#i am drowning. there is no sign of canon

[vampire-bite]

azusa is seventy years of sleep coded

[egcdeath]

clean sheet

pairing: joel miller x reader 

summary: nothing stirs the pot like your ex-husband, gossipy soccer moms, and a weekend-long soccer tournament. (part two of spectator sport)

word count: 7.7k

warnings: canon divergent: no apocalypse, implied past emotional abuse, jealousy/misunderstanding, kinda angsty in the beginning but verrrry fluffy at the end, insecurities, there was only one bed, mutual pining, sarah and chloe being menaces as usual

author’s note: this past week has been extremely rough. like, ao3 author’s note apologizing for being gone rough, so i’m just as surprised as you are that i was able to write 7,000 words of a part two to spectator sport. enjoy!

 part 3 / series masterlist

Tournament season was nothing short of an absolute pain in the ass. It was a pain in the ass when you were married and able to evenly split your responsibilities, and it’s even more of a pain in the ass now that your ex-husband has decided to participate minimally in all soccer related ventures. 

To be completely honest, it seemed like it wasn’t just soccer ventures your ex wasn’t too enthused to partake in, as Nathan had ditched most of his fatherly duties whenever a new, younger girlfriend was in the picture. But that was neither here nor there.

Despite Nathan taking Chloe to her past few games this season—you were completely swamped with work and you had practically gotten on your knees and begged for him to take her to them—he didn’t seem to have any interest in assisting you with tournaments. 

That was fine and good. You knew about the events far enough in advance to move some meetings around, block off some time, and cross your fingers and hope that nothing came up unexpectedly in the days prior to your game. Although, what you couldn’t account for was your car completely breaking down on your way back from a bagel shop the morning before you were meant to be on the road for the next three hours. 

But alas, the universe had its way of kicking you when you were already down, leaving you biting back tears in the passenger seat of a tow truck as you attempted to figure out a Plan B.

“Please, Nathaniel,” you pleaded over the phone, pacing back and forth in your bedroom as you tried your absolute best to hold the last bits of your composure together. 

“I’ve been at her last three games,” it was impossible to miss the sneer in his voice as if his own daughter was the biggest burden in the world. “And where have you been? It’s practically been a month.”

“Where have I been?” you laughed out of anger and at the absurdity of his words. You knew that he knew for a fact that you’d been drowning in work. “Nathaniel. You know how my work has been. Please just do this one thing for your child. It’s the fucking weekend. It’s not like you’re doing anything else.”

“It’s always work with you. You know, this is why I couldn’t be with you anymore. You were always so selfish with your time and inconsiderate with mine,” he sighed dismissively. “And for the record, Claire and I have a reservation tonight. So I am doing something else.”

It was staggering how minimized and powerless he made you feel after every interaction despite how little he actually was in your life. Every time you interacted with the man you thanked whatever forces out there that you somehow found it in yourself to leave. 

You huffed and blinked away tears, hugging yourself to attempt to bring yourself some sort of comfort. After signing the papers, you told yourself you would never waste one single tear on the man again. You wouldn’t let a little argument like this change that promise.

“Can I at least borrow your car?” you sounded so meek and desperate, but you were running out of options, and with every passing minute you had less and less options.

Instead of responding, Nathan simply laughed at you before ending the call. Humiliated didn’t even begin to cover how you felt about the whole situation. 

You angrily wiped away the hot tears that had slipped down your face without your permission and sighed as you evaluated what options you had left. You could take an Uber, but it would be ridiculously expensive. You could rent a car, but Chloe was bound to get stains and dirt tracked throughout the vehicle. Anything else was far too short notice. 

You flopped down onto your bed and screamed into your pillow. The stress from your overfilled work week combined with an extremely inconvenient situation was taking its toll on you, but you needed to figure something out. 

Maybe you could carpool with someone. Although, you weren’t sure who was still in town, as most of the families liked to leave at the ass crack of dawn. If that wasn’t enough, you weren’t exactly sure you wanted to sit in a small contained space with some of those families for a prolonged period of time. 

Maybe you could ‘borrow’ Nathan’s car regardless of what he said. You were sure his new girlfriend had a car–if she was even old enough to drive one–and they could certainly take that car to their ever-important reservation tonight. Although, maybe getting a grand theft auto charge in order to make it to a soccer tournament wasn't your greatest idea.

You were deep in the eye of a brainstorm when a soft little knock rapped against your door, seconds before Chloe peeked her head in. 

“Hi mom,” she greeted, completely unaware of the extent of your conundrum. “Sarah can’t find her cleats and wanted to know if she could borrow one of mine. Where do you keep my old ones?” 

Joel.

Oh shit, Joel.

Joel who you’d accidentally ghosted after the promise of a date. With work and ex-spousal drama, you hadn’t even had a moment to think about the date. A knot tied in your stomach as you thought about how you’d treated him. He probably thought you were icing him out on purpose. 

“They should be downstairs in the front closet under the coats,” you informed her. “You almost ready to go?”

“What does it look like?” she retorted sassily, doing a little spin for you to show off her full soccer attire. 

“Alright,” you chuckled, trying to keep it together for just a while longer. “Go find those cleats.”

With that, she was off, and you were alone with just one option. 

You dialed the number that you’d only texted once, and bit your lip as the phone rang out. The knot in your stomach tied and untied with each ring of the phone, nausea rattling you as you thought about all the ways he could answer. He’d probably be pissed that you were only reaching out to him now, only when you needed something from him. He’d probably tell you off, just like Nathan, and laugh at you over the phone over the mere prospect of hitching a ride with him.

After three rings, Joel finally picked up, saying your name aloud, as if he was genuinely surprised to be hearing from you. 

“Joel, I’m so sorry,” you took a deep breath and attempted to hold back the wave of emotions coming over you. This stupid stressful morning. This stupid stressful month. And stupid you for leaving a good man waiting for you. A good man who was probably moments away from becoming a bad man, like every other one that seemed to appear in your life.

“My car broke down this morning and I don’t have any other way to get to the tournament. Is there any way we can carpool? I’ll literally pay you to take us. I’ll drive Sarah to school for the rest of the school year. Hell, I’ll take her to games too. Just… please.” It felt like you were talking a million miles a minute. 

“Hey, take a breath,” he said, clearly picking up on the frantic energy you were radiating through the phone. “We’re heading out in about twenty minutes. We’ll swing by your place. And don’t worry about all that other stuff, okay? Just take a big breath. I’ll see you soon.”

You were flooded with relief as you spoke your gratitude and hung up. It almost felt odd to not have someone go off on you for waiting so last minute to reach out for help, or for not reaching out to them after you said that you would. You were puzzled, and not completely sure what you did to deserve someone like Joel in your life, but you were grateful to have him regardless. Especially now that he was coming to save the day. 

Sure enough, around twenty minutes later, a pickup truck arrived in front of your house, and Chloe was sprinting to go sit with her friend in the backseat, still overjoyed from the news that she would be traveling with her friend. 

Timidly, you entered the car, still anticipating a stern lecture or even a scolding for being a shitty mom, and an even worse potential partner. “I really can’t thank you enough for this, Joel,” you expressed before he had the chance to speak, hoping that if you expressed your gratitude before he had the chance to yell at you, the blow would be lessened. You kept your eyes down as you sat down and set your overnight bag in front of you. 

“Of course. You know, I still owe you a favor after that dinner fiasco,” he glanced over at you and smiled, and some of that fear you had been holding onto began to melt away. Although, you blanched at the mention of the date that you were meant to go on, but hadn’t had the chance to do so. Yet, there didn’t seem to be any malice behind Joel’s words. 

“I guess we’re even?” you offered, looking over at the man to attempt to read him as he slung his arm around the back of the headrest and looked through the rearview mirror as he pulled out. 

“Yeah,” he said shortly, almost… dejectedly? Maybe you were reading into it too much. After all, his attention was split between you and getting out of your driveway safely. 

Regardless of what anyone was feeling, your journey began with the girls in the back chatting amongst themselves and a slightly weighted silence between the two of you in the front while the sound of radio filled in for the lack of conversation between you and Joel.

You spent the majority of the ride looking out your window, deep in thought. You tried not to let Nathan get under your skin all that often, but maybe he was right about the way you spent your time. You’d practically thrown away your shot at any relationship with the man next to you, simply because you were too busy and forgot about a promise you’d made. 

You tried to focus on the excited chatter in the seat behind you, and less on the venomous words Nathan had given you over the years, but it was a difficult task. Paired with the fact that you were still waiting for the shoe to drop and Joel to go off on you, it wasn’t the most pleasant time.

After about an hour of driving (and in your case, brooding), you had to make a stop at the gas station, as the truck was running low on fuel. You reached for your wallet and grabbed a twenty dollar bill, then passed it back to the girls behind you. “Go get some snacks for us?” 

“Of course!” Chloe cheered, hopping out of the car and racing Sarah into the entrance of the gas station.

Joel was definitely going to go off on you now that the kids were gone. You held your breath as you got out of the car, leaning against the hood of the vehicle as Joel stood by the pump, his eyes fixed on his vehicle.

“I can’t tell you just how sorry I am. About not reaching out to you to go out sometime, and for having to ask you so last minute to take us to the tournament. I’ve just been absolutely swamped with work, and Natha-“

“You’re fine,” Joel cut you off as he acknowledged your apology, keeping his gaze trained on the car. Here it comes. “You don’t need to apologize. Sometimes life just throws a bunch of shit at us at once.”

You nodded in agreement, your breathing picking up as you waited for the condescension or lecture to begin. Yet… it never came. You weren’t sure if he was as upset as you suspected, but Joel was certainly feeling more than he was willing to let on. The lack of eye contact and his slightly off responses told you that much. 

“Is everything okay?” you finally asked, trailing off. “You’ve barely said a word all trip.”

“Everything is fine. I’m just tired,” he rubbed his forehead with his hand. 

“Well, if you’re tired, I can drive us the rest of the way over and you can sleep. That way you’ll be rested for the game,” you offered, taking a daring step towards him, and setting your hand on his bicep—a peace treaty of sorts. And maybe a hint that you were still interested in whatever sparks had been evident before. 

Joel immediately stiffened under your touch, and subtly rejected the motion. He glanced over at you for just a moment before looking back down at the gas pump and shut his eyes. “That’d be great. I’m really exhausted.”

While you could believe that maybe Joel was just tired, there had to be more to the story. The way he rejected your subtle touch and the way he just couldn’t seem to meet your eyes told you that much. Perhaps you underestimated just how hurt he was by you not making plans with him, although it wasn’t like he’d reached out to you to set something up. In fact, the last time you heard from him was the night before the girls’ game following their team dinner.

“Of course. Go ahead and get back in the car, I can take everything from here.”

The rest of the ride wasn’t too long, but you were happy to contribute after asking for such a last minute favor. You drove straight to the grounds that the team was playing on that afternoon, as you were already pushing it on time, and certainly did not have time to go check into your hotel yet.

Your kids jogged off to greet their team and warm up with them, leaving you alone with Joel once again as you grabbed fold-out chairs from the back of his truck. 

“You feeling any better now after sleeping?” you asked, turning to look at him and inspect his face for any suspicious expressions.

“Yeah, definitely,” he affirmed, but his words didn’t exactly match what it was you had observed. He closed his trunk and began to walk away, and you followed after him, feeling a bit like a lost puppy.

“Joel, really. You can tell me what’s wrong,” you practically pleaded, part of you still waiting for the moment he would tell you off.

“I already told you,” his tone was defensive, and when he turned back to look at you, the agitation was clearly painted on his face. “Nothing is wrong.”

You were taken aback, but understood that you had crossed some sort of boundary in your continuous pressing of what was wrong. You felt more like a kicked puppy than a lost one as you walked out to the fields behind Joel, setting your chair up close to him, but with a little more distance between the two of you than what you would have preferred. 

You didn’t talk much during the game, outside of cheering for your daughters and momentarily celebrating when one of them pulled something impressive off. 

Although you didn’t interact much, it still felt nice to be back at a game after being gone for the past few weeks. And honestly, it felt even more nice to be back in Joel’s presence after those weeks, even if it was clear that something had shifted between the two of you. 

When the second game began, you were surprised to come back from your short leg-stretch walk to find another chair placed next to Joel’s—and a woman happily chatting his ear off.

A pang of jealousy struck your gut as you observed the two of them. It was no secret that most of the moms (and some of the dads) on the team (and other teams) saw the same things in Joel that you did. But you had absolutely no right to feel jealous, considering the way you’d basically led him on, and you had absolutely no reason to believe that there was anything romantic going on between them.

But you felt unwell anyway. 

You urged yourself not to look at them for too long, instead focusing on the game in front of you, but the sounds of their voices and the way their conversation easily flowed was far too distracting. Just the rotten cherry on top of an already shitty day. 

You felt ridiculous and childish sitting there with jealousy burning deeply in your stomach as you mentally ran through all of the things you could have done differently. Maybe if you’d texted Joel the night of your dinner and found a day where you both weren’t busy to go out together, or if you’d just said no to taking on a few extra hours, you’d be the one giggling and playing with your hair as you chatted up Joel.

It was official: you couldn’t torture yourself with staying one more moment with the two of them. Instead, you shot out of your uncomfortable little chair, and hauled your jealous little ass over to the concession stand. If you couldn’t go back in time and fix all the mistakes you’d made leading up to today, at least you could stuff your face full of peanut M&Ms until you felt better.  

As you focused on tearing the yellow plastic with a little more force than what was necessary, you completely missed Alice—one of the more gossipy mothers on the team—approaching you. 

“Hey babe,” she greeted cheerily. “We haven’t seen you in a few weeks. Where’ve you been?” 

Your mouth was currently filled with candy, so it took you a second to respond. “Work,” you said in between chewing. “I barely had time to breathe, let alone bring Chloe to her games, so I had to basically beg on my knees for a little help from her father. Speaking of which, how was Nathan?”

“Oh,” Alice paused and looked off to the side, a little too guiltily for your liking. “Yeah, he was fine.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, brows furrowed at her strange reaction. 

“Yeah! He was great. It’s just…” she trailed off and offered you an awkward smile. “We thought you two were maybe back together. You know, with the whole co-parenting thing.”

Your eye twitched. So the parents of the team were gossiping and theorizing about your love life. Great. That’s probably what was wrong with Joel—word had gotten back to him that you and Nathan were playing house again. No wonder he was putting such distance between you. 

“Babe,” you tried not to let the annoyance you were experiencing reflect too much into your tone, “why would you tell people we were back together? Bringing your own child to their sports events is not exactly groundbreaking or relationship material.”

You were now gritting your teeth as the irritation really started to sink in. Joel probably didn’t reach out to you for your date since these fucking real housewives you were surrounded by had decided to spread baseless rumors about you from the moment your ex had stepped onto the sideline. 

You were wrong. This was the rotten cherry on top of the absolute dogshit milkshake of a day you’d had. 

“I’m sorry,” Alice didn’t sound as remorseful as you wish she did. You knew that deep down, she was enjoying this little game and would be more than happy to spread this information back to her friends. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“It’s fine, the damage is done,” you sighed, shoving a handful of candy in your mouth. 

“Have you seen Joel and Cindy, though? They’re so cute together!”

It was now clearer than ever that Alice was only interacting with you to stir the pot, so you simply put on the best fake smile you could muster and nodded. “Adorable. Now if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go sit back down. I haven’t seen Chloe play in a few weeks, and she was doing so well in the last game, I’m sure she’s doing great now too!”

You didn’t wait for a response before walking off, attempting to suppress all of the feelings you were having with this new information you’d been given. In the three weeks you’d been gone, Alice had convinced the team that you and Nathan were back together, and Joel had already moved on. If you hadn’t cared so much about Chloe’s passions, you would’ve had her quit on the spot. You simply could not handle any more of this soccer parent culture. 

Sitting back down in your seat, you offered Joel an M&M, to which he politely declined. You wondered if there was a way for you to casually explain that you and Nathan were not and would not ever be an item again, but then again, it seemed like with Cindy in the picture, the ship of making anything work with you two had sailed. 

You attempted to focus on your daughter, who unsurprisingly was doing quite well in the game. You were glad that no matter how shitty your day was turning out, your kin was at least having a better day—and having fun doing it.

You simply went through the motions through the rest of the day, squeezing your daughter tight with a hug when all of the games for the day were finished and telling Sarah about how great of a job she did, then falling back into a somewhat uncomfortable silence on your drive to the hotel. 

Checking in had proved to be… a bit of an odd situation. As you pocketed your room keys, Chloe made an odd offer—her and Sarah would share a room while you and Joel would share your own. 

It shouldn’t have surprised you as much as it did when your daughters proposed that you and Joel share a room so that they could have a sleepover, but it caught you off guard regardless. 

You were hesitant for several obvious reasons, but their room was adjoined to yours, and there was a perfectly nice pull-out bed in the sofa, which meant there was absolutely no need to share a bed with Joel. After some consideration and discussion with the man who would be your roommate for the night, you ultimately settled on allowing it. You would take the sofa. Joel would take the bed.

Besides, it’s not like he’d be spending the majority of the night in the room. After a short conversation, he was getting dressed and going off to dinner with Cindy. 

