained, equipment to requisition, artillery to inspect. Even without a military to command, she could visit her sisters. She could travel, go to see someplace exotic and far off—Winterspring or Feralas, maybe even a trip back to enjoy Pandaria instead of battling against the mage standing in front of her within its confines. She could read so many books. She could rest, or whatever equivalent of that was left to her.

Counting the days is worse, but she’s done it because she knew Jaina would ask. She feels the corners of her lips pull up into a grin in spite of her resistance when Jaina’s mouth opens, then closes, meaning to utter a greeting but instead having to contemplate what this means for her.

“It’s been a week for me,” Jaina tells her. “And thank you, for counting.”

Sylvanas nods again. She is nothing if not efficient and proficient in her ability to provide necessary information. A good Ranger knows how to observe and report above all else, after all.

But she is not a Ranger. She is a grinning ghoul, a monster, the last devil left in a monotone hell.

She wills her mouth to stillness again, and feels her ears flatten along with it.

Jaina clears her throat. She turns, and Sylvanas can now see she has taken the liberty of setting her tea kettle over the fire to boil. She seems to look for a moment as if Sylvanas will take offense, but that comfort was for her guest, not her. She does not need to drink, nor does she care to. It is not her concern what Jaina does with something that is for her.

It is her concern when Jaina—seeing she’s unchallenged—is so bold as to pour the contents of the kettle into two mugs, and not just one. Sylvanas’ hard-won neutral expression turns to a frown unbidden.

She makes a point of walking past the steaming mug without acknowledging it as she goes to sit on the opposite rock stool from Jaina. To her credit, Jaina does not press the issue, and simply takes up her own, leaving the offending object to sit steaming on the ground, abandoned and unwanted.

There is a glint of recognition of all of this in her eyes as she looks to Sylvanas, sipping at her own tea. Those eyes are nearly as watchful as Dori’thur's and while they aren’t as severe in their judgment, Sylvanas feels as though there is no escaping what they observe in her. There is no doubt that Jaina is picking her apart, piece by piece. She may never say how, and that would be wise of her, but Sylvanas knows she sees every move she makes, every detail of her appearance and demeanor.

The mirror was a cruel thing for Vereesa to give her, at least she thought at first, though perhaps her sister did not know of her dislike of mirrors in undeath. Now Sylvanas understands the gesture. It was a kindness, an odd one. Vereesa was cognizant of her enough to know that, if she was going to be observed, she would want to do so knowing she was presentable. Much less if she was going to be observed by someone with such keen eyes as Jaina Proudmoore.

“Thirty days is a long time,” Jaina notes, finally, mercifully blinking. “Your sister had to arrange for something, and wanted to wait until it was ready.”

“I don’t see why you need to apologize for her then,” Sylvanas tells her as she settles onto the stool, crossing one leg over the other and again cursing the stupid, useless tiles that bite into the sides of her thighs.

“I suppose I was, wasn’t I?” Jaina says. She smiles again over her mug, clutching the bright copper in both hands as if to warm them, or perhaps just for comfort. If she can observe Sylvanas, then Sylvanas can observe her too, after all.

Jaina then points with a nod toward the ground beside Sylvanas’ stool, where a small package wrapped in brown paper resides. Even dull brown paper and flaxen twine are a welcome change from grey.

Vereesa’s handwriting is present on the corner of it, its black ink easily visible as Sylvanas picks the package up, with her messy, rushed scribbling spelling out “Lady Moon” in Thalassian characters. She would always write like she had something better to be doing, and clearly, still thinks that she does.

But what does Sylvanas know about that, really? Her little sister is almost as much a stranger to her as the woman who delivers her letter these days. She knows Vereesa as a disorganized and immature Ranger Captain with a lot of discipline left to learn—a spoiled little sister whom she was part of spoiling, certainly. She doesn't know her as a leader, a mother, a person thoughtful enough to send her mirrors and little paper packages. All of these things are strange to even imagine describing Vereesa as.

Sylvanas is careful as she opens the package. She can save the paper, use it for maps or notes. She still has plenty left of the stack that Jaina brought last time, but who knows how long it will be before she sees her again? Rationing supplies is part of what keeps Sylvanas sane here, and so she saves the paper rather than tearing it, and the twine too.

And she knows Jaina notices all of this, but she does it anyway.

Inside are three things. A small envelope of a different brown paper, which sits atop a long, flat glass bottle, padded with a mate to the towel Vereesa included in her last package. Sylvanas knows what it is without looking at the label. The shape of it, the floral scent that already fills her with nostalgia, even though the bottle is sealed shut—it’s her favorite shampoo, from Quel’thalas.

She nearly drops the bottle.

Her sister is a mother and leader and a person she no longer knows, but she clearly still remembers Sylvanas being angry with her for swiping her bottles of Camberon’s Lemon and Honeysuckle shampoo. It was expensive, after all. Too expensive for little silly girls, Sylvanas remembers saying.

But Jaina is smiling and watching her, conspiratorially so. She eyes the envelope and not the shampoo, and Sylvanas can’t fathom what means more than Vereesa remembering such a small thing.

Still, she sets aside the shampoo and its towel padding. She laments not having either for her bath today, and resolves another is in order sooner rather than later. Her hair does not dry nicely when it’s up, after all.

She opens the envelope to find it contains a small picture, framed simply in pale, knotty pine. A photograph, an invention of gnomish origin relatively recent in the annals of Azeroth’s history, after her death even. She has been photographed, but such perfect images of her likeness were not possible while she was alive. She only has the memory of her reflections, and portraits that have no doubt been burnt or broken by now, both from spite for her actions and disrepair of the places where they once hung proudly.

But on the plate she finds her sisters, their warm skin and shining hair and blue eyes. A bit of purple swirls in Alleria’s that wasn’t there before but it is so small a change compared to what Sylvanas has undergone. They are still themselves, at least on the outside.

With them are three faces Sylvanas doesn’t know, hasn’t seen, but knows who they belong to. Arator no longer has the pudgy baby cheeks that reminded her of her deceased brother. He is long and thin and elegant in many ways that remind her now of her father, but stocky in others that show the human half of him. He looks worried, blue eyes shining with concern as he glances more toward his mother than the camera.

In front of Vereesa are two identical redheaded, gangly youths. Giramar and Galadin. They wear their hair shorter in human tradition, and it makes them look far more human than their cousin of similar heritage. They look like trouble, is all that Sylvanas can think. They look like Vereesa.

Jaina smiles wider, a few teeth on display now. They are flat and distinctly human, even the half-elven boys in the photos still have little blunted fangs, but Jaina lacks them entirely. Still, she seems pleased. She expects a reaction.

Sylvanas does too, but finds herself more interested in her sisters than her nephews. She’s probably still spent more time with Arator than Alleria has, but he was a baby, and he likely does not remember any of it. But her sisters, why is it they get to remain unchanged by it all? Is that part of her penance too? If she had made the right choices, could she look in the mirror and find herself again? Do they even appreciate it when they do?

“I understand the wait, it must have been a real feat to gather them together for this,” is what she offers Jaina, photograph still in hand, eyes squinting at her sister’s faces, looking for any equivalency of change within them.

“I’m sure it won’t surprise you of all people, but Alleria was the hardest to wrangle, apparently,” Jaina reports.

It does not surprise Sylvanas. She huffs a laugh because of course she was. Alleria looks as though she’d rather not be there, and perhaps that is why her son seems worried. Alleria hasn’t been worried about another person and their feelings a day in her life, so for that reason alone, he seems nothing like her, though his long hair shines the same color gold as hers.

There is a bitterness that clouds her thoughts that reminds Sylvanas she is perhaps where she belongs. No doubt she does not belong in this photograph. Her greys would sour the colors of it. The gold and blue of them, of the Alliance. No, those were not colors for her.

“Vereesa told me you helped her with Arator, when he was still a baby,” Jaina goes on. “I remember him as a child too, so it’s so strange to see him grown now.”

Sylvanas realizes she has no idea how old Jaina Proudmoore is. The white of her hair belies an age that is much younger than such a feature would tell of in humans. But still, she knows of her father, her lineage, and does a quick calculation. Yes, she supposes Jaina knew her nephew as a boy, somewhat.

Strange. It’s all very strange. That is a good word indeed.

This woman knows her family so well, sees her sisters and her nephews regularly, yet Sylvanas has only ever seen her here in her prison, and before on a battlefield. Once during a trial. Only in times of stress and duress. Never before today in casual dress. Jaina cuts a fine figure without all those layers of mage robes and armor, actually.

“He was a good child, easy to manage,” Sylvanas reports. “Easier than Vereesa, certainly.”

Jaina laughs at this. Sylvanas wonders if she has the context for the joke. Does she know how her little sister tormented her? How, when she grew out of that, she moved onto constant whining?

Well, she is Vereesa’s friend, after all. No doubt she knows about the whining.

“Vereesa’s boys carry on the illustrious red hair of their father’s name I see. They’ll do well with it in Quel’thalas, should they be welcome there. It is relatively rare among elves,” Sylvanas goes on.