You tried not to feel bad for yourself for too long. You’d already spent the majority of the day feeling bad for yourself, whether it was for the shitty situations you found yourself in, or the way the moms on your team treated your love life like their favorite reality show.

Knocking on the door adjacent to your own, you were happy to see Chloe crack open her door. 

“Hi girls,” you greeted. “What do you say to a pajama party?”

“Yes!” Chloe squealed, swinging her door wide open. Conveniently, they were already dressed the part, and were seemingly ready to wind down after a long day of physical activity. 

After ordering an absurd amount of room service and having nothing short of a feast with your favorite pre-teens, the three of you sat on the floor under a blanket fort you’d constructed as you played Uno with some random network romcom playing in the background. 

It felt like after a long day of holding your breath, you could finally let go of it, winding down with your two favorite children.

“Do you feel like you had a good day today?” you asked, placing a green three on top of the pile of cards. 

“Yeah! I missed having you and my dad together at our games,” Sarah remarked, drawing a card. 

Chloe nodded in agreement, setting down one of her own cards. “You really spice up our games. I think Joel yells a little louder at us when you’re here. He was pretty quiet when dad was bringing me.”

You tried not to let your emotions show on your face too much in front of the children, but it was undeniably sweet that you being around brightened Joel’s light, even now, when things were a little more awkward between the two of you. You simply hummed as you set down your card.

“Yeah, he kept asking me if I knew where you were,” Sarah drew a card then placed the card back down on the pile. “I think he missed you.”

So maybe Joel wasn’t as mad at you as you thought he was. Asking where you were had to be a good sign, right? Maybe it really just boiled down to him thinking you were back together with your ex-husband, and him not wanting to cross any boundaries. 

“I think you’re our good luck charm. Did you see how well we played today?” Chloe asked, discarding a card. “Uno.”

“I think you guys are just good,” you set down a card. “Uno.”

“I dunno, when you were gone we kept losing,” Sarah set down a skip, causing Chloe to exclaim in frustration. 

“Our friendship is over,” Chloe announced to Sarah for what must’ve been the third time that night. 

“Mean it this time?” she teased. 

“I swear!” the pair broke out into giggles as you set down your final card. 

“We need to team up on you! How is it that you keep winning?” Sarah asked, pointing an accusatory finger at you. 

“She’s a dirty cheater,” Chloe tutted. “Just ask her why we don’t play Monopoly anymore. Right, mom?”

“Hey!” you exclaimed. “It was a rough patch. I keep winning Uno because you two keep targeting each other. What happened to team work?”

“No such thing in Uno,” Sarah shrugged. 

You laughed aloud, feeling some of your stress melting away with the motion, “you guys are too funny.”

Chloe yawned and reached for the pile in the middle of your little circle. “You can’t compliment your way out of this, cheater.”

“Ugh, whatever. I didn’t realize I raised such a sore loser.”

“Takes one to know one!” Chloe jeered. 

“Sure,” you chuckled. “Well, I think it's this cheater’s bedtime. Can I help you guys undo the pillow fort?”

The girls agreed, and you helped take down the mess of blankets, chairs, and pillows as they began to wind down and settle into bed.

“Goodnight, girls,” you bid farewell as you approached the adjoining door. “If you need anything, just come on over, okay? Sweet dreams,” you blew kisses to both of them before going back over to your side of the room.

When you made it back to your room, Joel was already in bed, the soft light of the television illuminating his face in the otherwise dark room. The light from the screen and his pajamas were doing him all sorts of favors, making him look like he walked straight out of your domestic fantasy. 

“When did you get back?” you asked as you grabbed your phone charger from your bag and approached the pull-out bed. 

“Like, an hour ago,” he shrugged, leaning back against the headboard. 

“You should’ve come over and played Uno with us,” you suggested, attempting to get cozy in your makeshift bed as you pulled the threadbare hotel blanket over your legs. “We had a little fort and everything.”

“Didn’t wanna intrude on your girls’ night,” he mumbled sleepily, hugging a pillow as he adjusted himself in bed.

“We would’ve been happy to have you,” you muttered, trying your best to relax in the rather uncomfortable makeshift bed.

Joel simply grunted in response, his eyes now shut. You could only assume that sleep set in quickly, and you’d now lost him to dreamland.  

You stared up at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. Part of you wished that this whole day was just an awful dream, and that you’d wake up the morning after the team dinner at Joel’s house, able to do everything all over again. 

Rolling onto your side, you hoped that the shitty pull-out bed would become even slightly more comfortable, but your hope was to no avail. You sighed softly and closed your eyes, wondering if you started counting sheep, if it’d be any easier to fall asleep.

About fifteen sheep in, Joel’s soft voice calling your name pulled you out of whatever sleepy daze you’d been in. 

“Hey, are you sleeping yet?” he practically whispered. 

“No,” you responded, voice far above a whisper. “The floor would probably be more comfortable than this.”

“I told you you shouldn’t have taken the pull-out bed,” he goaded.

“You wanna get down here and sleep on it for me?”

“No. Well… Would it help you sleep better?”

“Joel,” you huffed.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” you listened as the bedsheets began to rustle.

“No, no, don’t do that. Your body needs an actual bed after all that hard manual labor you do. Lay back down.”

“Not if you can’t fall asleep because of that shitty bed. Trust me, I’ve slept in worse conditions.”

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should. Now I’m going to sleep. Goodnight.”

Joel paused for a second, and you assumed he’d finally given up. Good.

Until he called your name once again. “Come up here and get a good night’s rest.”

“No,” you argued, though your sleepy brain was practically begging you to move to the comfier location. “You need it more than me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You snickered, “whatever you want it to mean.”

Silence on his end once again. Time to start herding your sheep. 

“Why don’t we just share? There’s probably room for three of me on this bed.”

A bold proposition from a man who got back from a date only a few hours ago. A bold proposition that you were probably a bit too enthusiastic to take. 

“Fine,” you huffed. “Only to get you off my ass.”

Every part of your body was thanking you as you slipped out of the shitty couch-bed and padded over to the empty side of the real bed. Tentatively, you got in bed and under the sheets, making sure to keep yourself on your side and keeping your back facing his.

“Goodnight, Joel.” you finally whispered. 

“Goodnight,” he softly said your name, and you imagined the look on his face. Maybe in a different world, one where you’d gone on a date with him when the offer was on the table, you’d be in bed with him without the argument, with his arm wrapped around your waist as he wrapped you in a warm embrace, or with him hovering above you as you attempted to keep quiet in a hotel filled with guests who were more than willing to speculate about you.

It was nice to have someone in bed with you again. Even if all you had was the heat radiating off of the man next to you, and the sound of his deep breaths as he fell deeper and deeper into sleep. Despite all that had gone wrong in the day, and whatever Joel’s situation was with his date, somehow laying in bed with someone else made you feel at ease.

You didn’t have to count any more sheep to fall asleep that night. 

When you woke up, Joel was already out of bed, pulling on a hat and slipping on his shoes. “Oh good, you’re awake,” he commented as you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. “Wanna get complimentary breakfast before it goes away?”

You stretched out as you listened to the proposition, wondering if the phantom feeling of an arm around your waist during the night was real or just a dream. “You know me so well.”

Somehow, the tension between the two of you didn’t feel so heavy that morning. Maybe sleeping in bed together had helped to break the ice, or maybe some other variable was at play. Regardless, you were happy to feel like your relationship had gone back to what it had been a month ago, even if Joel really was beginning to form something with Cindy. 

The hotel lobby wasn’t too busy when you and Joel went down. You were certainly grateful, as the fact that you had just rolled out of bed and gone to breakfast was more than obvious to anyone who’d looked at you for more than two seconds. 

You were stirring endless circles into your coffee when Joel sat down across from you, sighing as he leaned back into his chair. 

“Sleep well?” he asked before taking a hearty sip of his own coffee. 

You held back a laugh and exchanged it for the slightest hint of a smile. If only he knew just how well you slept. “I guess,” you admitted. “I always sleep well in hotel beds.”

You were completely uncertain of how to address the bed-sized elephant in the room, or if it was even a good idea to do so. But the lack of coffee in your system and the remnants of sleep clouding your brain had lowered your inhibitions significantly, causing the next words to tumble out of your mouth. 

“Thank you for letting me join you,” you involuntarily held your breath after saying so, too afraid to openly wait for his reaction. 

“Of course,” he hummed, beginning to stab at some of the food on his plate. “I couldn’t just let you break your back on that couch-bed.”

“Well I appreciate it,” you began to pick at some of your own food, the two of you falling into a far more comfortable silence. Obviously something had shifted between the time of the game and now, but you couldn’t quite place it. Since you were already in the mood to address elephants in the room, you had no issue blurting, “How was your date last night?”

“Date?” Joel looked up from his scrambled eggs with a furrowed brow. 

“With Cindy? From the other team?” you took a bite of toast and didn’t back down from the loaded eye contact going on between the two of you.

“Well, it wasn’t a date. Cindy’s married. Happily, I might add. Just catching up with a family friend.”

You were slightly taken aback, but not necessarily in a bad way. Suddenly, you felt silly for all the energy you’d wasted the day prior feeling jealous and bad for yourself, when you didn’t even know the full story.

“Well, what about Nathan? Is he a family friend?” it came out defensive, and you couldn’t particularly blame him for it. Finally some proof that this was what that weird tension had been all about. 

Maybe if your mind was slightly more clear, you’d find it cute that you were both a little jealous over each other. Maybe you really hadn’t thrown away your chance at this thing the way you’d thought you did.  

“No! I told you, I’ve been swamped with work. Like, getting home so late that I only see Chloe in the mornings and when I tuck her into bed, late. She needed to go to her games, and I knew there was only one person I could possibly guilt trip into bringing her. But I would rather marry the actual incarnation of Satan himself before spending another day with her father.”

“Oh,” Joel said quietly, lifting his disposable cup to his lips and seeming rather deep in thought.

“But you thought I was with him this whole time?”

“I guess?”

“And you still invited me into your bed?” you pressed, a hint of amusement in your voice.

“There was nothing inherently romantic or… sexual about that. I just didn’t want you to wake up in pain,” he set down his cup, but continued staring you down.

You shrugged. Solid answer, although you certainly wouldn’t be opposed to either alternative scenarios. 

“But even if there was, it’s only because you deserve better than that man. And from what I’ve seen, pretty much any man is better than him.”

“Including you?” you pressed. 

“What do you think?” the little smirk he was obviously trying to fight only egged you on. 

“I think I agree with you. Except, I don’t love that you just assumed something about my relationship status because one of those human rumor mills told you it. Next time, you wait until you hear it from me, okay?”

“I normally would’ve, I guess I’m just so used to things not working out with me, my brain was just looking for a reason why this wouldn’t work out either.”

“To be fair, not contacting you after saying I’d go out with you is pretty solid grounds for thinking we wouldn’t work out. But at least let me take you on a date before we try to figure out if we’ll work out or not.”

“You still want to go on that date?” Joel asked, sounding more astonished than you would’ve expected. 

“What do you think?” you winked, tossing his words right back at him. 

Just as your exchange began to wrap up, you were joined by two sleepy kids, who most certainly heard part of your conversation about going on a date. You couldn’t even bother with feeling mortified, too high on the knowledge that you had yet another shot with Joel. 

“How was your sleepover?” you asked the girls without missing a beat. 

“Fun. We missed you, though,” Chloe sighed as she buttered up a bagel. 

“Yeah, Uno’s not the same without you,” Sarah added as she began to cut up her pancakes. 

“I’m flattered, girls. We’ll have to have an Uno tournament sometime and get Joel on it too. Mostly so he can witness me beating everyone’s ass at it.”

“Language, mom. And we all know you’re a cheater.”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetie.”

“I don’t know, I kinda believe it,” Joel teased. 

“Not you too, Joel! You’re supposed to be on my side,” you laughed. 

Your table fell into comfortable conversation for the rest of breakfast before you had to send the girls off to go get ready for their games. You almost wanted to pinch yourself to check if you were still dreaming after waking up in this domestic paradise following the terrible day you’d had yesterday, but even if it was a dream, you weren’t sure you wanted to wake up.

The rest of the tournament went smoothly, with the ice sufficiently broken between you and Joel, and you even joining in on his conversations with Cindy as the three of you sat together. The girls’ team ultimately won, leading to some very happy passengers as you drove back home. As you exited Joel’s car, you gave him a soft kiss on the cheek and a whispered promise of going out with him soon. To think, when you’d started your weekend, you never would have believed it would end in this manner. 

——

“Mom, hurry!” Chloe yelled up the stairs at you, sounding a little more impatient than what you would’ve liked. 

You could understand where she was coming from. Following the end of the soccer season, Joel had been quite busy, and Chloe hadn’t been able to see her closest friend outside of school hours for quite some time. If you were Chloe, you’d probably be anxious to see Sarah too.

Hurrying down the stairs with a newfound sense of urgency, you gave your daughter a little side hug. 

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” you apologized, understanding her urgency a little too well.

“Don’t be sorry. Just be efficient,” she pulled away from you and checked out your clothing. Sure, it was 6 PM and you were already in your pajamas. Sue you for wanting to come back home after a long day at work and put on your softest cat-printed pajama pants. “That’s a good outfit.”

“Oh, thank you. I was actually invited to Paris Fashion Week, but-“

“You can tell me in the car!” she exclaimed as she scurried off, with you following behind the little slippery bastard. 

In the car, Chloe seemed to be acting a little… suspicious. Although, you didn’t pay much mind to it, making small talk on the short drive over to her friend’s house. Her friend whose father you still hadn’t found time to go out with. 

“Oh yeah, being here reminded me that Joel had something to tell you,” Chloe announced as you pulled into their driveway. “Come in with me?”

By now, you were slightly suspicious, but the idea of having some sort of confrontation by Joel about you not following through on your word once again overrode your suspicions of your child. 

As Chloe rang the doorbell, Sarah swung the door open, smiling at her friend, then up at you. 

“Hi, come on in!” she said sweetly, opening the door all the way and leading you inside. 

As you walked in, your eyes caught on a makeshift pillow fort—one that oddly resembled the one you’d helped the girls make during their tournament. Cute.

“My dad’s inside. He wants to talk to you. See you later, bye!” Sarah talked quickly, and even quicker than her speech, she disappeared up the stairs with your daughter.

Something was definitely up.

You approached the fort with trepidation, and slowly pulled up a flap, where you found Joel dressed similarly to you in a loose shirt and plaid pajama pants, comfortably splayed out on his back while he seemed to be playing Candy Crush on his phone. 

“Oh, hey,” you said awkwardly. “The girls said you wanted to talk to me?” 

“Oh, hey,” he parroted back, seeming even more taken aback by your presence as he immediately sat up. “Uh, I actually didn’t know you were coming over?”

Oh.

It was always something with your kids. They knew how to scheme, and they knew how to scheme well.

“That’s fine,” you laughed to yourself about the situation. “I was gonna head out anyway. It was good to see you, and for the record, you clean up pretty well,” you teased, alluding to your similar mid-evening pajamas. 

“Wait!” he said quickly, nearly cutting you off. “Sorry, wait. Don’t go yet. Unless you have somewhere else to be…?”

You shook your head and shrugged. 

“I mean, obviously our kids set us up again, but we also haven’t followed through on that date yet. So maybe we can do it now?”

“Maybe,” you hummed as you sat down next to him on a mountain of pillows. “What would you want to do?” you asked, gently tapping his leg with your fuzzy-sock clad foot. (Chloe didn’t need to know that what was taking you so long was finding these god-forsaken socks.)

“Well, I’ve been wanting to take you out to some snobby, fancy restaurant,” he began. 

“Oh?” you voiced, brows raised. 

“But I don’t really think that’s either of our speeds.”

“Agreed. I don’t know where you’re going with this, but I’m liking it so far.”

“We also probably shouldn’t leave the girls home alone at night,” he continued to think out loud, his soft eyes never leaving your own. You almost felt like you were caught in a trance by them. 

“So what do you suggest we do, Joel?” you asked. 

“Well, we have this wonderful pillow fort already at our disposal. Maybe we can order some food and watch a movie?”

“I think sitting in a pillow fort while eating food and watching a movie is my love language. That sounds lovely.”

You two smiled at each other, and you could hear your heartbeat pound in your ears as a warm feeling filled your chest. It had been far too long since you’d felt any semblance of this feeling.

An abundance of Thai food and an argument over what movie to watch later, you were curled up like a cat beside Joel admiring the look of his face under the lighting of the fairy lights that were hung up throughout the little fort. 

“Ugh, why haven’t we done this sooner?” you asked, lifting your head out of the dip of his shoulder. 

“We’re both too busy,” he murmured, looking away from the television screen to look over at you. 

“I’ll literally take sick time off just to do this again,” you remarked. 

“I think that’s just the Thai food talking.”

“It was fucking amazing.”

“Told you.”

“But it’s not just the Thai food. I really like you a lot, Joel. I like spending time with you. I like talking to you and arguing about whether a shitty romcom or shitty action movie is better. I like doing mundane shit with you, like putting up fairy lights in a fort to enhance our ‘fort experience’. I like cuddling with you. Has anyone ever told you that you’re basically a human furnace? Anyway, I hate the fact that our daughters had to make an elaborate scheme just to get us together. I wanna make more time for you, because you deserve it. But like, only if you also wanna spend more time with me,” you confessed. 