Not as rare as dark hair, of course, but she can still remember Lady Liadrin back when she was just a priestess, and being both too holy and too oblivious to the amount of attention her red-hued locks brought her, back when she was younger.

But Sylvanas supposes she knows little of the dating scene in Quel’thalas these days, and little of chasing redheads. There is only grey in the Maw, except when Jaina Proudmoore visits and colors it to the point of blinding radiance.

Jaina laughs at this too though. She nods sagely. “I don’t think there was any escaping it for them. But yes, they look a lot like their father.”

Their father, who as Sylvanas remembers, died to save the woman in front of her from Garrosh’s bombing of Theramore.

It’s all so complex and entangled. Jaina’s life has brushed up against her own in so many ways, yet they’d never really spoken until that first letter she’d delivered. Even when Sylvanas turned against the Jailer and offered her assistance in defeating him, Jaina would not speak to her, only listening to her counsel with a daring glare. No doubt she blamed her for what happened to Anduin. It was fair, Sylvanas blamed herself too.

Sylvanas wonders if Jaina feels as protective of her nephews as she does of the Alliance’s own High King, who apparently calls himself her nephew in name only.

And now, she searches Sylvanas’ face for signs of reaction, fondness, and humanity when looking at a picture of her own family.

Sylvanas struggles to find anything but nostalgia for connections long cut and things long made untrue by the relentless march of time. Such numbness rings true for the banshee in her, but it strikes a discordant bell for the soul that’s been restored to her. The same soul that gets lost in that nostalgia in the countless lonely hours of searching. Sylvanas misses her sisters. She always has. She knows she will never fit into their happy little photographs. She will never again shine with them in brilliant blue and gold.

She supposes this is what Jaina Proudmoore looks for when she studies her face. She wonders if she’s been able to find it yet.

“I suppose I have you to thank for orchestrating this,” Sylvanas says as she finally looks to her, and sets the photo down on her tie-bedeviled thigh.

Jaina waves off the responsibility, releasing one gloveless hand from the copper mug. Her fingers are practiced and graceful with every movement, aware. A mage through and through.

“No, no,” she says. “I merely brought it up to Vereesa and she ran with it. She said she wanted some photographs for her home anyway.”

Still, Sylvanas sees through her meddling. Mages always want to fix and change and alter. They cannot leave nature well enough alone. Jaina Proudmoore brings her colors and views of a world she cannot have and cannot help it, just as she surely does not know how her fingers look as though they’re tracing runes even when they do not.

But it is Sylvanas’ nature to haunt and wail and linger on a life long gone. She is a ghost, after all.

She supposes it is fitting she may yet spend centuries here, shepherding the dead.

And Jaina Proudmoore will go home to have more tea with her sisters and her nephews and everyone that will certainly be glad Sylvanas isn’t something they have to worry about anymore. She will put happy photographs on her mantle in Boralus. She will meet so many people and do so many things that this odd chore will be just another appointment on her busy calendar.

And yet, she and the things she brings will be the brightest colors Sylvanas sees until her penance is done.

“Vereesa said she didn’t have time to write another letter and apologizes for that,” Jaina relays. “She still wanted me to bring you the photograph, and whatever that bottle is I suppose.”

“Shampoo,” Sylvanas tells her. The Common word for it is so silly. It sounds like something one would name a fluffy little lap dog.

She watches as Jaina cranes her head a bit to read the label. No doubt she can read the Thalassian. Sylvanas is sure she can speak it too, but chooses to speak the human tongue to her anyway.

“Well that was nice of her,” Jaina notes.

It was, but it’s more than nice. It’s both infuriatingly confusing and overwhelmingly loving. Sylvanas deserves neither. She was ready to be forgotten. She was ready for no one to remember her name, to curse its mention, and to forget anything they knew about her, much less such a small detail as her favorite shampoo.

A part of her wants to keep that detail for herself, but it burns within her. She wants to talk, to vent, but also desperately to keep everything within the fortress of herself. Such nostalgia for her is a part of the pain, the loss of it all.

But Jaina Proudmoore, perhaps, is a person who can understand that.

“It was a favorite of mine,” the words spill out before she can rethink them. “Back…before. Vereesa always used it without my permission. It’s expensive.”

But what does Jaina Proudmoore of all people care about elf shampoo? Of photographs and colors and mugs of tea ignored, left to cool on grey dirt. Why did she come back with no letter to deliver? Why does she smile at these words, this time genuinely, where a dull canine peeks past pink lips, unadorned with makeup or the mask of war. She is just a woman, a friend of the family Sylvanas no longer knows, a stranger. Still, she seems happy to listen, intrigued.

“That sounds dreadful. I’m thankful to only have brothers then. Derek and Tandred would never take any of my toiletries, or at least never admit to it,” Jaina tells her through that smile, giving up her own tiny, innocuous details.

Sylvanas remembers Derek Proudmoore, gasping on the deck of her flagship for breaths he no longer needed. The seawater stink of him, the barnacles that still clung to his tattered coat. She remembers questioning even then why she did the things she did, even as her Dark Rangers peered at her with concern in their red eyes. A part of her knew it was wrong, even though those that return to unlife must make the choice to do so themselves. She and her Valkyr lacked the ability to force them as she was forced. That requires a mournblade, but there will be no more of those ever forged. Never again.

And now his sister jokes with her about how he would never steal her things, or whatever makes her white hair shine so brilliantly even when there is no sun to light it.

Perhaps Sylvans should ask her about her hair care routine. What else is she meant to do?

Instead, she apologizes, “About Derek—”

Jaina doesn’t let her. “He’s told me. You don’t need to explain. It was his choice, you merely offered him the vehicle to take it. Honestly, for all of how it worked out, I should thank you, for being part of what brought my brother back to me.”

“You should not,” Sylvanas assures her.

She cannot possibly offer the explanation as to why. It was never meant to be Derek. Some other Kul Tiran admiral was the target, another sailor sleeping in a watery grave. But the opportunity presented itself and Zovaal had told her that Jaina Proudmoore must die, and this was the best way to do it.

She was always far too hard to kill. And Baine always was too soft. In truth, it had all worked out for the best.

Still, it’s a change of heart from the woman who stared daggers at her for daring to put Anduin in the Jailer’s hold, even though it wasn’t entirely by her own choice. Such forgiveness Sylvanas supposes comes with time, though it has only been a year for Jaina since then.

Longer still for her.

But now the words are spilling out of Jaina, and it seems that the silence of the Maw demands filling from the both of them. “I’ve missed him so much. Derek’s death was incredibly hard on my parents. I was young then myself, maybe a bit too young to really understand, but I think a part of me missed him in the way that his absence affected them more than anything else. Even now, I’m happiest seeing him with my mother again, and how much joy he brings her.”

Sylvanas doesn’t often like to dwell on Derek Proudmoore, but the thought of an undead man being embraced by his living family hits her in a place she didn’t know was so exposed. She’s seen so much rejection of her Forsaken, though they are hardly hers anymore, so much hatred for them. She cannot imagine anything else but that for them.

Does Jaina have happy photographs of him next to those of the Windrunners on her mantle?

It isn’t her right to ask the question.

In fact, she can’t say anything at all.

“Derek drinks tea still,” Jaina tells her. “He says he likes how it makes him feel warm for a time. I thought you might enjoy it.”

She wraps her gracile fingers around her mug again, and tilts her head to the second one on the ground.

Sylvanas picks it up, but does not drink from it. She holds it, and admittedly relishes in the warmth that flows into her hands as she listens to Jaina talk about her brother with a fond grin.

[alchemistc]

goon | bucktommy | chapter five

check out the hockey glossary here (updated through chapter five)

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

read Chapter Five on ao3

Eddie pulls into the parking lot still grinning at the recollection of the first time he’d met Evan Buckley, and Tommy can’t help but smile back, all the air in his lungs spent on the breathless laughter he’d expelled on the drive over.

“He actually thought I was there to replace him, or something,” Eddie says, fondly, amusement and affection seeping into his voice, and something clicks, just then. Tommy doesn’t have time to think about it, though, because half a second later Ravi is banging on the passenger window, looking harried.

Tommy rolls it down with one eyebrow raised.

“Closed practice,” Ravi says, with a kind of warning tilt to his expression, and Eddie’s smile evaporates in the drivers seat.

“Shit,” Eddie says, and Ravi nods emphatically.

Tommy’s been here going on three months, and this is the first time he’s even heard a whisper about closed practice. Sure, there are days where fans don’t fill the stands, and days when the media doesn’t seem inclined to make an appearance because there isn’t any story worth telling, but as far as he knows, Bobby Nash hasn’t held a closed practice in at least a few years. Back when he was brand new and fighting an uphill battle for a point or two a week, yeah, he’d definitely heard a few of those stories from guys like McKinley and even a few of the guys who’d been traded, in the following few years, to teams Tommy played for.