“Of course I want to spend more time with you. And in the spirit of honesty, I really do have the time, sometimes. I guess I just worry that you wouldn’t want to spend your free time with me.”

“Joel, I would sit and watch paint dry on a wall if you were there with me. From the moment you entered my life, you’ve made everything a little better. If I have the time, I’m never gonna say no to being with you.”

He paused for a moment as he seemed to process that information, only coming back with a quiet, “Can I kiss you?”

You grabbed his cheeks and kissed him like no one you’d ever kissed before. It felt like the Fourth of July in your stomach as a moment you felt you’d been waiting for all your life finally came to fruition. 

By the time you pulled away, you were breathless and felt warm all over. You could go out on a limb and say that as far as dates go, this one was pretty successful, and to think, if it wasn’t for your daughters’ intervention, none of this would’ve happened. 

Yeah, you definitely needed to treat them to something.

[starlit-crossing]

Lost in Foster (Working Title) Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - A Feeling of Dread

Welcome and enjoy! All characters are of course owned by their original intellectual properties and this story is in no way canon.

- -      -

Danny wasn't sure what to think when his parents said they would be collaborating with the Guys in White for a contract. He knew nothing good would come from it. Jazz had even voiced her concerns, citing the times the GIW had tried to steal their work. His parents just brushed off their worries, stating the project was research-focused rather than weaponry. It relieved some of Danny's worries, but he couldn't shake this nagging feeling.

"If its focused-on research how much harm could it cause?" Sam reassured as the collection of herself, Danny and Tucker settled in for movie night in Sam's home theater. The theater was in the basement, red curtains hanging by the large movie screen.  A few chairs and piles of pillows were strewn about for the group to chill on. There was even a popcorn and soda machine in the back of the room next to a few classic arcade games.

"Yeah, Danny, what if they finally find evidence to support your side? Y'know the fact ghosts are the same as people and there is good and bad." Tucker piped in as he plopped into the cushiony seat with a bounce, extra-large popcorn and soda in hand.

"I don't know, Tuck. They've found stuff like that before, and they always find a way to twist it to fit their view on ghosts." Danny rambled, running his hand through his hair. "I just hope they'll be careful around the GIW and maybe let some research spill at home so I can eavesdrop."

"You could always follow them." Sam suggested. She watched confused as the boys just stared at her.

"You think Danny should follow his parents into the base of a bunch of ghost hunters hired by the government to research and destroy anything undead?" Tucker asked. "Are you insane?"

"Sorry Sam I'm with Tucker on this one, I don't think I could get close without catching someone's attention, human or ghost." Danny sighed, "Let's just get the movie started, what's on the menu?"

"Femalien 2: Predator vs Prey, Terminatra 7: Back to the Present Again, or Nightmerica: Dreams of Terror." Sam listed off just as Danny felt a cold wisp of air leave his lips.

"FEAR ME! I AM THE BOX GHOST!" screamed the Box Ghost, the cry making its way in from outside.

"Raincheck you guys, boxy shouldn't take me too long." As a flash filled the room and Danny flew through the walls disappearing.

"Ten bucks says Skulker shows up before he can come back." Tucker bribed.

"You're on, we took out his suit last week. Meanwhile, Kitty and Johnny 13 have been fighting again." Sam accepted, starting up a movie knowing it would be done before he got back.

- -      -

The following weeks were surprisingly uneventful, a sign Danny took to heart. His parents had been extra careful not to leave out any notes or research in the house, not even in the lab. Refusing to give any hints as to what they were working on. Ghosts had been scarce, nothing except ectopuses and blob ghosts. The GIW agents had been the complete opposite, they were at an all-time high. You couldn't go more than ten minutes without spotting a white van. He was glad he didn't need to save anyone from those agents, but he had a really bad feeling that something was going to happen. School was his only time away from the ghost hunters it felt like.

"Calm down, Danny. So, you have had a few good weeks, you've caught up on homework and Lancer isn't on your back nearly as much." Sam soothed as they took a seat outside in the courtyard for lunch. The hustle and bustle of students drowning out any chance of being overheard.

"Yea, dude even Dash has been picking on you less. Though that could be due to the championship coming up." Tucker added his mouth full of sloppy joe. The bully in question was across the court passing a football with his teammates, Paulina and her socialites sitting on the table watching them. Dash caught Danny's gaze and gave him a smirk dragging his finger across his neck.

"Don't remind me, I still remember last year when we lost. Dash was bully all nerds on sight that week." Danny grimaced as he ate. "But my parents have been really excited this week. Apparently, something big is coming." As if speaking it into the universe the Fenton GAV made its way barreling down the street, some white vans in tow.

"Spoke too soon, dude." Tucker whispered as they watched the GAV dodge and swerve to miss any pedestrians. The vehicle finally came to a stop on the grass with Drs. Fenton and the GIW rushing out to follow a gadget in Jack's hands.

"He's here somewhere, I just know it! Come out ghost scum!" Jack exclaimed barreling straight to Danny. The whole group of hunters stared at the young boy and his friends. "Aww. It didn't work, Maddie. It’s still stuck on Danny-boy." Now that they were closer Danny was able to see the Fenton Finder in his father's hands. It looked like it had been upgraded, it was bigger with handles on the sides and no voice stating where the ghost was. The screen showed simple faces on the screen next to the GPS. The current emoji was a shocked face as the map was pointing and beeping at him.

"That can't be possible, we tested it on other simple ghosts. The upgrade to the Fenton Finder was supposed to show and locate the emotions the ghosts project in order to fool and feed on the humans around them. Even that simple ghost with the boxes was able to show signs of disappointment as he failed to scare his victims." Maddie explained, grabbing the device. With it in hand she fiddled with the settings of the device, swapping it between ghosts till it landed back on the name Phantom. "We had tested this last week; Phantom's emotions reflected his actions time and time again in a hostile environment."

"Well, there's no ghost here, probably still has a few bugs, right?" Sam offered, trying to distract them and keep the focus off Danny. Danny's mind raced with the implications of what was happening. Of course, his parents would find out that ghosts tend to be more emotional than humans and would twist the fact to fit their biased theory that all ghosts were evil. It’s not like ghosts were moody on purpose, when your entire being is based on your mental state emotions tend to play an important part. Not only with obsessions but when interacting with each other, being able to read the emotions of the ghosts you interreacted with was as important as social cues and body language with humans. Sure, you could go without them and function as fine as anyone else, but they were still a great help with communicating if you were good at understanding them. With this they'd be able to tune into any ghost no matter the distance and translate it into coordinates. Not even the ghost zone would be completely safe as they could probably filter through the other emotions using the ectosignature of a previously known ghost. Danny's breath started to pick up, he could feel himself spiraling as he started to think about what that would mean for him in the hands of the GIW. They would never stop looking for him, they would be able to find him anywhere in the country.

"Look Mads, the ghost kid has to be near the emotion changed again." Jack exclaimed, jumping with excitement.

"I see that Jack and it would make sense with the transition of shock to confusion to panic. Though he's nowhere to be seen, Agent O do you have confirmation that Phantom isn't in the area?" Maddie turned, addressing the agents that had been standing by waiting for orders.

"Affirmative, there are no spectral entities in the viscidity on any energy spectrum. Could it be possible that the spectral entity is hiding among the student body? You said yourself that your device is focused on your son and that it’s a common occurrence. Could the ghost have caught wind of your contract with our organization and tried to find out more by hiding amongst your family?" Agent O suggested, eyeing Danny closely, the color draining from his face.

"That's preposterous, our family has ways of protecting ourselves!" Jack boasted, his voice carrying across the schoolyard. "Besides Danny knows not to trust any stinking ghost scum."

"Jack, honey..." Maddie called, eyes glued to the screen. "The emotion just turned to scared." Danny felt like all eyes were on him, going straight through him to his core. It felt like no one was looking at Fenton anymore, no matter where he looked, they all stared at him like they saw a ghost; like they only saw Phantom. Danny even had to look at himself to make sure he was still human. No gloved hands and red sneakers, he was definitely human still. Danny looked at Tucker and Sam, his best friends, looked at him with matching expressions. They both looked as shocked as he felt; they all knew they couldn't do anything, not with the GIW and student body all around them. With everyone's attention on him, he could only think of his sister who wasn't even at school. She was shadowing a therapist and had a college interview later that day. She probably wouldn't hear anything till late that night. It's not like they weren't prepared for it, for Danny to have to disappear without a trace or a goodbye. So long as they were unable to control the narrative, Danny would have to disappear. Danny knew they always thought it would be into the ghost zone, he had allies in there. People he knew would keep him hidden if anyone came looking; that Sam and Tucker would be able to sneak in if need be. They could still see him, bring him homework and food. This, however, meant goodbye and he didn't know for how long.

"Danny," his mom smiled at him with worry filled eyes. He searched them for something, anything that showed she wasn't about to drag him home and put the specter deflector on him just to make sure no ghost was using him as a meat puppet. Her arms reached out to him, as the GIW surrounded their table ready for action. "You have nothing to worry about, sweetie. We're just going to head home."

"Yea, Danny. We'll help ya out, run a few tests and make sure you don't have any evil spook haunting you." His dad tagged on, wrapping an arm around his wife's shoulder. Of course they'd want to fix this, to fix the ghost within him. One test would reveal the truth, and everyone would know his secret. Then it would be more tests, biopsies, trying to cure him of his powers. That was if they still loved him after learning the truth. The thoughts surrounding the lab became darker in his mind, nightmares he dared not to tell anyone becoming fresh in his mind.

"I'm sorry, mom. Dad. Goodbye." Danny disappearing from everyone's sight as he turned invisible and flew off towards his house. His parents’ cries fading into the distance, a mix of worry and anger as the ghost boy stole their son. Tears stung his eyes as he flew across the sky, Sam and Tucker would know what to do. They would stall for him, as long as they could. The road raced past him, he went through cars and buildings not bothering to fly high in the sky. The less time he wasted the better. As he floated into his room, he had to take a moment. The reality of it all crashing into him, he felt another wave of stress come over him. Choking on sobs he fell to his bed, clinging to the sheets. He had to calm down, he didn't have time to cry or pity himself, his parents were probably still tracking him. Which meant the GIW were still following behind, his parents he could one day convince, could one day explain how it all happened. The GIW wouldn't stop though, so long as they were getting paid and had the government's support he would have to run. He ran to his closet wiping away snot as he phased his emergency supplies from the wall. Extra clothes, a burner phone, and couple hundred dollars thanks to Sam's allowance all stowed away in a backpack. An extra belt with a Fenton thermos, ghost rays, and a pair of Fenton phones for any specters along the way. Finally, five letters addressed to Sam, Tucker, Jazz, Valerie, and his parents.

Sam and Tucker didn't know about these, he didn't know if he would ever need them but knowing his friends would drop everything to follow him, he needed to make sure Amity would be safe. Sam and Tucker's letters were a warning to not follow him, to stay and protect Amity at all costs, even revealing him to Valerie to gain her help in necessary. He couldn't trust his parents or the GIW to not torture any ghost that came into their hands. For Jazz, it was a letter to not look for him and to keep an eye on his parents. If anything changed with his parents, she would be the first to know. He needed her to be the fly on the wall, to make sure he still had parents at the end of it all. If there was ever an end to the running, he thought another wave of sorrow hitting him. He swallowed the hurt and pushed himself to keep grabbing what he needed. Valerie and his parents were the only letters not mentioning his secret. Valerie's was from Phantom explaining he would be gone, and he didn't know for how long. She would probably be thrilled at the thought of Phantom going away, but if she saw anything that had happened today, she might try and follow him too.  He knows she cares about Fenton and would probably want him safe but if anyone could protect Amity while he was gone it was her. If she needed any help handling the ghosts she could call the number provided. It went straight to Sam and Tucker's burner phone. Only one for the two of them in case either of them had to hide it for the other. For his parents, it simply stated that he was sorry and that could explain everything if they ever became open to the truth about ghosts. He did not explain what the truth was or how he would know that they were ready. That was for Jazz to tell him with a single message, she held the final burner phone the group of them had. They would be confused, not sure why phantom would kidnap their kid. Their hatred would grow much to his displeasure, but maybe one day they would give up on hate. They would find him and just ask why, and he could finally let them know the whole truth about him.

As Danny left the letter for his parents on the kitchen table he heard the stomping of feet, the whine of ecto-guns and slamming of doors as his father led the charge into the house. He was gone before they even reached his room. Leaving with what letters he had left to deliver and flying away as quickly as he could. He stopped at Tucker's house first, then Sam's, Valerie's and then flew as high as he could into the sky. He looked down at Amity Park, his home, his entire life, and afterlife. It always looked so peaceful from up above the clouds, he watched the GAV ram its way through the city. It was good to know there was a slight delay on the GPS, the emotions were able to update in real time but could only follow his trail not his exact location. They had moved on from Tucker's neighborhood and onto Sam's. He took one final breath and tried to steel his nerves. If they were searching for him with emotion, then he would just have to have no emotion. He wouldn't be able to think of home, his friends, his family, or he would start to miss them, an emotion. He couldn't think about how close the GIW were to him, or he'd become anxious, scared or even angry that they had forced him to flee. He had to stay calm and focused on running, to where he had no clue. If he headed west there was a chance of running into Vlad and he didn't need all the emotional baggage that would come with that. So that just left heading to the East coast and hopefully out of the country. He'd have to stop using his powers at some point to make sure he was untraceable.

"Goodbye, Amity. Hello worst road trip ever." he spoke softly flying off into the night.

- -      -

Hello! Author here, I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! It’s intended to be sort of a prologue and set up the rest of the story. This is a crossover, but I wanted to get some establishing chapters in focusing on Danny and why he is running. I am still very rusty when it comes to writing so feel free to recommend any fixes and critiques. Let me know if I miss any typos!

The goal is to try and update weekly on Fridays or Sundays, so if I don’t post on Friday that probably means it will go up the following Sunday. Thank you to those coming over from Tumblr, loved the hype for another Dannymay fanfic! I’ll be trying to get more stuff posted there!

Let me know what you think through the comments, even if it’s just a simple one-word so I can know you’re enjoying the story! See you next week, byee!

Master post - Chapter 1 Prev. <<< Next >>>

[entomolog-t]

Bitten - Part I

What is this?? A written post?? My Bite Me size swap is finally up (sorta). I initially was going to post this all in one shot, but it got long so enjoy non canon Bite Me content 💕

I've been absolutely swamped lately, so hopefully me posting is a sign that things are finally easing up!!

Shortly after the events of Chapter 10 Aedes wakes up to a rather big surprise- or perhaps more accurately, a small one.

Taglist: @smallsday @ratcatcher0325 @not-a-space-alien @bittykimmy13 @naive-bias

- - - -

Next Part

Word count: 1238

CW: Nudity (non-explcit/implied), Adult language

Warm hands envelope Aedes in a way that dances on the border of intimate and claustrophobic. His thoughts felt thick, almost sticky in his mind, as they struggled to flow. Those soft doting hands clung to him, overwhelming in their size, anchoring him firmly in place. He can’t move- but … was that really so bad? With his mind in a daze, he didn’t have the capacity to tell himself he hated it. Far from it… There was an undeniably comfort in the silken touch, warm in a way that surpassed intimate. Warm in a way that would melt pain from his chest, render flesh from his bones and put him together anew. Those plush hands dotted over him, filled him with life - with such vigor and… and- 

Want. 

So much want. 

He knew her taste, its memory, sweetened with time, dances on the tip of his tongue just out of reach. So did her name. What was it again… He’d seen it somewhere…

If only he could drink. He was sure he could find her name and so much more hidden away in that taste. 

From her hands, all encompassing in their grasp, he felt her pulse. The rhythm of her rattles his bones, shaking him to his core. Each beat moves him, yet he himself remains unable to do so- anchored in place by strangely sticky thoughts and firm hands. God, if only he could just turn his head. If only he could sink his teeth into her… have just the smallest taste- 

A drop. 

He would gladly drown in a single drop. 

If only he wasn’t stuck- if only he could be set free from their grasp. 

Then, all at once, he was. 

Falling. 

Without their warm embrace- their suffocating hold, was sent falling back-

Or maybe, falling into himself? Aedes awoke as the ground met his face. 

The fall, it seemed, had not been exclusive to the dream. 

Rubbing his face, Aedes feels the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Something was off. He grimaced- not at all fond of the strange stain the remnants of the dream, no, nightmare, had left on his brain. It left him with a strange chill on his body, as if he was yearning for the warmth of the dream…

Or… clothes? Aedes looks down, startled by his own apparent lack of modesty. Why am I… 

As Aedes moves to sit up, the strange realization is immediately put on the back burner as a much stranger realization takes its place. His stomach lurches as his mind struggles in vain to right itself. 

High. His stomach lurches, as if forgotten someway far below. Too high- Why was he so high up?? Vertigo hit him with all the grace of a car crash as he heaved- his very being ripped away from the ground and rocketing up by his own doing-  much too high much too fast.  

Slowly, on his hands and knees, Aedes blinks. 

The dizzying spin didn’t leave- but his breath certainly did. 