But Tommy can’t think of a reason why Nash would want to do that now.

Gerrard had held them for the opportunity to pick on whoever he felt like singling out on a given day, but that’s not Nash’s style.

“He called up four guys from Loveland,” Ravi continues, and next to Tommy, Eddie grimaces.

“Scrimmage?”

Ravi nods forebodingly.

“Shit,” Eddie repeats, and Tommy takes a deep breath, not quite sure if this is actually something to be worried about, or more melodramatics from a bunch of guys who’ve never had to play for the likes of Tortorella or Gerrard. “Does Buck know?”

“Buck’s the one who told me,” Ravi says, and Eddie whistles through his teeth.

“Is he already picking on the Eagles guys?”

“He’s got The List out,” Ravi informs them gravely, and Eddie actually leans forward and knocks his head against the steering wheel, startling Ravi when his forehead hits dead center on the horn.

“What’s the list?” Tommy queries, using the back of his hand to shove Ravi gently out of his way, opening the door before he rolls up the window to allow them to continue this conversation. He’s almost positive this is a late hazing, at this point, but never let it be said that Tommy won’t take any opportunity to let Buck’s team talk about him.

(Fucked, with a capital F.)

“You don’t wanna know about The List,” Ravi tells him ominously, dancing out of the way of the bag Tommy swings out from the back seat before shutting his door behind him.

“Tell me anyway.”

Ravi falls into stride beside him, detailing a nightmarish demon of a man who hazes the new kids and the old hats alike with pop quizzes on regulations and unspoken rules, right before drilling any random passersby with questions about the system they play until he was satisfied they fully understood The Process.

Tommy hasn’t seen a trace of this monstrous demon, but he’s actually kind of looking forward to finding out if this is a real thing Evan Buckley does. It sounds objectively hilarious, and also a little adorable.

It’s been two weeks and Tommy’s gotten a couple texts, a single call, and some heavy looks across a table at team dinner, or the locker room after practie, with no idea what, exactly, he’d said or done to draw Buckley’s ire. He actually thought I was there to replace him, Eddie had said, not five minutes ago, and Tommy takes the rest of the walk (Eddie and Ravi on either side of him looking like they’ve just gotten their marching orders) to reassess the last month or so.

Things had been great, after the All-Star game.

The new guys were still learning the system, which has an admittedly sharp learning curve, and they’d lost a few games, in amongst the grind, but Tommy was skating better, and Buck was pulling off some pretty spectacular shit every night, breaking ankles and running up enough points to throw him into the Norris conversation. McKinley had suggested some line mix-ups that had actually helped the new guys both pick up the pace and start to work within the system as it was designed to work.

Eddie had been making a point to pull Tommy in, inviting him out to places with the team, and sharing his sparse father-son time with Tommy, spending a few extra minutes out on the ice with him on practice days to try to give him some tips on his movement, his edgework, his stick handling skills.

For two and a half weeks Tommy had spent his nights stretching out sore muscles, icing aches and pains, and watching game film on mute, listening to Evan Buckley talk to him on speaker about the perils of simple carbohydrates while he shoveled two-day old shrimp fried rice into his mouth.

And then he’d been left on read for three minutes and barely spoken to him since.

In hindsight, it makes plenty of sense. Hell, he’d joked a million times to himself that Buckley and Diaz lived out of each others pockets; of course, of course Buckley would be upset by the perception that Eddie Diaz could in any way attempt to replace Evan Buckley.

Tommy will talk to him after practice. Maybe take him up on the beer he’d promised to buy Tommy in exchange for a few lessons on keeping his blades planted during a bout. (Nash and Hen don’t need to know he’s giving their star defenseman fighting tips.)

It’s as good a saying shutout with twenty minutes still left in a game.

Tommy isn’t actually paying attention, when it happens. He’s mostly trying to remember what he knows about their penalty kill, how it functions, which point of the diamond he’s supposed to maintain a five foot radius around while the power play unit hammers them with shots towards the net.

He is very firmly not thinking about how flustered he’d felt, walking into the lockers to find a half-dressed Evan Buckley wielding an actual clipboard, going through equipment checks with four Eagles players like Buck hadn’t previously played a game or two with all but one of them. Like the Eagles don’t closely follow the same system the Avs play. Like they’re not fucking professionals, themselves. Nothing about it should have done a single fucking thing for Tommy, and yet, while Buck made his way down the checklist and Wagner and Ivan elbowed each other in amusement as the fresh-faced kid who’d yet to be called up until today seemed to waffle between consternation and the need to prove himself.

Tommy doesn’t have a praise kink. Or a degradation kink, come to think of it.