If he hadn’t so abruptly woken up he would have thought he was still dreaming. Cool morning air sent a chill over his skin from a window he could reach out and touch. Books fit for his hands lined the shelves he had so recently scaled. Clawed fingers traced the various knick knacks that should have dwarfed him… 

That, until this very morning, had dwarfed him.

How…

His mind scrambles to make sense of it all. He needed answers. 

He needed to know how this happened-

How could this happen?

But more than anything, Aedes needed to know how to breathe. 

Each shakily attempted breath felt stuttered, the tightening feeling in his chest constricting each and every inhale. His heart pounded wildly against his lagging lungs, yet it wasn’t the beat of his own that concerned him. 

Aedes' ears twitched, straining to hear the faint thrum, the slightest indication of something, someone, alive in the room with him. 

His eyes locked on the source in an instant. 

June. 

Her name finally finds its home on his lips- stolen from some hastily placed piece of ID left laying on her desk. June Murphy. 12 Oakline Road, Saint Mira Lake, ON. Born June 18th. 172 cm.  Aedes swallowed a lump of mixed emotions at the sight of her.  

Small… God she’s so small. 

And he… was not. 

Nearly buried in a mass of blankets and oversized clothes, June Murphy stares at the relative behemoth in front of her- mind reeling as they lock eyes.

This… This has to be a dream right? 

Yet she was all too aware of reality, having been jolted awake by the thunderous impact of what she’d initially assumed to have been … well, really anything but the reality that was staring back at her. A car could have plowed straight through her living room wall and it would have made more sense than what she was seeing.

Yet despite the unfamiliar perspective, she recognized him in an instant. The tousled black hair, the pointed ears… 

Those piercing eyes. 

Aedes. 

In an instant, he was on his knees, moving at a speed June found to be even more unsettling now that he loomed above her. The sight of him so close was… bizarre… Uncanny even. Sure, she’d technically seen him far closer, when he’d been… 

Pressed up against her lips… 

In the palm of her hand…

June’s face flushes at the memory. You really don’t get much closer than that… and yet… even at what must have been a foot or more away, she saw him far more intimately than when she’d… June’s thoughts wander off, far too entranced by the man in front of her to remain focused on anything else. 

Aedes was far more handsome than she had initially realized, and she’d already had quite the high impression of his aesthetics. His pale skin was smooth, bordering on flawless even at such a scale, his features were defined, a straight nose, distinct jawline, yet the edges had a softness to them, smooth in a way that seemed inviting- as if they’d been carved from marble. Her gaze lingered on the soft yet rich color of his lips, the realization that this man really wasn’t human hitting her hard- the knowledge that there were teeth behind such a pretty feature sending a shiver through her. Though none of his features held a candle to his eyes. Piercing and black, this stare bore into her… defile her, even…

June scrambles back, face hot. 

Aedes does the same, reeling back at her sudden movement, as if somehow seeing her move confirmed this was, in fact, reality.

Oh… A knot forms in his throat, She’s afraid of me.

He swallows, the act noticeably harder than it should have been. 

Of course she is, he thinks, unable to hold her gaze. She looks so… helpless.  His face grows hot at the thought, guilt, like bile, rises in his throat. 

Did she think he’d hurt her?

“Shhh,” Aedes hushes, hands reaching cautiously towards her, afraid she’d run off if given the opportunity. “Please… don't be afraid.”

He would.

As he reaches, Aedes’ eyes catch sight of his blacked claws. The sight freezes him in place, stomach churning at the thought of what he must look like to her. She had been terrifying. If this woman before him had been terrifying- what was he?

[yazthebookish]

I posted my take on the Lightsinger theory and Gwyn's "luring" powers theory on Reddit two days ago but thought I'll reshare it here (with some additional thoughts)

The only canon information we have on Lightsingers:

Nesta winced. Cassian went on as she scanned the bog, "There are lightsingers: lovely, ethereal beings who will lure you, appearing as friendly faces when you are lost. Only when you're in their arms will you see their true faces, and they aren't fair at all. The horror of it is the last thing you see before they drown you in the bog. But they kill for sport, not food."

Does this correlate with anything Gwyn did in ACOSF? The answer is no.

I am not saying it is impossible for her to be a Lightsinger though where things stand it's unlikely in my opinion, but I'd attribute any potential powers either singing or glowing to her River Nymph heritage. We have no idea of her powers and she's also half High Fae of course she'll have powers like every other High Fae.

I think a lot of the "canon evidence" are different interpretations of the text but sometimes try to present itself as concrete evidence or proof when it isn't. Some attribute her singing during the services as the cause to Nesta having vision of the Prison and the Harp, but that also means we will have to ask what connection is there between Lightsingers and the Prison/Harp? And some believe it's the lyrics that trigger the vision as they're written in the ancient language and "Nesta saw what the song spoke of". Some believe Nesta power reacting to the crackling energy around Gwyn is a sign that she is a Lightsinger, but like... that's an indicator she has powers just like how Nesta in a later chapter felt Merrill's ornerry power. How is crackling energy means it's a Lightsinger when we never saw them? Powers recognize each other sometimes, just like how Feyre was surprised when Eris was able to detect a cold flame in the Dagger Nesta forged when it was given to him as a gift (like calls to like, Eris also has flame power).

In the bonus chapter, it's described at one point that the Shadows danced with Gwyn's breath as if it heard some Silent MUSIC (emphasis on music and not song). What was referred to as Music between Souls? The mating bond. Interestingly enough it was that same night when Nessian consummated their bond and they were connected by a music between their souls. So that could be a hint, and at the end of the scene Azriel hears a distant beautiful singing and the shadows sing back, hard to tell whether if it's Gwyn, who went back to trying to cut the ribbon, starts to sing or it's also another wording for a hint at the mating bond (also called the Song of the Soul).

I'm more keen to believe it's the mating bond because there are far more parallels and similar mate language to support it across all her three series and if someone is going to tell me "but Lorcan's chest glowed after he took the blood oath from Aelin—" my love context matters in this case and it doesn't invalidate the 10+ examples I can pull out of similar mate language like in the bonus chapter.

To ADD, for Azriel to be lured to the library at 7pm because of said Lightsinger singing, he has to be able to HEAR the singing for the power to influence him and Azriel didn't hear any singing, he was conscious and aware of his actions. It was mentioned Nesta sang with Gwyn at the services frequently and she didn't make any comments on a vision being triggered or her constantly seeking out Gwyn so there are holes in those kind of conclusions—again, because we never see Lightsingers on page.

"But when he arrives to the library it chimed 7pm!! That's when they sing for the dusk service" welp that's another hole in the theory, it depends on Azriel being drawn to the library because of Gwyn's singing but if he showed up at the library and they don't sing until 7pm then before the clock chimes at 7pm, they weren't singing so... not a convincing answer. Also, Clotho is usually seen during those services and Azriel still found her at her desk.

Early on when ACOSF came out, some readers made connections between Lightsingers and Shadowsingers and made the assumption that Lightsingers are the Shadowsingers' Light counterparts. That's why you had people musing about Azriel's mate being a Lightsinger, but canonically Lightsingers are evil once we go back to the text but we don't even see them to know for sure how they wield their powers or if they even sing because Shadowsinger Azriel doesn't need to sing when he uses his power.

In an Elain book (in this scenario it's her and Azriel), I don't see any purpose of Gwyn being revealed as a Lightsinger or anything about her powers because it'll be used as a plot device for an Elain/Azriel romance rather than contribute to Gwyn's own growth and that's why I don't like it. It will have implications on Nesta and the Valkyries dynamic too. If that's the case it will mean Gwyn will need more page time in an Elain and Azriel book to tackle something like that, especially if they're going to "help" her since that's the reasoning I see often—that she's not evil but she doesn't know it and if she did they will help her but like... why? To make her realize she has been keeping them apart or that she wanted a necklace she didn't even have any clue about.

Given Gwyn's history who even at the end of the book said despite training it didn't erase the fact that she let her sister die, she is still dealing with survivor's guilt, she still refuses to wear the priestesses stone, and also her desire to leave the library and see the world (which we didn't see yet). She has a lot of promise as a character than be a plot device for someone else's relationship.

The way I see it, Gwyn's theoretical powers is used to absolve Azriel of any accountability for his actions (ala Necklacegate) because it's not a good look on him, so it's better to pin it on someone else by saying he was lured against his will (since I often see that the reasoning behind her presence in the bonus chapter is to hint at her powers).

So if I have to read about Gwyn dealing with her powers whether they're good or bad, I'd rather see it from her point of view and for it to be beneficial for her own personal arc and healing journey. My problem isn't her having questionable powers (which I don't mind because many SJM characters had questionable powers but used it for good), I don't want it to be used as a plot device for another couple just to smear her as a character and clear the actions of the other male character so his "love interest" doesn't blame him for his actions.

Whew, this was long but I adore Gwyn and I am not a fan of the current version of the Lightsinger theory. I think even if SJM makes it happen, it would probably play out way differently than the fandom expects.

Also, it's not in SJM's style to use other woman drama in her romances. The other women are often 💀 or insignificant past lovers. I don't see her taking that route with Gwyn at all.

She could be half Asteri and I would still love her and be eager to explore her powers and story, I just don't like it being used to further another couple's conflict or whatever (they already have Rhys and Lucien).

And no, I hate the idea of Gwyn being controlled by either Koschei or Merrill because it takes away her agency and the suggestion here is about her doing things that harms others, how will that not have any implications on Nesta and Emerie and the trio's healing journey? Given her own tragic history and the fact that she was helpless and powerless to help her twin sister and she's still dealing with survivor's guilt over it all.

"Why did you sign up for this, then?" Nesta drank the glass Gwyn extended. "If you already have mind-calming exercises you're accustomed to?"

"Because I don't ever want to feel powerless again," Gwyn said softly, and all those easy smiles and bright laughs were gone. Only stark, pained honesty shone in her remarkable eyes.

Her being controlled is putting her in a powerless position again because she has no choice but to do Koschei or "evil" Merrill's bidding that could potentially harm Nesta and the others. I despite it.

And if I have to read about any comparisons between Gwyn and Ianthe as proof that priestesses can be evil, I'll go insane.

Also, if Gwyn's power can influence anyone through her singing, it would've influenced every single person in the services. It would have influenced other members of the IC. This particular theory is weak and depends one interpretation of the text that tries to present itself as evidence of an evil creature that never even shows up on page.

Gwyn wasn't added in the bonus chapter by coincidence. Sarah confirmed she left crumbs all over the book and specifically his bonus chapter, and what we speculate may or may not be confirmed in the next book so you can't dismiss the bonus by saying it has no relevance when the author said she left crumbs for readers to theorize about, which leads me to believe she wants us to come up with different theories until she publishes the next book where we'll know for sure if we nailed it or not.

[k-howlett]

H(ear)tline Prologue | Bruce Wayne [Batman] xF!Angel:reader

TW: Possible religious insensitivity, Fallen Angel, Canon-breaking OOC, eventual smut(not in this specific installment)

Rating: Gender Specific (Female Reader), Eventual Smut (Teen+/mature), SFW (Prologue), eventual fluff

A/N:

Thank you so much for your continued patience! I am unfortunately knee deep in moving. Breaking and Entering is on Hiatus at the moment because of my inability to appeal a report (I've been too busy to check my email and missed the 24 hour deadline. Thank you so much(/s) to whoever FALSELY reported my artistry and now cost me hours of setbacks. I don't know if I can repost and change the tag but I did file a complaint with tumblr admin and am awaiting a resolution), in the mean time, please enjoy this concept I came up with half-awake whilst packing boxes!

With love and healing,

-Lark

𓂋

𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢

Bruce Wayne was not one for religion. If there was a God, the creator must’ve had a particular disdain for Gotham City and everything in it. The place was a living hell, overrun with the likes of Scarecrow, Bane, Joker, Penguin—an endless parade of villains. It felt as though God had abandoned him, leaving the city to rot.

When a group of young people stopped him on the street, offering free Bibles, Bruce briefly considered lashing out, tearing into their beliefs with the cynicism that years in Gotham had sharpened. But he held back. Despite his doubts, he couldn’t deny the comfort religion provided to those who believed. He recalled attending Sunday school as a child, his mother’s gentle voice praising the beauty of the world around them, her unshakeable faith even in the face of Gotham’s darkness. In her final moments, she had reached out to God. Who was he to strip these kids of that same hope?

Wordlessly, he accepted the leather-bound Bible. It was crafted with care, though the materials were clearly cheap—the gold lettering was already flaking. He considered tossing it when he got home, or maybe donating it to a shelter. He might not believe in God, but he knew that his own moral compass had been shaped by something greater than himself. Not everyone had that foundation; maybe some people really did need saving.

He sighed as he carried the Bible to his office. The last thing he needed was for anyone to think he’d found religion. He had a carefully curated, morally ambiguous playboy persona to maintain. What if the media thought he was turning over a new leaf? What if they took it as a sign he was ready to settle down? The thought of more women throwing themselves at him—especially devout ones—made him shudder.

He tucked the Bible under his arm, the gold lettering pressed tightly against his side. Maybe someone would mistake it for a journal. A glance at his watch made him scowl—somehow, the walk from the coffee shop to the office had eaten up more time than expected. Lucius would undoubtedly have something to say about it later; they had a meeting, and now he was going to be late—again.

Dragging a hand down his face, Bruce felt the exhaustion deep in his bones. The late nights and early mornings were catching up with him, eroding his focus, fraying the edges of his mind. For a moment, bitterness welled up—a rare flicker of resignation. Did it even make a difference? Gotham’s streets were never truly free of crime. Petty theft, gang violence, the constant churn of the underworld—it never stopped. And the ones he managed to lock up? They always found a way out. Arkham was a revolving door, a sick joke of a prison.

For a fleeting second, he entertained the idea of quitting. The notion of a full night’s sleep was almost unimaginable, but his body ached for it. Was there really no reprieve? After all these years, the despair felt like it was swallowing him whole. Gotham was a sinkhole, and he was drowning in it.

But he shook off the thought, setting his jaw with grim resolve. He would not break, and he would not allow himself the luxury of weakness. He’d let his body rot from the inside out if that’s what it took to see his mission through. It wasn’t just an obligation; it was a promise. And though no one would blame him if he walked away, though they might even understand, he wouldn’t bow down and admit defeat. He’d fought for fifteen years—he could fight for fifteen more.

𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢

Bruce tossed the Bible onto his desk and sank into his leather chair, his eyes heavy as they flicked to the desktop screen. Logging in, he was greeted by a flood of emails—requests for meetings from the legal branch, shareholders bickering over stock distributions, and the usual complaints from board members about his lack of attention to this year’s Gala preparations.

His assistant had already informed him of the missed meeting, explaining that Lucius had been pulled into another matter. The issues were piling up, and for a brief moment, his hand trembled as he reached for the mouse. Wayne Enterprises was his father’s legacy, and Batman was his—but right now, the mission would have to wait. He needed to get this under control, and fast.

Four hours of back-to-back phone calls and troubleshooting. Bruce was now lying under his desk, trying to replace a faulty cable. The entire office was down, and with IT swamped, he had no choice but to handle it himself. He needed to review the quarterly reports before the bonuses were announced, and he knew the company had been slacking—summer interns flooding in and Tim away at college had left him without the structure he relied on.

When he finally sat up from the floor, his head collided with the corner of the desk, sending a sharp pain through his skull. The Bible tumbled from the desk, hitting him squarely on the head before flopping open on the ground, a business card slipping out.

Bruce picked it up, squinting at the bold print: "1-800-ANGEL." He frowned. What kind of absurd, erotic phone service was this? The card was nearly blank, save for a single line:

"May you find your faith."

Real funny, he thought, for a number probably meant to fleece desperate souls. They probably charged by the minute. Bruce rolled his eyes, dismissing it as yet another scam targeting the gullible.

Bruce thumbed the card, skepticism tightening his grip. Surely, no one was desperate enough to actually call. He wondered about the legitimacy of the number, and after settling back into his chair, he opened a new tab. Thankfully, the replacement cable had done its job, and his screen blinked to life. He typed in the number, but nothing came up—not even a link to some sketchy website. He tried the motto next, but all he found were articles on religion and local church recommendations. He raised an eyebrow. For a scam, they were doing a remarkably poor job of marketing it.

Picking up the Bible again, he considered the possibility that the kids handing them out might have been given faulty copies. But as he inspected it, the Bible seemed legitimate enough. He cross-referenced it with an online version to be sure, but everything checked out. The only oddity was the card. Flipping through the pages, he eventually found a strange marking on the back cover, stamped with the words "ales et lux."

"Wings and light?" he muttered, dropping the Bible back onto the desk.

Curiosity gnawed at him. Without hesitation, he dialed the number. Whatever this was, he intended to get to the bottom of it. Maybe he’d caught it early enough—he could pull a few strings with the FBI and shut it down before it preyed on anyone vulnerable. But as the line connected, the voice on the other end made him stop cold.

“So you’ve received the calling card of heaven. We’re so glad you have found your faith. Please note this card is for one-time use. For inquiries about time of death, press 1. For prayers and answers, press 2. For information on Christian denominations and healing, press 3. For nondenominational options, press 4. For Native, Inuit, Norse, and Pagan beliefs, press 5. Unsure what category your beliefs fall under? Press star for a list. For all other healing-related questions, press 6.”

Bruce’s scowl deepened as he listened to the automated menu. The damn phone hadn’t even rung—this had to be some kind of twisted scam. He was about to hang up when the final option made his breath catch.

“And finally, to speak to your angel, press 0.”

His angel? A guardian angel? He doubted he had one. If he did, they’d done a piss-poor job watching over him. The loss of his parents, Jason Todd, and Alfred—the man who had been the closest thing to a father he had left—proved that. Anger flickered in his chest. He wanted to speak to this so-called angel, to confront them, to demand answers for the pain he’d endured. What kind of angel lets their charge suffer like this?

He pressed zero, the cold, rational part of him momentarily overridden by the seething anger and hurt simmering beneath the surface—the hurt little boy he’d buried deep inside threatening to unleash all that unprocessed trauma.

He wasn’t expecting such a soft voice to greet him, nor the surprising calm that washed over his mind as it did.

“Bruce? You really called.” The voice on the other end was feminine, light, almost breathless, as if she had been waiting for this moment.

“...Who the hell are you?” His voice was sharp, defensive.

“Well, my official title doesn’t really have an accurate translation in mortal language, but I’m more or less your protector.”

“Protector?!” He growled, the word scraping out like a curse. “You couldn’t even protect me from a goddamn paper cut, let alone a laundry list of loss. You didn’t protect anything—I protect this city, I protect people. You’re not even real! You’re probably just some credit card scammer, phishing for my personal data. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Data mining. Your entire operation is fraudulent at best, and—”

He cut himself off, his voice shaking with anger. It wasn’t just fury at this supposed "protector"—it was fury at the years of pain, at the endless nights spent fighting a war that never seemed to end, at the world for daring to keep spinning while he bled in the dark. How dare anyone call themselves his protector when every person he’d ever loved had been torn away from him? How dare they try to soothe him with some ethereal nonsense when he was the one in the trenches, the one facing down Gotham’s nightmares every single night?

The silence on the other end of the line was almost unbearable, but he wouldn’t back down. He’d heard enough lies in his lifetime to know when someone was trying to sell him false hope.

“…It doesn’t work like that,” the voice finally replied, a hint of sadness woven into its softness. “I can’t interfere with your life in the way you think. Those losses… they were unfortunate, and I know they fuel the anguish that haunts your mind, but my role isn’t to shield you from pain. My job is to keep you alive. Every close call, every moment when death was just a breath away—that was my divine interference. I won’t let you die, Bruce. Not until the time is right and your body is ready to rest.”

Bruce clenched his jaw, anger and disbelief warring within him. He wanted to tear into her, to lash out at the absurdity of it all. This so-called protector, claiming to watch over him, to keep him alive—where was she when his parents were murdered in front of him? Where was she when Jason died, or when he stood over Alfred’s grave, feeling the weight of yet another life lost because of him?

“Don’t patronize me,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. “You think I need your protection? You think those near-deaths were some divine favor? I’ve survived because I’ve fought, because I’ve clawed my way out of every hellhole Gotham’s thrown me into. You had nothing to do with it.”

He could almost hear her smile through the phone, a soft, resigned sound that seemed to fill the silence between them.

“You’ve fought harder than anyone should ever have to, Bruce. You’re the purest soul I’ve ever had the privilege of encountering. No matter how much you try to front or deflect, it’s clear you care. You care more than anyone else. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have taken in those kids, or dressed up like a bat to fight crime night after night. You’re like Sisyphus, eternally pushing a boulder uphill. And while you may not want praise or acknowledgment, you need to know—despite everything, you are a good person. You’re a good man. And in many ways, you’re the closest thing to God’s image I’ve ever seen.”

Bruce’s breath caught, anger and disbelief momentarily overshadowed by the weight of her words. How could she claim to know him so well, to understand his pain and sacrifice? Yet, the very notion of being compared to something divine—despite how hollow it felt—struck a chord deep within him.

“Spare me the sermon,” he growled, trying to regain his composure. “You think you can soothe me with this celestial rhetoric? I don’t need your validation. I need results. I need to keep this city safe, and I need to know that those I care about are protected. Save your platitudes for someone who believes in them.”

There was a pause on the other end, as if she was choosing her words carefully. “I’m not here to validate you, Bruce. I’m here to remind you that even in the darkest moments, you have a purpose. And while you may see yourself as a flawed instrument of justice, remember that even in your struggle, there’s a reflection of something greater—a beacon of hope for others, whether you realize it or not.”

Bruce didn’t respond, his mind a storm of conflicting emotions. The rational part of him dismissed her words as manipulative flattery, but a flicker of vulnerability, long suppressed, threatened to break through. He forced himself to focus, pushing those thoughts aside.

“Enough of this,” he said, his voice cold and final. “If you’re really here to help, then stay out of my way. I’ll handle things my way.”

He hung up the phone, the echo of her voice lingering in his mind. As he turned his attention back to the stack of paperwork and problems awaiting him, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that perhaps, in some twisted way, she had touched a part of him he had long buried.

𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢

Bruce landed another punch on the goon, watching as they crumpled to the ground. Fighting at the docks was his least favorite—slippery surfaces and treacherous footing made it harder to maintain his balance. He glanced at the wall, the dim streetlight casting an eerie glow on the dilapidated brick.

In the periphery of his vision, he thought he saw the shadow of wings, a fleeting, phantom-like presence. When he snapped around, though, all he saw were the goons he had already beaten. They lay scattered and unconscious, bloodied and bruised. A quick scan of the area revealed the familiar wreckage of a confrontation: discarded weapons and broken crates.

On the ground, a few feet away from a goon he didn’t remember hitting, lay a gun glinting in the faint light. Next to it was a single white feather. The goon in question had no visible injuries, no sign of the kind of violence Bruce had just inflicted on the others. There were no swollen bruises, no blood—nothing to suggest that they had been involved in the scuffle.

Bruce frowned, his mind racing. He hadn't hit this one, nor had he seen anything out of the ordinary during the fight. The feather seemed out of place, its presence unsettling. It wasn’t like anything he had come across before—an odd detail in an otherwise straightforward altercation.

His instincts, honed by years of vigilant observation, told him this was no mere coincidence. There was something strange here, something beyond the usual street brawls and petty crime. The feather could mean something, or someone, had intervened. And if that was the case, Bruce needed to understand why.

He crouched down to examine the feather and the gun more closely. His eyes narrowed, scanning for any other anomalies or signs that could explain the goon’s sudden unconsciousness. Whatever the cause, Bruce knew he couldn’t ignore it. Not with the pattern of oddities and divine encounters that had begun to surface recently.

He straightened up, the feather clenched in his hand, his mind already shifting gears. There was more at play here than just a fight—something, or someone, was influencing events from the shadows. And as always, it was up to him to uncover the truth.

˚₊‧𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢‧₊˚

Approx. Word Count: ~2,746

pt I: Coming Soon(?)

This is a soft-launch of this series, if you guys would like more parts, please let me know in the comments <3 It helps motivate me to write!

//Series Tag List: Available Upon Request!

Status Page 2024: Here

[booksandmate]

not sure how much of a common knowledge this is but the rainbow as a promise not to drown everyone again is not just a funny thing good omens came up with but like, bible canon:

12 And God said, "This is the sign of the covenant I am making between me and you and every living creature with you, a covenant for all generations to come: 13 | have set my rainbow in the clouds, and it will be the sign of the covenant between me and the earth. 14 Whenever I bring clouds over the earth and the rainbow appears in the clouds, 15 I will remember my covenant between me and you and all living creatures of every kind. Never again will the waters become a flood to destroy all life. 16 Whenever the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and all living creatures of every kind on the earth." (gen 9, 12-16)

[bonefall]

Do you think Leopardstar had anything to do with Crookedstar’s death? Like it’s kinda sus how he died, maybe Leopardstar poisoned him, I mean her dad is the medicine cat, she definitely picked up on some herbs, like the herbs that could kill a cat.

Also, Mistyfoot killing Leopardstar is much more interesting than her dying of an illness. Could she drown her? Like just draining whatever lives are left. Ironic for two reasons: A similar way that Tigerstar went and the fact that Leopardstar is a drypaw and has nearly died to drowning before.

I’m thinking of mudcastle’s post:

https://at.tumblr.com/mud-castle/i-mean-you-could-always-go-with-the-horrifying/qajb96o44lmr

As the saying goes, actions speak louder than words and Mistyfoot is doing just that.

I loooove Mudcastle dude. They're a cool ass blog.

I think in-canon, the Erins refuse to give me my evil women and want to starve me to death with an absolutely sauceless Leopardstar who was nice the whole time. But this is MY kitchen and I add AS MANY SPICES AS I WANT.

Did she kill Crookedstar?

You bet your bottom dollar she did. I am extremely fond of the Fire and Water's take that she didn't outright KILL him, but she was weakening him. Juuust enough to sap his strength, not enough for it to be obvious she did it.

How does Mistyfoot kill Leopardstar?

I looove Mudcastle's Dark Mirror AU, but my Mistystar isn't so evil. I want to frame what she does to Leopardstar as something violent and traumatic, not something she enjoys.

In my head, it's something that creeps up on her. It wasn't right away after Brook and Stormfur were exiled. It's how Hawkfrost dies and the clan goes into mourning (he was, after all, beloved, respected, a young and promising warrior), and Mistyfoot expects a small shock...

...and instead, there's a simmering heat in the Clan. How they start to look at Mothwing differently. Whispers that maybe Hawkfrost didn't take a life from Firestar at all.

It's Reedwhisker falling into the river and his patrol not jumping in after him.

It's Blackclaw making a remark about thick ThunderClan blood clotting up in his feet.

It's Leopardstar drawing away from her as a deputy, even without Hawkfrost to undermine her, feeling the political tide of RiverClan turn cold again

Finally, someone floats the idea of taking the meeting island as the camp again. Mistyfoot reminds them of how StarClan smote Mudclaw. Blackclaw shouts her down, RiverClan descends into an argument, and when she looks up to Leopardstar for backup, the setting sun shades the stump into a dark, spiky hill.

Leopardstar's amused eyes flash, Tigerstar amber, dark-forest red, and Mistyfoot realizes that this will not end without someone to stop it.

I think she has to kill Leopardstar three times, and it will not be easy for her. Leopardstar is a vicious, powerful warrior. I think drowning would be good for one of the deaths, but the final blow should come from some sort of stone. Misty smashes Leopard's head against it.

One of those things were you can't be sure if it was coincidence, or if Stonefur was sending a sign from StarClan.

[rev-wrath]

Okay. So. I know it's way early than I promised, but I have some stuff to do around our usual interaction time tmr so I'm dropping the ending arc for the Devotion fic right now. (Once again, answer whenever you have the time/energy/mental capacity to)

It's gonna be totally non canon compliant bc I am going to ignore everything season 4 related, but y'know how in the end of s3, Allison used the control panel thing? In the fic, it's gonna be R who uses it and effectively disappears from the 'new' timeline in the stead of Sloane (I am very salty about this). The six years pass (still unsure whether I want them to not have their powers or if they do) and the siblings are estranged, but they come together bc like hell Five's gonna let R disappear like that. Phro's with him whilst Ros isn't, so he's taking this as a sign that R's alive somewhere in the universe/timelines.

One thing leads to another, and R (newly awakened Devotion, with their Eight persona locked behind whatever wall Destiny or Father time put up) gets trapped like Morpheus!Dream had once been but by people that actually care for them. And it's just the Hargreeves siblings trying to get Devotion to remember who they are. Once R does remember, they leave to maintain the continuity (greeting Five, giving him the book, etc).

Ultimate chapter would be the Hargreeves fam finding Sanctuary and pulling R out of their inevitable doom cause as much as I adore happy tragedies and tragic ends (and although I wanted to end this fic in a tragic way) I can't bear to do that after that finale.

I'm taking very few things from S4 with me. I love your S4 already.

Devotion returning to Eight just to leave to make sure things go the way they're supposed. Waiting. Watching. Drowning. Until they're pulled out. It feels a little like maybe being pulled from a grave?

I am however curious, on what the ending was going to be before Netflix's S4 dropped.

[steviewashere]

No One You Can Save That Can't Be Saved (Love)

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Lots of talk around death, Vague suicidal thoughts (seriously very vague) Tags: Post-Canon, Post-Season 4, Established Relationship, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington has Nightmares, Panic Attack, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Cuddling & Snuggling, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Introspective, Fear of Death

I don't know what this is. I wrote the opening poem and then wrote the rest. Enjoy, I guess? Title is from "All You Need is Love" by The Beatles.

This is also on ao3, but it's not showing up currently in the Steddie tag. If you'd like to read this in full on ao3 instead, Here's the Link!

💕—————💕 I’ve had no desire to die. None in my body. But if you told me to die, I’d ask: Who for? Where should I lay my body? Like this? I’d perfect it. I’d make a gala out of it. I’d win. Blood on my hands and flesh between my teeth; I am not dead. But— Death is intimate with me. I have no desire to die.

——— The grass pearls with early morning dew. Tacky soil shapes to the bottom of his left sneaker. He takes a step forward, the imprint of his posture a temporary fixture in the lawn. If it rains again, the divots of his soles will collect water like cupped palms. Though the day will surely pass while he stays inside, working the nightmare from his musk scented skin, and he’ll return home dead on his feet. Ready to lay himself bare to a cooling bedsheet.

Tapping his sneakers on the doorway of his vehicle is the first thing he does fresh from his house. Shake the dew from his feet, shuffle inside until his legs are tucked gently under the steering wheel, slam the door shut, turn the engine over, and wait for the radio to croon. If he had the time, he’d pick a tape. But on mornings like these, he backs out of the driveway. One arm on the headrest of the passenger seat. Head peering over his shoulder.

One time he hit the neighbor’s mailbox. His cheeks remember the anger radiating from his father. If even one tire begins to turn incorrectly, he pulls back in and tries again.

Desolate roads are his favorite bit of scenery. Morning drives where people are between waking up and already at work. Long stretches of asphalt against his tires and breeze icing his cheek. It’s the quiet, too. Silences in lulls. Reaching out and holding him.

Today is different. His sneakers are wiped and his legs are burrowed and the cold air reaches his cheek. But today is like no other. Heart racing, blood chilling in his wrists, fingers going numb. The tendrils of a nightmare wrapping around his brain like thorned vines on dungeon walls. He is a prisoner to himself and his surroundings. And he can’t take a deep breath. It’s like drowning, but nothing is like drowning. Drowning is death. This isn’t death. Everything is death.

It’s death in the way his breath tastes like finality. Mouth dry of saliva and teeth as specters, rotting and decaying before he has time to fully swallow. The heave before the storm. Before the vomit goes beige on his thighs and chunky to the floor of his car. And it’s death in the sense there’s blood every time he blinks. He’s reminded of the way he played role as emergency room technician. Two hands on a slim chest, ribs crackling under his palms—the sounds similar to that of heavy tree branches downed in an Indiana snow storm. He is numb in the fingers, but cold on the palms. And it’s the darting in his eyes, sign of life somewhere, sign of life nowhere. The road stretches forever this morning.

It’s death in the harrowing way. A car beelining for the side of a road. Parked in the means to brake, but not to settle. He is thirty seconds away from a crash. Turbulent planes flying overhead, he is an unsuspecting tree. The cat between his front two tires. Mushed traces of squirrel guts half a foot from the base of a robin’s nest; crushed eggs fallen to the floor. It’s death because there is the phantom tail of a bat pinning him to the headrest of his seat. Wrapped to the two metal bars below the bottom of his skull. And his hands are tingling, heavy on his lap. Kicking his legs, feet lurching into the brake, a squeal when his car takes the movement as instruction. He’s not ready to go.

But he can’t escape. And he can’t move. Can’t blink unless the road crumbles below him.

He is trapped. This is death because he’s dying and he’s got the black spots in his vision to prove it, but there is an overbearing glow of a white light like a cone on his peripheral. He is trapped—a dog free from the vet.

Clinking on his window draws him to look left. Blearily. The slow drag of his eyeballs. Two weather vanes in stilted, hazy, sticky summer stillness. Muffled. This is death because he’s forgotten what urgent care sounds like, but this is a near thing.

He’s not ready to go.

It’s death because there is warmth and gentleness. He cries—though it isn’t felt—because there is love. And while love is not absent, he had been chasing it. Longing and yearning. Giving himself in ways not even God would approve of. This time, though, it makes sense he had to die for it.

“You’re not dying, sweetheart,” a pleasant voice says. If Death is speaking, then he is listening. Death has two hands and warm breath and a husk gargled in his throat like sucking down cigarettes on and off for four hours. The stale smell of one smoked swirls in his nostrils. “Not dying, you’re just far away. And scared,” Pleasant Voice speaks again. It’s accompanied by a faint tickle under his eye. He closes up, lost in the sensation.

It’s death because he doesn’t desire, but he is persuaded. God, it’s sweet.

He takes a deep breath. The hurt is temporary as it seems like shards shed from his lungs. Nosing at his headrest, the perfumed scent of floral shampoo and fragrant salty sweat and those cigarettes. It relaxes him slightly, the tail away from his throat. The breathing comes easier and the black spots begin to dissipate. He’s reminded of the aftermath of torture, sleeping fitfully in bed, but alive. And he chases his nose to the left, body twisting around on his seat, hands limp on his legs still.