But he’d suddenly realized he absolutely had a thing for Evan Buckley leaning into the obsessive perfectionism. (He’d had the irrational desire to see what his Google calendar looks like, and had to stuff that away immediately while Wagner waved at him from across the room and received an icy glare from Buck for daring to interrupt.)

He doesn’t see it, is the point he’s trying to make. From the left of his goalie, Tommy takes a puck to the bucket and watches Buckley circle back up to the top of the zone while he blinks away the dull gong-like ringing in his ears, watches Ivan shovel the puck back to Buck and Buck slide left, right, barely keeping it in the zone when he spins away from a poke check, and then Wagner skates right through Tommy’s line of vision, and by the time Tommy repositions himself, Buck is chasing after Eddie, who has the puck and a clean sheet of ice straight to Chim.

Tommy keeps up with Wagner down the ice, Buck chasing ahead of them, and with just the team and coaches in here, Tommy can hear a lot more than he usually can, even in a practice setting— the sound of the guys on the bench chattering away, taking notes on how a PK is actually supposed to function; the slice of eleven sets of blades gliding over the ice; the chirping from Eddie as he taunts Buck, five feet behind him, and Buck’s loud, loud guttural shout a moment before he catches a burst of speed and extends his knee just as Eddie winds back to shoot the puck.

Eddie goes down with a groan of pain, and they all slow, the momentum of the chase propelling them most of the way as Eddie curses, a loud mix of English and Spanish while Buck drops his stick to his knees and sucks in a few steady breaths.

Hen is out on the ice about fifteen seconds later, and things devolve from there.

Eddie flops into the seat next to Tommy, ten minutes into their flight, and Tommy raises a curious brow, eyes darting up from his book when Eddie just sighs. Six rows up, Buckley is making friends with the d-man they’d called up from Loveland, just in case Eddie’s knee acted up and he had to be scratched from the lineup.

It’s the first time in three months that Tommy has seen them sit in separate rows on a flight.

Eddie shrugs half-heartedly when Tommy tilts his head in question.

There’s enough chatter going on that Tommy doesn’t feel the need to pull out his phone and have this conversation through his fucking notes app, but he keeps his voice low, regardless.

“How’s your knee?” he starts, because despite how close they’ve become, he’s under no illusion that he can just dive straight into the “we made your best friend mad, how do we fix it” conversation without some small-talk to ease them into it.

Or maybe they can. “Recovering from Buck’s possessive streak pretty well, actually,” Eddie says with a breathy snort. “Wish his ego would get on the same page as my knee.”

Tommy bites down on the urge to defend him, of all things, but a moment later Eddie sighs.

“That wasn’t fair. Buck is — he gets a little weird, sometimes, about the people that are important to him.” He pauses, fingers tapping against his thigh as he shoots a careful look at Tommy. “I feel kinda bad. All he ever wants is to feel like he’s being included.”

“You’re allowed to have more than one friend,” Tommy intones, and then feels for a moment like walking it back at the lofty tilt of Eddie’s head, his pursed lips, his deadpan expression.

“Buck has about five million attachment issues and three people he trusts implicitly, and one of them has been inadvertently icing him out since he left for the All Star game. He’s second guessing six years of friendship because he didn’t realize dating wasn’t the only thing that could take my attention away from him for more than five minutes at a time.”

Tommy thinks that’s probably an oversimplification, but he gets the gist. “Have you talked to him?”

“Not successfully,” Eddie intones, with a nod towards the back of Buck’s head.

“I’ll talk to him.” Eddie gives him a grateful tap, two knuckles to Tommy’s knee, and shifts back into his seat, stretching his leg out into the aisle. “Maybe wait until after the game. Dallas is only six points behind us and I’d much rather he take a run at Duchene than you, if he doesn’t like what you have to say.”

The chuckle that escapes containment is a little self-deprecating, but Tommy tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and pretends to get some shuteye while he ponders what the hell he’s actually going to say to Buck. After the game.

Letting Buck stay mad is either gonna make or break this game. Tommy hasn’t decided yet, but it’s a running concern, as they go up one, then Dallas ties, then Dallas captures the lead in the closing minutes of the first. Buck is agitated down the tunnel, agitated through intermission, agitated as he lines up for the opening puck drop of the second period, agitated as Dallas mucks things up in the neutral zone, agitated as the refs miss an interference call that he’s been penalized for at least three times in the calendar year, so far.