Pleasant Voice seems to hum. Murmuring low, raspier than before, “Easy, you’ll be okay. Doing a good job relaxing. I’ve got you, sweetheart.” Another careful pet to underneath his eye. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” And a caress through his hair, two hands cupping him like water. He ripples with contentment. Crumpling against the pleather seat. He swallows. An uneasy emotion, a vapor, noxious poison billowing through his nose.

His eyes flutter open again. In front of him, two brown irises. Both gentle and concerned, deathly afraid and lowering their haunches. He blinks. Clarity. And he had expected to die, but it’s like drinking ice cold water, coming back to life from the warmth of an early summer’s day. “Eddie?” Steve chokes. “What’re—Eddie?”

Eddie—not Death—smiles a sad thing. Two frowning corners, but the gentle uptick of his lips. His eyes don’t crinkle. And his nose remains stagnant. “It’s me,” he whispers. “I was on my way into town from the trailer and I saw you on the side of the road. Looked like—Thought you were—I was half expecting your skin to be green when I came closer.”

“What does that—“

“I thought you were dead, Steve,” he answers bluntly. His hand tightens on Steve’s jaw, the other pressing closer to his scalp. “Baby, that was horrifying. I wasn’t ready—Why are you out here driving?”

Steve shakes his head. The low ruffle of his hair like two pieces of paper being scrubbed together. “I don’t remember,” he mutters, “I woke up and—My throat was aching and I thought that—Woke up with blood behind my eyelids, Eds.” He tries to swallow again, but the emotion rises. Bile. Pleasantly like bile. Then, he bursts. Crying and keening. Hiccuping through his gasps and breathing as if there are rocks on his tongue. And he isn’t sure where to put his hands, but the rest of his body falls forward into Eddie’s. Though, maybe it was on purpose. An expectancy. Because Eddie wraps back fiercely, tugging, half-climbing inside of Steve’s car. Making the room for this coagulated form of welling fear and quelled calm, the body shivers and sudden blood to his cheeks, a cough caught somewhere between a sob and an expel. It’s death because he’s frightened, Eddie is in there somewhere, too.

Eddie keeps tugging until they’re comfortable in the back of his van. Him on his lap, curled inwards in the fetal position, secured warmly between Eddie’s lithe arms. Somehow containing him. He’s not strong, he’s not weak, but he’s enough to keep Steve’s pieces all mushed in together. Not completely whole, but not spiraling like thread between lengths of road.

He’s worn when he pulls back. Eyes as two cement blocks taped above his cheeks. “Thought I was dying,” he finally croaks.

With a somber gentleness, Eddie pushes back strings of his hair. Whispers, “I know, baby. You kept telling me in your car.”

“I was afraid.”

“I know, baby.”

“I think a part of me thought you were dying, too.”

Eddie hums. “Did you have a nightmare about…About having to save me?” He quietly asks. He’s never breeched the subject before, but it’s different. Today’s different. It’s death because he has to answer.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. Sniffles noisily. The carnage stuffed high between his brain and sinus cavity. “I couldn’t feel my hands. Back in the car. They were completely numb. But—No, that’s not right. My palms were cold like your skin. And I couldn’t hear you at first, just your ribs. And then I—“ He stops to shake his head. Tilting it down towards his chest. Plucking at the hem of Eddie’s t-shirt. He’s fully dressed in casual wear in comparison to Steve’s outfit. Still worn down to his stained Hawkins High gym shirt from early last year, the fall of his senior year, and his red tartan fleece pajama pants. “Think I was searching for you and just didn’t make it.”

“I’m here now,” Eddie simply responds. He pets again at Steve’s face. He likes to do that. Never condescending. As if part of him can’t believe he gets to touch. Or another part can read just how much Steve needs it. It’s death because he’s known. “How about I get you home? Back in bed?”

“Don’t think I’ll sleep.”

“Okay,” he mutters, nodding. “Okay, how about you sit with me today back at the trailer? I’ve got to fill out some job applications. It’ll be quiet. You can bring a few tapes from your car, play them if you like. And I’ll make you hot chocolate. Does that sound…?” Steve’s nodding before he can even finish the question. “Alright, baby. You’ll be okay, you know that? I’m here right now. And you’ll be with me.”

“I’ll be with you,” Steve murmurs.

“Yeah, sweetheart. And if you need a reminder, you can just look at me. Or…Ask me to tell you a story. You like that, don’t you?” Steve nods again. Eddie pets the crest of his head, down to the tuft of hair on the back of his neck, dipping into his t-shirt to settle his palm between his taut shoulder blades. He twitches when he fully sets his palm. “You have your thinking face on. What’s going on up here?” He asks, tapping at Steve’s left temple.

Steve swallows. “I—I’m afraid of death.”

“I know, sweetheart. That’s okay, you—“

“But I’m more afraid of everybody else dying,” he admits. “I’d die for you. I’d…I think part of me died for you.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Baby, I don’t like that.”

“I don’t like it either. But it’s true. Feels like…I feel like a lot of me has died. For everybody around me.” His voice is shameful, but flat. Tepid and shaking. “But I let it happen. I wasn’t fighting against the urge. It just—I allowed myself to experience death. Either it was my own or somebody else’s. At every turn, I was expecting to be incinerated. Dissolved. Turned over in the ground like recycled soil. I don’t—“ He sighs through his nose. Confesses, “I’d do it again.”

“I really don’t like that, Steve. Is this—Are you asking for help? What do you need, sweetheart?” He’s not sure what Eddie’s eyes look like right now. There’s an infliction, though. A steady storm of concern and mild trepidation. Hands flat and pressing as if he’s willing them to stay rooted to their spots in the back of his van.

Steve doesn’t answer immediately. Blinking and exhaling and shoving the images that haunted him into early morning to just…die, oddly. Allowing Eddie’s gentle touch to soothe his frayed nerves. He collapses further in the lap underneath him. “Don’t go. I’m not ready for you to go.” 

He toys his hands in his lap now. Fingers picking and prodding at healed scabs. Hangnails that were chewed short by his fingernails. Knuckles that have scarred over and over, time and time again. “Don’t go,” he reiterates, whispering. His voice is keening. And he knows that it’s sort of childish, what he’s requesting. Tugging on Eddie’s pant let and wrapping his limbs around his ankle. Thumb in cheek and eyes wet. But though the events of the last few years have manhandled him and stretched him thin like a mushed ball of murky colored Play-Doh, he is immature still. He can beg if he wants to.

And thankfully, Eddie appeases. Pressing again into Steve. In a way, he’s afraid, too. “I won’t, Steve. I promise that I won’t go willingly. But you have to promise me back.”

“I promise,” he immediately mutters.

“Okay,” Eddie says. A default in conversations like these. 

‘I have a migraine.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Just need silent company.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Don’t die again.’ ‘Okay.’ 

He holds Steve tighter. Bending in a prairie dog way to kiss his forehead. Murmuring sticky wet against the skin, “Love you, sweetheart.”

Steve sighs through his nose. This is all going to come up again and again. He’s sure of it. Later today, he’s sure. When he’s half there and half in the dark crevices, the depths of his brain, caverns without crystals. And Eddie will be there, too. As a rescue team, sent far down with nothing but a pickaxe and harsh, yellow rope. They’ll have to talk about it. What he means about doing it again, even though he didn’t die. That significant emptiness that shapes itself like craters in his chest. Or how it all coincides with facing so much with such little time, his self worth and respect like forks in a garbage disposal; clinking and whirring and dancing, then shredding and grating and screeching, and so irreversibly broken, they can’t be eaten off of anymore. And then he’ll probably have to see a therapist, explain what he told Eddie, and listen to suggestions.

For now, he dips forward until his forehead is on Eddie’s shoulder. Nose crushed against his shirt. He closes his eyes as he takes in the scent of an alive and well Eddie. A part of him wants to apologize for all this mess he’s left construed about. But knows the moment he even tries, he will soothed into much needed silence. “Will you hold my hand while you drive?” He murmurs into the base of Eddie’s neck. He’s still crumpled and misshapen, but somehow also held. Held in a way that reminds him of being a little kid. Cherished through fear in both parties. He supposes that’s what he is. Brain still exploring like he’s seventeen, before the demogorgon. A child in a sense. An overgrown weed.

“I will,” Eddie promises.

And so Steve nods. “I love you, too.” He wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist, encircling barely, air still able to travel in the gap he creates where his bare skin doesn’t touch the cotton of Eddie’s shirt. Tangling his hands loosely. Not exactly grasping for something, but the suggestion of it. “I love you,” he murmurs once more. The words like white noise, but true.

He’ll say it more later. Curled on one end of Eddie’s couch while he sits on the other side. No space between them because Steve refuses to move his legs, the bottoms of his feet, socked and dry, shaped firmly to the soft give of Eddie’s thigh. In between moments, he’ll whisper the words. As a tape plays and the beats are bright and jingling, while he’s melancholy and still to the soft cushion. When Eddie mutters something indistinguishable, chewing on the end of his ballpoint pen. Over a plain turkey and American cheese sandwich, mayo smeared on his bottom lip, and Eddie wiping away the residue. A reverence focused on him like soft spotlight.

It’s death because he knows they won’t have forever.

He loves, though, and that’s enough to quell the fear that floods him.

He wades in Eddie’s soft touch. In his sticky lips. The lulls.

“I’m going to play my Beatles ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ album,” he tells Eddie. Because, much like the end of the album, love is all you need. He’s afraid. But he can be brave in Eddie’s arms, his warmth, his deserved life.

💕—————💕

[wh0refornikolailantsov]

Prompt: “You’ve never been too much for me.”

Song: Iris - The Goo Goo Dolls

For Tolya x Reader please!!

Saints Or High Water - Tolya x Reader

Yes. Happy to oblige.

Content Warnings: Canon Compliant Threat and Fear Related To Targeted Violence and Execution, Not Beta or Proof Read, Suggestions Of A Difficult Family Life and Upbringing, Anxiety, Self Doubt, Negative Self View And The Terrifying Fear Of Being Known Loved And Seen.

Does it count as hurt/comfort if you're just being mean to yourself until the very kind shapely man tells you you're worth something?

Just another drabble I guess.

There is good and bad in everything, the universe finds a way to create balance. The Small Science is no exception to that rule. Being Grisha is an extraordinary thing, there's deep beauty in the power The Saints give. But that doesn't mean being Grisha is always easy, and those in the parts less forgiving to Grisha, less understanding, less inclined to see gifts as blessings but as signs of witchcraft or sin, this was ever clear. But even the quieter ways, within oneself being Grisha isn't always easy. A talent is a talent for as long as you nurture it, as you learn it, keep it close and well maintained, but these kinds of talents aren't always easy to tether. They try to teach Grisha young for a reason.

You're sitting on the edge of the deck, and it's one of those days, where being so many miles from shore feels like a blessing, because distancing yourself from land makes everything feel less real. On the Volkvolny the ability to practice The Small Science is admired, under the operation of Sturmhond, on this ship with a crew he had collected, it was usually far more easy to forget the harshness that waits on land. But not today.

Today the waves are not big enough to swallow all the feelings that are raging just underneath the surface, keeping you a safe distance from anyone else on the ship. The wind rushing over the sails, and the all the crashing of water against The Wolf could not drown out the thoughts echoing so loudly within your mind, determined to be heard, demanding to be seen. Thoughts that are taking up more space than you ever would dare to take up at all.

A Heartrender like any Corporalki worth their salt as a Grisha would be able to sense the mood from this distance, and almost all would know when sadness runs this deep and this quiet, that nothing would really help, and likely that help would not be welcomed. At sea, it is generally accepted to let people be with their feelings, the ocean more forgiving than the land. More accepting too.

But Tolya Yul Bataar was not just any Heartrender, and you had long come to know that about him. Not only was the strong giant as poetic as he was stoic, which was a lot, but he was also persistent, in that quiet, gentle way that you had come to know. Never had you known a man who's honour was more evident than his strength and yet stood quite as tall and strong as Tolya.

His approach is slow, gentle, arms crossed as he leans into the post, as if he had no other reason to be there. He probably doesn't, but you don't linger on that thought.

"Come to share some poetry have you Tolya?" You ask against the wind. Maybe he won't hear you, and he will leave you to this quiet sadness once more.

"That wasn't my intention but I am happy to oblige," he smiles and for a moment you forget why you wanted to be alone. Tolya has this way with you, of making you forget even if just for small moments just how cruel the world can be.

You glance as he unfolds his arms, to reach for a small book in his pocket, and you have long forsaken asking him how he managed to keep his skin exposed in such cold conditions as you watch some of the salt spray hit his upper arm and he leans away from the waves to shield the book.

"O the opal and the sapphire of that wandering sea,

And the woman riding high above with bright hair fluttering free,

The woman whom I loved so, and who loyally loved me."

You let him read to you a while, as you watch the way the water turns white as it hits the sides of the ship, wondering if the water wants to be different, something else to what it is and that is why it endlessly tries to throw itself against whatever it passes, desiring to be changed by the impact.

"Those are new," you comment after a while and Tolya smiles and it reaches into those golden eyes and you try not to look too closely. Tolya is something else, and you wonder if you would've stayed here on this ship, with this crew for as long as you have had it not been for him. Never had you known anyone like Tolya, and you doubt you would again, and it was with such certainty of that you held onto his presence and his companionship as deeply as you could, while trying to spare him the overwhelming closeness of knowing you.

"As much as I enjoy you indulging me, I sense that maybe it's less about my passion today and more about what you wish not to say," he says.

For all the time, and all the practice, and all the attempts to keep him far enough away that your mistakes could never end up being his burden, he still sees straight through you like you were glass.

"Today I am the ocean, unreadable and entirely too much," you admit.

You feel the warmth of his presence before you notice him moving closer, his shoulder now pressed to yours as he leans forward on the edge of the gunwale.

“You’ve never been too much for me.”

"And I intend to keep it that way," you say without thinking. Tolya is honest, honest and true in a way that makes you want to be so back. Tolya stands so tall and yet does not cast a conceited shadow, his shade is nothing but comforting. A Grisha, a Heartrender, who would rather use the weapons he practiced and learned to fight with than his blessings. Probably because of his faith, but Saints you'd never stopped to ask.

"You cannot be do much for me," he says quietly. You expect a joke to follow, a comment such as 'you've met Tamar,' but in the absence of his twin, Sturmhond or any other member of crew to joke to, his sentiment is more important than the shielding of it.

You remain silent and that tells him exactly what he thought you might say: you do not know me enough to say that.

"I understand why you do this," he says quietly, "after years of being called a monster, it is easy to believe yourself to be one, and it takes much more to undo such damage than it does to create it. But you are not what those for fear you speak you to be."

His kindness always brings a warmth that no fire could ever come close to bringing. You drag your eyes from the waves and he is watching you, gentle and consistent.

/And I don't want the world to see me/

"I do not always feel that I was gifted, not when I was told I was cursed," you admit. "But it is not me that I am quiet for. I am more concerned about those who must be around me. Those who could be hurt by my monster."

"You are no monster," he says, reaching forward and placing his hand over your own. You expect his hand on yours to feel more rough, more calloused, but all you can feel is the softness of his expression and the tenderness of his words, with the grounding weight of all he means to you. /'Cause I don't think that they'd understand/

"And I know I cannot make this storm pass, but I will wait with you, until it does, we can stand here, and we can say nothing," he says. "And we will wait until it passes, and I will stay here, right beside you."

/When everything's made to be broken/

You lean into him and he wraps an arm around your shoulder and holds you close and for a short moment it all goes quiet.

/I just want you to know who I am/

"What if it doesn't pass?"

"It will, but if it doesn't, I will stay right here."

[utilitycaster]

Fjord

2. Favorite canon thing about this character?

3. Least favorite canon thing about this character?

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

2. Favorite thing: so much, but I particularly like how good and effective he is at herding the cats of the Mighty Nein. There are many reasons why they bonded so tightly, but a factor was that Fjord early on was insistent that they figure out ways to work together. You can tell how carefully his backstory was constructed; part of why Sabian and Vandran are such beloved figures despite almost no screentime is because you can get such a clear an outline of them from Fjord’s behaviors and discussions that is honestly more thorough than that of some fully introduced NPCs. Getting back to the original point, you can tell from early on that this is someone accustomed to team dynamics under pressure (ie, a sailor). In general, everything we learned about Fjord, as it was revealed, made me go “ohhhhhhh yeah that makes sense,” which is in my opinion the sign of incredibly skilled storytelling and character building.