He’s agitated as he gets smashed into the boards behind Dallas’ net, and agitated as Diaz misses his pass and the puck trickles out of Dallas’ zone, and agitated when Dallas takes advantage and nearly goes up another goal, the puck clanging off the iron before Chimney can scramble from one side of his crease to the other.

Dallas plays a shitty, boring game of keep away, jamming up every play they try to make in the neutral zone, and with two minutes left in the second, Buck takes another nasty hit against the glass, sandwiched between Benn and Hintz with the puck no where close to him. The no call is probably his last straw, when he comes away bleeding with Hintz’s stick still stuck in the padding of his helmet.

Back on the bench, Buck washes out his mouth with water, grimaces as Hen dabs at the cut just to the side of his eyebrow, an uncanny match to the birthmark on the other side of his face, and proceeds to argue with Nash for thirty seconds as the clock ticks down and Nash keeps him on the bench.

Nash has a rule, in these scenarios. They play for the next five minutes, every time, no game too far out of reach because they’re just setting up for the next five, but the important piece is handing off the last five. Whatever happened, whatever will happen, once the previous five are up, they’re done. There’s no changing them, only learning from them.

And Buck is clearly not ready to hand it the fuck off.

With twenty-seven seconds left and the puck once again stuck in the middle of the ice, Buckley and Diaz replace Manson and Girard, and Buck takes about half a second to assess the run Duchene is making towards their zone before he seems to make a decision.

It’s a legal hit, technically speaking. He catches Duchene with his head down, but Buck has both speed and a build up of negative emotion just leaking from his pores, at this point, so when they meet in the middle and Buck locks his elbow, the crash ends up looking more like an explosion of momentum, from Buck’s extended mitt, through Duchene’s chest. Buck stays standing and Duchene goes ass over tea-kettle, legs going out from under him and the puck trickling off his stick right into the space behind Buckley, where Diaz skates over to scoop it up and send it careening through a free patch of ice towards McKinley.

Duchene doesn’t snap back to his skates, right away, and Tommy can’t hear it over the noise of the crowd, but in the moment before Buck follows the puck on it’s way towards Oettinger, he bends to say something that has Duchene seeing fucking red.

Christ.

Tommy supposes he can add another player to the list of people who are gonna throw a fucking target on the number 18.

McKinley ties it up with seven seconds left in the period, but on the skate back to the benches Duchene decides to get chirpy. Buck gets through the glove taps just in time to have his stick snaked out from it’s loose hold by a smirking Duchene, and the shoving match the commences almost gets their entire first line thrown in the box for the start of the third, but it’s Buck that puts them all on notice as they skate back to their own benches.

“You’re a fucking joke, man!” Buck yells, still half-hanging off the sideboards, skate firmly tucked beneath the bench to give him leverage to lean back out and make direct eye contact with Duchene. “Your career is a joke, and you’re an embarrassment to the league. How’s that ring chasing going, Matty? I fucking lit you up, asshole, and I’ll do it again!”

Tommy makes the mistake of staring through the glass towards the Stars bench, where Dumba is staring directly at him. So. There’s that.

Whatever Duchene shouts back is lost to the final whistle and a battle for the puck that Stankoven ends up shoveling into his own zone just to kill off the last few seconds on the clock.

The ire hasn’t left Buck, once they’re in the room. They can all feel it, attitude fucking rolling off of him as they listen to Bobby walk them through his strategy to get rid of this congested mess of a game and get through to the net.

Tommy spends his twenty minutes trying to remember his last fight with Dumba.

It’s a tie game. There’s an edge to be had to winning a territorial fight like this — momentum can swing based entirely on whether or not Tommy’s fist makes contact enough times to fire up his team. The problem is the one player who’s been fired up the entire game isn’t doing shit to generate the kind of momentum they need to break out of this slog of a game and build some fucking offense.

There’s another option. They’re all pissed at the refs, and have been all game, and Tommy’s the locker room guy, the one they look to when their stars have said their piece and the coach has left them to their own devices. If the refs toss him, they’re gonna be amped the fuck up.

Nash would be pissed he’s even thinking about it. Buck might actually pick a fight he can’t win, if Tommy doesn’t play it right. Fighting Dumba won’t work, for this, so he’s gonna have to suck it up and play the villain, ignore the heavyweight fight and go for something gritty and fucking rude.

Benn, then.

It’s been a while since Tommy’s laid out Jamie Benn.

Both benches get warnings from the refs before the start of the third, and Buck blatantly ignores them the moment he’s on the ice, chirping every single black-and-neon green sweater that has a chance of hearing him, missing setups because he’s too busy laying reverse hits and generally being a pest.

Tommy absolutely shouldn’t find anything about this remotely amusing, because if he keeps it up, Dumba is absolutely gonna find a way to challenge Tommy, and everyone else is too frustrated with this new and unimproved Buckley. The problem is, Evan Buckley the pest is fucking hilarious, and the few insults Tommy has managed to catch are not only fantastically amusing, they’re also bitingly specific. Buck’s putting his stats and lore knowledge to good (evil) use.

He’s pretty sure he even catches a slyly worded allusion to cunnilingus that Benn very clearly does not like one bit, but Benn doesn’t have time for retaliation because Buck takes his momentary lapse to pick his pocket and spin into the Stars zone with three Avs on his heels.

The puck pings off the crossbar five different times before the Stars get possession again, and with fifteen minutes left in the game, Dadanov snipes one past Chim into the net.

Tommy can feel the bench deflate.

Dallas shaves another three and a half off the clock by clogging up the neutral zone before Tommy gets an opportunity on the ice with Benn’s line, and he doesn’t waste any time — down a goal with eleven and change left in the game, he doesn’t see a whole lot of other options, and he doesn’t really give Benn the opportunity to not engage.

It takes a bit of maneuvering.

Stripes haven’t called shit all game, from either side, so it’s a risk, either way, and Tommy’s goal isn’t to actually injure Benn, just make the hit look bad enough and blatant enough that they’ve got no choice but to call it. He waits until the puck has been off Benn’s stick for a hot second before he slams him into the boards, and the crowd gets loud.

The whistle blows, and just for the hell of it, Tommy wraps both hands around his stick and shoves it into the middle of Benn’s back when he tries to get back to his feet.

Johnston gets an arm around his neck half a second later, and both linesmen come careening in to break it up.

He’s assessed with five minutes, which isn’t ideal, when that shaves off half their time left in the game, but a minute and a half into the penalty kill Heiskanen takes a chop at Ravi when he manages to get the puck down past the red line, and suddenly they’re four-on-four for at least the middle portion of Tommy’s gamble.

Dallas’ special teams aren’t as good as theirs — not when they’re evenly matched — and when McKinley finds Panikkar with a stretch pass there’s no one in the lane to intercept.

Tie game, with a minute and a half left in Tommy’s major, back to being shorthanded, but there’s signs of life on the bench, and Buck seems to have finally fucking cooled his jets (Tommy spends forty seconds wondering which one of them convinced Bobby to force a Honey Stinger into his hands).

In typical fashion, the moment Tommy’s out of the box, Dallas returns to slowing the game right down, well aware that it’s the easiest way to neutralize the Avs offense, and the minutes chip away while Tommy watches the clock.

On a flyby, Duchene chirps at Buck and Diaz both on the bench, which is ultimately the Stars fucking downfall, even if they don’t know it.

With forty-seven seconds left on the clock, Diaz skates through traffic and gets a saucer pass down the ice to O’Connor, and Lundkvist blows a tire in his attempt to defend him.

The puck sails in right under Oettinger’s blocker.

In the locker room, ten minutes later, Tommy catches Nash’s eye and does his best not to look guilty, but Tommy has studied Nash’s career, and they both know exactly where he’d gotten his ham handed idea from. The expression on Nash’s face tells him everything he needs to know about how quickly he’ll end up a healthy scratch if he tries it again.

Tommy’s still working through his wording, five hours later, when he settles into his room in Boston. Tomorrow’s a rest day, nothing but a coaches meeting on the books, so regardless of how things go with Buck, he’s at least got the advantage of a full day where they’re not required to speak to each other, once Tommy’s said his piece. He’ll give Buck the night, let him sleep off whatever agitation had had him so hot all day, knock on his door in the morning and apologize, maybe convince him to grab another coffee, if the apology goes decently.

And if not, he’ll have the day to lick his wounds and remind himself that he’d absolutely known he was setting himself up to hurt his own feelings.

He’s eternally grateful his trade had happened so early, because he’d heard rumblings on the plane ride over that the Altitude team was planning a half-day of get-to-know-the-new-guys coverage, and he’s already done his thirty-minute sit down with Keefe.

The knock on his door startles him out of his reverie, and when he swings the door open, he doesn’t know exactly what he’s expecting, but it sure as hell isn’t the chagrined, lopsided smile of Evan Buckley, leaning against the door frame and looking contrite.

“Buck. Hi.”

Buck’s chest rises with the deep breath he takes.

“Hi,” he says, and in the dim hallway light, with his shoulders turned in on themselves, he looks suddenly vulnerable and tired. “Can we talk?”