3. This is tough; this is a character I truly love and I am always team “this person’s flaws are an important part and erasing them means you do not fucking get it," so like, I am in favor of his perfectionism and control issues and closed-off-ness and in case it's not clear from my Midst blogging and which characters I'm drawn to there, nor my enjoyment of Vex, a particular vibe of which he is one of the best examples. I also, admittedly, am defensive because while people watching C2 now without all the fandom discourse of C2 tend to enjoy him, he got done rather dirty by the fandom and was the recipient of basically every single thing I dislike that fandoms do (he is not alone; Keyleth got this with the added complication of rampant misogyny, and Veth got shades of this too, and all have similarly been received much better by people watching without fandom influence). So, for example, while I would love to have seen more of his backstory in-game, I am hesitant to say that because, well, ever notice how Caduceus was sidelined by the party and we didn't explore his past but Fjord avoided his backstory? Ever notice how Caleb's asshole behaviors are because of trauma but Fjord (grew up in a Dickensian orphanage, bullied over his race to the point of willing self-harm from a young age, betrayed, stabbed, and left to drown at which point he was forced into a warlock pact he didn't remember) is just an asshole? (I'm saying this as someone who very much likes Caduceus and Caleb, but this was blatant from the fandom, and pretty constant too.) So to be clear I think he has plenty of flaws, as a complex character, but I do not dislike those flaws as canonical aspects of him.

Anyway. The joke but also kind of true answer is, as Laura herself pointed out, why did he wait 7 entire years to propose to Jester.

25. I liked him from the start but Beau was actually my favorite in early C2! I liked the top table (and what faint impressions I had of Yasha) from the start, but Fjord had the Percy and Vex trait of "guy who can act normal in a social situation when no one else can" for the first stretch of the campaign, which meant he was high up there but didn't move up in my estimation until he started to reveal how civilizedly (not a real word, but vitally important as a modifier here for a number of reasons) unhinged and insecure he was.

[coraniaid]

98 + Fuffy

This one ended up being a bit longer than I was aiming for, sorry. A few years post-canon (but mostly canon compliant, except that I ignore the comics and that perhaps some people who die in Chosen or the final season of Angel are still alive here). Buffy POV.

Years later, she still has nightmares.

Bad ones: the kind that ... well, she's sat through enough college psychology classes in her life to recognize one of the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.  And she was an active Slayer for almost eight years, after all.  She fought ancient demons and gods and monsters; she risked her life pretty much every night.  She saw friends die. Died twice herself.  No wonder she’s still a little messed up.  

But knowing why they’re happening doesn't ever seem to help.  She still wakes up in the middle of the night, and for a minute -- or five minutes, or an hour -- she's just a scared little kid again, too afraid of the things that go bump in the dark to lie down and go back to sleep.  Terrified by the weight of everything the world wants her to do.  By the thought of having to be the Chosen One again.  

Dawn's always telling her she should talk to somebody about them.  An expert, she means.  A specialist. 

But -- even if it wasn't ever real -- her false memory of that time in a clinic when she was younger is too strong.  She doesn't want to go back there.  Not ever.  Or to go anywhere even a little bit like it. She doesn't want to be a freak in somebody's lab -- poked and prodded and tested and restrained.  She just wants to be herself.  She just wants to be Buffy.

So she still has nightmares.  Sometimes she dies: drowning alone in the dark, unable to move or cry for help; tumbling from a tower in the sky; not strong enough to drag herself out of the grave before the dead soil fills her lungs and she suffocates below the ground.  And sometimes she doesn't die.  Sometimes the dreams are much worse than that.

The thing is, they never seem to happen when she expects.  Never when it feels like they should.  Significant milestones come and go without even a bad dream -- she’d slept right through the anniversary of that last, desperate fight under Sunnydale, not even waking up once -- and then other times, without warning, she'll spend a whole week unable to sleep at all, or waking up shaking and sweating every time she tries.

It all started after she decided to step back from the Slayer Organization she'd helped set up.  Half a year in charge of that was enough, she'd told herself.  Living out in some remote castle in Scotland, cut off from the normal world ... that wasn't who she wanted to be anymore. That wasn’t what she’d been hoping for when she said goodbye to Sunnydale.  She wasn't the one and only Chosen One any more, after all.  Maybe it was time to stop pretending.  Maybe it was time to grow up.

So they'd held a vote on who would replace her, made it all official. And then, when it was over – and after she'd congratulated Kennedy as sincerely as she could manage -- she'd packed her things up and moved back to California.  Northern California though, this time.  San Francisco.  SoCal still had a few too many unpleasant memories (the bits of it that weren’t literally underground these days).  

Once she’d arrived, she'd settled into that normal life she'd always told herself she wanted.  Went back to college.  Signed up to be an English major. Bought a house, with some of the old Watcher’s Council money that GIles had passed on to her.  She'd even gotten married, a couple of months ago, just a little while after graduating, however unreal that still feels.  Willow's been telling her she should look into grad school, but she’s not sure whether she wants to follow in her younger sister’s footsteps quite so soon.

So, yeah, everything's been going really well.

Except that, after a few months, the nightmares had started. 

That's why at 3 AM she finds herself downstairs in the kitchen, pretending to read a book, wondering if it would be a bad idea to go out for a run.  This is a pretty safe neighborhood, but still, she might get lucky.  Something supernatural out there might be too stupid to stay away. 

If she’d thought it would help, she’d be out there already.  But would it?  She doesn't really know. She doesn't know what to do.

And while she’s deliberating, a creaking floorboard reminds her that she's not alone.

"Hey, B," a familiar voice says sleepily.  "What's up?"

Buffy had never asked Faith to come with her when she left Scotland.  Actually, she'd kind of assumed she was leaving the Slayer Organization in Faith’s more than capable hands: the girls all still loved her, after all, all idolized her in a way they'd never quite seemed to treat Buffy herself.  (The same way she remembers Dawn treating her, the first few months after Faith arrived in Sunnydale, even if intellectually she knows that that’s not what really happened.)  She'd assumed it would be Faith, not Kennedy, who would be replacing her as leader.  Right up until the point she told Faith about her plan to go back to the States, and the other Slayer had just nodded and asked her when they were leaving and whether she’d already booked a flight.  Like it wasn't even a question whether she'd be coming with her.

She'd stuck with Buffy for four years since.  Not always sharing the same house, but always close by.  She’d listened to her complain about her course load, or bad professors, or unfairly difficult exams, or let her rave and enthuse about analysis of poems or novels which she isn't sure Faith has ever read.  It’s been good – really good, better than Buffy had expected – to have a familiar face around.  To not be doing this all by herself.  It’s been good for her to have Faith.

(The two of them are still going patrolling together most nights too, however retired they might be officially.  She thinks that that's an itch that never really goes away for anyone.  Though there weren’t many active vamps in the Bay Area even when she’d first arrived, and these days there are barely any.)

Faith’s stuck by Buffy for almost as long as anyone.  And now she's here with Buffy in the middle of the night, wearing a pair of Buffy's old pajamas and a concerned look on her face, and Buffy can't even bring herself to face her.

"Glory again?" Faith guesses.

Buffy shakes her head, wordlessly.  Keeps her eyes glued to the book she isn’t reading.

It's true that those are some of the worst of the recurring nightmares.  Everything about that year is painful, and worse in the dreams.  Dropping out of college, or being found out as a total academic fraud, as somebody who shouldn't even have been let into college in the first place.  Losing her Mom, again and again, for different reasons every time.   Not being able to save Dawn, or not being able to want to save Dawn.  Watching her fall, or forgetting her entirely: stumbling across her broken body lying on the ground and only seeing a stranger.  Thinking that she'd always been an only child and always would be.  Sometimes, in those dreams, it's almost comforting when the world drifts inexorably into hell.  

But those aren't the dreams she's been having lately.  That's not what's keeping her from sleeping.  It’s Faith.  That’s who she’s been dreaming about.  That’s why she can’t sleep.

"I killed you," she mumbles, putting the book down but still not quite able to make eye contact.

It all feels so real, even now. Even with Faith – the real Faith, not a dream – sitting only a couple of feet away from her, patiently waiting for her to explain.

"We were fighting, just like we ... before," she goes on. "Just before graduation.  I didn't want to, but I couldn't stop.  And when I ... at the end, you didn't fall.  I stabbed you, and you bled to death in my arms.  I killed you."

The other woman shakes her head.

"Don't know if you've noticed, but I'm tougher than I look," Faith says.  "Haven't even died once, unlike some Slayers I could mention.  And lucky for me, all the cool chicks dig scars."

She pulls her pajama top up slightly to demonstrate.  There’s still a pale scar there, yes, even after all this time.  Proof of what Buffy had done: not just in a dream, but in real life.  Something she’ll never be able to undo.  She reaches out, just for a second, as if she was going to touch it.  To trace the faint mark she’d left across her fellow Slayer’s skin.

"Did ... does it hurt?"

It's not the first time she's asked the question.  Guesses that it won't be the last.

"Sometimes," Faith admits.  "A little."

She used to pretend that it didn't, Buffy remembers.  But they’re more honest with each other these days.  They’ve had to be.

"You shouldn't be beating yourself about this, B," Faith says carefully, sitting down next to her.  "It was a long time ago, and you did what you had to do.  Like you said back then, I'd have done the same if I had the chance.  Hell, I did a lot worse.  I think we both know that I’m the one who should be apologizing"

Buffy remembers.  How powerless she’d felt, how violated, how justified she’d felt in her rage afterwards.  But she’d thrown the first stone, hadn’t she?  She’d crossed the invisible line first.  And in truth, when she thinks about things she’s sorry for doing to Faith, the scar is only the start of it.

"It's not just the fight," Buffy admits.  "It's … it’s everything about that year.  I could have ... I should have done so much more for you.  But I never knew how scared you were.  I never realized that you were so alone.  I think … I think I didn’t want to see it."

Faith frowns.  Gets that look in her eyes that Buffy knows means she’s fighting down the urge to say something impulsive.  

"I was scared," the other Slayer admits, slowly.  "You’re right.  And angry. All the time. And a little bit crazy too, I think, at least towards the end.  But I don't think you could've talked me out of it.  Not you, not anyone. None of it was ever your fault.  I think I had to figure that stuff out on my own.  Had to be honest with myself about what I felt, and what I could do about it."

"I should have tried harder," Buffy says stubbornly, not wanting to let this go. Because arguing with Faith, fighting with her – that’s always been easier, hasn’t it?  That’s always been something she could do.

She’d had a whole life of her own, back then.  A mom, and a sister, and a big house.  She could have tried to share it with her.  That would have been better, wouldn’t it?  But she hadn’t wanted to share.  She’d refused.  That was what she’d told her Mom, the very first night Faith came for dinner.  That Faith trying to spend time with her was creepy.

(That was one of the only nights that Faith had ever come for dinner, she realizes now.)

"You did try, Buffy," Faith says firmly.  "You were the only one who ever did.  You were the first person in my life who ever tried to look out for me, even after everything I did.  I'm not ever going to forget that, and you shouldn’t either."

Part of Buffy wants to believe that.  She does.  And she knows her friends would all agree.  Vocally, some of them.  But it’s too easy though, isn’t it?  Too convenient.  To make excuses, to find reasons why you didn’t have to help.  To make yourself seem better than you ever really were.

“You came to Sunnydale looking for me,” Buffy says, putting her hand on the table, brushing against Faith’s.  “You wanted to be with me.  And I tried to murder you.”

They’d never talked about it at the time, not openly.  But looking back, she must have seen it, mustn’t she?  How much time Faith wanted to spend with her, how little she cared about anyone or anything else.  How pleased she’d been when Scott Hope dumped her, how furious she’d been when she found out about Angel later.  How could Buffy not have seen what was right in front of her, unless she was trying to ignore it?

"You did what you had to do," Faith tells her again, more firmly this time. She rests her other hand on Buffy’s.  Squeezes it lightly, just for a second.

Buffy sighs.

"You always say that," she says, trying not to sound like she’s complaining. 

"Always will," Faith nods equably.  "Because it's the truth."

Buffy shakes her head.

"God, Faith, you were just a kid.  If I--"

"So were you, B,” Faith says.  “We all were."

She pauses, looks a little uncomfortable.

“Look, Buffy,” she says, “I dunno if it helps at all, but when I was in prison, the shrink we had at group sessions used to tell us that an apology had to convince two people.  The person you’d wronged, and the person you wanted to become.  So, uh.”

Buffy listens.  Tries to be patient.  Willow had pulled some tricks after Sunnydale – a bit of magic, a little old-fashioned hacking – and these days nobody seemed to remember that Faith was supposed to be behind bars.  But Faith remembers, she knows that, and she knows how hard it is for her to talk about that part of her life.  

“He used to have us write them down,” Faith adds.  “I guess there are a lot of unsent letters to you back in the big house that I forgot to take with me when I split. None of them were ever good enough anyway.  We were meant to write them down, and then try to imagine how the people we were going to write to might reply.  Try to put ourselves in their shoes, I mean.”

Faith fidgets a little in her chair, as though she’s having second thoughts about this speech.  Or maybe because putting herself in Buffy’s shoes was a large part of why she’d ended up in prison in the first place.

“The point is … maybe that’s stupid.  Maybe it was only ever a way to get some of us to shut up for a few minutes.   But I thought maybe we could try it.  Only, instead of you having to imagine how I’d respond, you could just listen to me.  Maybe copy what I said.  Say it yourself.”

Buffy nods slowly.  Faith was right: it does sound a little stupid.  But at the same time, she guesses it can’t hurt.  She manages a weak smile.  Nods her approval.  Waits for Faith to tell her when to start.

“I’m sorry I didn’t help you more, when we were both kids, Faith,” she says, when the other Slayer gives her the signal.  “I’m sorry I didn’t let you into more of my life.  I’m sorry I stabbed you.”

“I hear you, B,” Faith says seriously, brown eyes focused on her.  Gestures for her to repeat it, to keep echoing her as she continues.  “I get what you’re saying.  And I forgive you.  I know you helped me as much as you could.  More than anyone else.  Way more.  And for what it’s worth, I don’t think I could have been happy back then unless I was the only person in your life, the way you were for me.  Unless you gave up on your mom and your Watcher and all your other friends.  And that wasn’t ever fair to ask of you.  That wouldn’t have been healthy, for either of us.”

Faith pauses, face serious, waiting for her to finish repeating that all back to her.  Leans in a little closer, like she’s sharing a secret.

“Plus,” she says, waggling her eyebrows, “You kind of looked amazing when you stabbed me.  Total smokeshow.”

“Faith!” Buffy protests, feeling herself starting to blush the way she had when she was younger.  “I am not repeating that.”

Faith smirks, and Buffy lets herself think.  it still seems kind of stupid, even without that last part.. She’s not naive enough to think it will fix everything. But at the same time, she thinks that maybe it was useful.  A little bit, anyway.  

“Thank you,” she says.  “That helped.”

For a minute neither of them says anything.  The only sound in the house is the ticking of the clock over the kitchen table.  Faith still hasn’t let go of her hand.

"Still … if I could go back and change things, I would," Buffy admits. "Back to the beginning, I mean. I wish that I--"

She doesn't finish the sentence.  You don't spend years of your life in touch with Anya, on-again  and off-again vengeance demon, without realizing it might not be a good idea to make open-ended world-changing wishes out loud in the middle of the night.  (She thinks Anya’s mostly human these days, but it’s hard to keep track.  Maybe she should write more.)

"It … uh.  It hasn't been all bad, has it Buffy?" Faith asks her, suddenly sounding almost nervous. "There's some things you wouldn't change, right?"

She’s looking at one of the rings she’s wearing, Buffy sees, on the hand that’s resting on top of her own.  A silver one. 

Faith's always loved wearing rings.  Has done ever since Buffy met her.  She’s got a whole collection of them.  This one is a little different though.  Brand new, something Faith’s been wearing all the time for weeks now.  This one Buffy helped pick out herself; a perfect match to the ring she's wearing on her own hand.  It turned out Faith was a bit of a traditionalist that way.

"You wouldn't change this, would you, B?" Faith repeats softly, staring down at the ring on her left hand.

"You know I wouldn't," Buffy says firmly.  "That goes without saying."

She pauses.  Faith’s looking at her expectantly.  Waiting for her to take the lead.

"But you want me to say it anyway, huh," Buffy realizes.

Well, she can do that.  She guesses it’s her turn to be the one doing the reassuring anyway.  Buffy steps up, leans in, wraps her arms around the other Slayer and kisses her softly on the forehead the way she knows she likes.  Feels Faith shiver slightly under her touch, leaning into it the way she always does. Remembers suddenly just how thin those pajamas are; how little Faith is wearing underneath. 

"I've made a lot of decisions in my life that I regret," Buffy says softly, "But you, Mrs. Summers, are not one of them."

Faith was a bit of an unexpected traditionalist about that as well.  Buffy had been all for both of them keeping their names, or hyphenating them,  sharing them, but the other Slayer had insisted.  Had, finally, admitted that she just didn't like her old last name at all, that there was a reason she'd never used back in Sunnydale, why it had taken Buffy so long to even learn what it was.  "Faith Summers, though,” the other woman had said quietly, "I think that's a name I could be proud of.  That's someone I'd like to be."

The ceremony itself, back in June, had been a pretty small affair.

They’d only allowed themselves a handful of guests each.  Willow and Kennedy; Xander and Andrew; Dawn and Amanda.  Faith had spent weeks threatening to invite Angel to play the part of her best man – especially once she realized just how mortifying Buffy found the prospect – but in the end she'd opted to be merciful and just invited Gunn and Fred and Wesley up from LA, plus Robin from wherever he called home these days.  Buffy has a feeling neither Angel or Spike minded missing out on this experience.  

And Giles had been there too, flying out of England for the first time in almost two years.  She'd been so pleased he could make it.  It was a little bit like ... well.  He was family, wasn’t he?

"Your mother would have been very proud of you today," he'd told her at the airport, when she’d rushed up to meet him and totally embarrassed him with a hug.  "Proud of you both.  As am I.  But then, I hope you already knew that."

And then – because of course nothing could go smoothly for long – they'd had to reschedule the whole thing almost at the last minute; pushing everything back by a week so they could all make an emergency trip to Cleveland.  

Even though she and Faith were pretty much retired now -- and even though Kennedy was too, as of last year, along with Amanda and Rona and most of the other former Sunnydale Potentials -- they still got called up for the main events.  For the real apocalypses, when the Organization needed its biggest guns.  This time it had been the Sisterhood of Jhe again, Buffy thinks.  Trying to open another Hellmouth, almost ten years after the first attempt.  Their timing had sucked, but at least she'd been able to take her frustrations out on a few big demons.  She's sure Faith had been a lot more vicious than usual in her Slaying too.  Between them, they hadn't really left much of anyone to interrogate afterwards.  Maybe it was a good thing that that wasn’t something either of them had to worry about anymore.

(Buffy had met Kennedy's replacement as head of the Organization briefly in Cleveland, while they were being briefed before the mission.  She was a nice kid called Satsu, who had been gratifyingly starstruck at meeting both of the original Slayers, but who had still kept her head enough to give them their orders just like everyone else.  It was good to know that the other Slayers -- the new ones, the ones young enough not to have retired yet -- were in competent hands.  And Buffy knows that they have been, all along, whether that means Kennedy or Satsu or whoever will come after her.  That's part of why Buffy doesn't regret her decision to step back from that side of things.  Not for a minute. Even if it has meant a few more sleepless nights.  Nobody can carry that much weight for long.)

And a week after Cleveland, that was it: Faith and Buffy, married. Not because of a wish, or one of Willow’s spells gone wrong, but for real.  Forever.  Legally binding, recognized by the State of California and everything (although a lot of awful people seemed awfully unhappy about that).  When Buffy had been younger, she could never have imagined any of this.  She'd thought that being a Slayer meant that anything like this was impossible.  That this was something only normal girls got to have.  And she'd never thought that she’d want it quite so much: her own parents’ marriage hadn’t exactly endeared her to the institution as a whole. Even a couple of years ago, she’d never have admitted to anyone quite how happy it would make her.  

And she is, Buffy realizes.  Even with the odd nightmares.  She’s sitting in her kitchen with the love of her life, waiting for the sun to come up and a new day to begin, and she’s never been happier.  She thinks her younger self would be delighted to know that, somehow, everything had worked out okay.

Maybe she's been looking at things the wrong way all this time.  It's not that the  nightmares started when she moved out here. It's that the waking nightmares – the real world nightmares, the kind with teeth and names and minds of their own – had become rare enough she finally started noticing the other kind.

"Look, B, I've got to get back to bed or I won't be any use for anything at work tomorrow," Faith says, fighting back a yawn, shooting an apologetic look at the clock on the wall.  “Guess I’m not as young as I used to be. Good thing I’m still wicked hot.”

Buffy nods absently.  She's still not sure what she's going to do next.  Whether she's heading off for that late night run, or ...

"I'll see you in the morning before I head out for work," Faith promises.  "Unless, uh."

Buffy makes a decision.  Stands up.

"Well," she says slowly, "I guess it wouldn't be very chivalrous of me to leave my wife alone all night, would it?"

Faith grins at her wolfishly. Just the way she had when they'd first met. Like a co-conspirator; a partner in crime. As if the two of them still had a secret that nobody else could share.  And for a second, it's like no time has passed at all.  Like they could still be dancing together back in the Bronze, just the two of them, or out on patrol looking for vampires in some forgotten Sunnydale cemetery that's long since been buried deep in a hole in the desert.  When it seemed like high school was going to last forever.  When they'd both only been able to focus on the present; on the immediate demands of the here and now.  Finding the next vamp, dusting it, and moving on to the one after that.

Buffy puts her arm around Faith's waist, fingers resting carefully just below her scar, walks with her towards the stairs.  Maybe they weren't so wrong, back then.  Maybe this is what matters.  Maybe this is all that ever did.  Just the two of them, just the present moment.  And when the other Slayer looks up at her, when she leans her head to rest on her shoulder, something in her eyes makes Buffy sure they're both thinking the same thing.

"There's my girl," she breathes.

[fandomanimatic-tournament]

Fandom song animatic tournament: Bracket 2 Side A Round 2

No Children (I hope we both die) - The Mountain Goats

"I am drowning There is no sign of land You are coming down with me Hand in unlovable hand And I hope you die I hope we both die"

I can't decide ([Blank] can't decide) - Scissor Sisters

"I can't decide Whether you should live or die Oh, you'll probably go to heaven Please don't hang your head and cry No wonder why My heart feels dead inside It's cold and hard and petrified Lock the doors and close the blinds We're going for a ride!"

Remember that we're voting on how Iconic they are for ANIMATICS, not for the song itself. In order to make things fair, the tone and mood of the song should not affect how iconic it is (for example, a serious song should not be considered more iconic than a joke song just because it's serious)

Propaganda and animatic links of the songs under the cut:

No Children (I hope we both die) - The Mountain Goats

Propaganda:

cmon. its no children. its AMAZING. the VIBES... the LYRICS.....

You're not a real fandom un til you have "hand in unloveable hand" as the title for every other ao3 fic

Not only is this song, like, objectively really really good, but it's been absolutely put through the ringer in terms of fan creations.

There's a video online somewhere of a whole group of people singing it alongside the person who made it (i think its just audio which makes it hit harder tbh) and it fucks me up so bad actually. like its a whole community of people rejoicing and in its own sense that's beautiful but the fact that its this song of all things is so depressing yet unifying at the same time it gives me so many emotions

AND IIIII HOPE WHEN YOU THINK OF ME YEARS DOWN THE LINE YOU CANT FIND ONE GOOD THING TO SAY AND I HOPE IF I FOUND THE STRENGTH TO WALK OUT YOUD STAY THE HELL OUTTA MY WAYYYYYYY I AM DROWNING!!!!!! THERE IS NO SIGN OF LAND!!!!!!!!! YOU ARE COMING DOWN WITH ME!!!!!!!! HAND IN UNLOVEABLE HAND!!!!!!!!!!! AND I HOPE YOU DIE! I HOPE WE BOTH DIE

It makes people make animatics about divorce/divorce-adjacent situations, which makes it swag and awesome!

Animatics with the song:

The Owl House Alador Animatic

Don't Hug Me I'm Scared

BNHA

Mob Psycho 100 Mob and Reigen Animatic

Bojack Horseman

DSMP Quackity and Schlatt Animatic

I can't decide - Scissor Sisters

Propaganda:

Literally every playful villain ever. You want to use this for enemies to lovers? Do it! Someone who sees crime as a game? Go for it! The instrumental is so silly goofy and the lyrics are so flirtatiously sinister

Scissor Sisters be so funky and this song is so silly and playful (even when it's about deciding on whether or not you should kill someone)

Animatics with the song:

The Adventure Zone

FNAF

Karmaland V

31 Minutos

Danganronpa Kokichi Animatic

The Walten Files

Please be cautious and read the title, description and warning cards on the animatic videos if you decide to watch them. If you've got specific triggers I'd recommend even more caution when watching animatics of fandoms you don't know, since sometimes canon-typical themes don't get warnings.

[neutron-stars-collision]

Waiting for the Night

Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

Chapter 14 - Till I Got Nothing Left

Masterlist; Chapter 13 Summary: Bliss of the moment shared with Bruce melts in the broad daylight as the Riddler makes life-changing claims and forces you to face the past... Warnings: Angst™️; mentions of canon-typical violence; swearing. Author's Notes: Well, this one took a little less time and is also barely 6k, because I figured that's enough punches for one update. I'm sorry, I really am. Given how the revelations here had me inspired from the moment we had those scenes in the movie, I'm curious to hear what you think... 💕 Feedback is always appreciated and thanks for sticking around! Taglist: @thecraziestcrayon, @kookiewastolen, @imimsy, @tuskens-mando, @sugarcoated-lame, @blue-aconite, @hypnoash, @rabbitdictionary, @nicklet94, @mcrmarvelloki, @shimmeringgrim, @ttae-yong, @freyadruid, @siriuslydestiny, @ms-dont-care, @raphaelaisabella

(gif credit @thebatmansource)

It had been a while since you last woke up with the pleasant ache in your limbs and the fuzziness in your head that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything with a person. You took in the surroundings, the light bathing the room in a warm glow and filling your chest with familiarity and homeliness. Both almost terrifyingly foreign.

Stretching your limbs, you quickly discovered that the space beside you was empty. The chasm in your heart throbbed with the well-known feeling of dread as you rolled onto your side and pressed your head into the cold pillow. Bruce’s scent lingered there, making you breathe in deep and let it drown out the fear, if only for another minute. Until you could get up and face the reality.

The voice at the back of your head, the same one that knew it would happen before it even began, has foreseen this too. As if, on a subconscious level, you already knew where Bruce went and why he was not there as you woke up. Why he could never be.

Only once you could no longer chase away the anxious thoughts did you get up, throwing the covers to the side and letting your gaze locate your clothes. Expecting to find them strewn across the floor, you were shocked to see the neat pile resting on the chair by the desk. The sight alone made your chest tighten and lips pursed into a frown too close to tears for your liking. With no signs of Bruce’s presence anywhere within the bedroom, you pocketed the phone and quietly crept out into the corridor, noticing the silence. As if it was just you there all alone in the Wayne Tower. A shudder ran through your spine upon the thought, helping put one foot and then the other and walk down the hallway.

The dining room was empty, as were the kitchen and the library. Slowly, you descended the staircase back into the study, noticing Bruce’s mind map still scribbled on the floor. Next to it, you could see a stack of old files, the corners yellow and folded. Ignoring the dread settling in your stomach, you picked one of them up and carded through the pages. For unknown reasons, all seemed to concern Thomas Wayne’s Renewal Fund and looked like they had been pulled out of the archive for the first time in decades. And likely had been.

It was hard to pinpoint the moment you decided what the next course of action should be. One minute you were there, frozen in place with the old documents still in hand and staring at the graffiti marring the woodwork. The next, you were making your way into the elevator and sliding the crate closed before pressing the buttons leading below the ground level. Back when you first visited the tower, those unmarked floors intrigued you, adding to the mystery of Bruce Wayne. Now you had a solid theory about what you would find there, occupying the space marked on the old building plans as the Wayne Terminus, aka the old railway station. Yes, you did check it. No, there was no particular reason other than your interest.

As the cabin lowered into the darkness of the shaft, you tightened your hands into loose fists, hoping (praying) Bruce would forgive you for trespassing. That he will not mind the snooping, which probably breached laws of common decency and, certainly, broke the promises you made to him. But weren’t those already broken when you gave him everything you had? It did not matter.

The elevator came to a shuddering stop as the crate rattled when you opened it and stepped inside the cold darkness of the cavern. The chill in the air and the faint earthly smell confirmed that you were underground. With barely any light, you could not make out the exact size of the space, for the corners were drowning in the shadows, and the ceiling was submerged in the dark. It was the old Terminus, only now it served as a workstation of sorts. The space was cluttered with equipment, tools, and computers. Apart from an empty jack, undoubtedly housing whatever the Batman’s car was you noticed two motorcycles. The desks were filled with complex technology and a couple of monitors. Careful not to destroy anything, you made a round of the place, noting every detail you could. Approaching the widest desk, your hand darted towards the notebook occupying its centre. It was titled: ‘Gotham Project: Year Two. Thoughts and Observations’ in Bruce’s neat handwriting, and as soon as you opened it, you could tell it was a diary. Kind of. Enough so that it felt wrong to go through the pages without the owner aware of it. Especially, when your gaze fell on what could only be your name, standing out on the white paper in your eyes as if it had been highlighted red. Feeling your cheeks heat up, you closed the notebook as if burned. There was no need to know what he thought of you. Or even why he wrote anything concerning you. Well, there was a need, but…

Ignoring the dangerous train of thought, you huffed, hand absentmindedly toying with the computer mouse, making the screen turn on from sleep mode. The last computer program was still running, showing you what looked like a camera view, but if the camera was in an eye lens. You could hear the faint sound coming from the speakers, following the intuition to find the right toggle and increase it to listen to the conversation as your eyes adjusted to the picture. It seemed like Bruce was wearing the lenses, recording everything he saw for analysis or evidence. And right now, he was talking to a woman with the backdrop of nothing but skyscrapers and the skies. She was beautiful, her dark skin and warm eyes glinting in the afternoon sun. Somehow you knew it was her. Selina. The one Bruce told you not to worry about.

And you didn’t worry. Only felt a stab of pain in your chest at how he left you to see her. Right after you had sex. Fuck.

Selina was standing close to Bruce, her hand stroking his cheek as she chuckled in response to something he said. Your heart thrashed between your ribs, the dread making your blood turn cold as your forced yourself to listen to their conversation:

“Listen to me. If we don’t stand up for Annika, no one will. All anyone cares about in this place are these white, privileged assholes. The mayor, the commissioner, the DA. Now Thomas and Bruce Wayne,” she took a step back, gesturing with annoyance, the mention making you grip the edge of the desk as you listened on, “I mean, as far as I’m concerned, that psycho’s right to go after these creeps. I think you’d be on his side” she threw Bruce an offensive look.

It was somewhat reassuring to know she had no idea about his identity. Even if it felt like your world was crumbling.

“What do you mean, “Thomas and Bruce Wayne”?” Bruce voiced your thoughts with a strained tone.

Suddenly you wished you could see his face. Wished you could look into his blue eyes and understand what he was thinking. Instead, you could see the disbelief in Selina’s gaze as she eyed him with an arched eyebrow:

“What, do you live in a cave?” she scoffed lightly before explaining, “The Riddler’s latest. It’s all about the Waynes” what? Torn between the desire to go looking for the video, you got arrested by her persuasive tone as Selina continued, “Listen, if I can find that dickbag Kenzie, will you help me?” with her eyes trained on Bruce and filled with despair, she took a step forward “Please. Come on, Vengeance” the sweet tone made your head spin as you stared helplessly.

Lifting her palm to cup his cheek, Selina nearly pressed her body against Bruce’s. You swallowed hard, the wooden edge digging into your open hand.

“Just don’t make any moves without me, understand? It’s a little more dangerous than you know-” Bruce’s words were lost, for she interrupted them with a kiss.

The image disappeared as Bruce closed his eyes, but you had seen enough. A flash of jealousy burned through your body soon replaced with pain you could not name. Your body curled in on itself, desperate to find unachievable comfort. Everything hurt as your eyes blurred with unshed tears you had blinked back, your hand shaking as you closed the program. It was better not to know. Or so you tried to tell yourself. That it would be easier. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. He was not yours, yet it felt like he was. He should’ve been.

Before you could let the pain consume you right there and then, you searched for the video she mentioned, finding the recording on all the news pages. A fanfare opened the clip, immediately transporting you twenty years back to Wayne’s mayoral campaign:

“I’m Thomas Wayne, and I approve this message” with a face blank, you watched the old footage, Bruce’s father speaking from a lectern at the orphanage, announcing the Renewal Fund and its premise “From a very young age, my family, Martha’s family, the Arkhams, instilled in both of us that giving back is not just an obligation, it’s a passion. That is our family’s legacy” with an award-winning smile by Thomas Wayne, the video cut away from the archival video to show newspapers clippings.

The Riddler picked up the narration, his voice haunting and arresting in its intensity:

“The Waynes and the Arkhams. Gotham’s founding families. But what is their real legacy?” the breath got caught in your throat as the screen flashed to a photo of your father, the same one they had used in the news; it was getting hard to breathe, “Twenty years ago, one reporter set out to uncover the dark truth. He found shocking family secrets. How, when Martha was just a child, her mother brutally murdered her father, then committed suicide…” photos fleeted through the screen, a terrifying collage of crime and secrets “And how the Arkhams used their power and money to cover it up. How Martha herself was in and out of institutions for years and they didn’t want anyone to know” as the footage went back to showing Bruce’s father again, you instinctively grit your teeth, preparing for the inevitable; the bombshell you should have seen coming.

It didn’t hurt any less.

“Thomas Wayne tried to force this crusading reporter into a hush-money agreement to save his mayoral campaign. But when the reporter refused, Wayne turned to longtime secret associate Carmine Falcone and had him murdered!” a gleeful cackle was interrupted by a gunshot, making you flinch, your legs nearly giving out underneath you, “The Waynes and the Arkhams, Gotham’s legacy of lies and murder,”

As Riddler’s face replaced the clip on the screen, you gave a quiet whimper. Your mind unable to make sense of the revelations. Could it be true? Was Thomas Wayne the one who had your father killed? There was no time to find the answers as the pulse pounded in your ears, fear and paranoia taking hold of every waking thought.

“I know the reporter’s daughter is watching this, just as she is following my every move. Don’t trust Wayne; he doesn’t care about ordinary troopers like you and me. He only cares about himself and his legacy” fuck; your heart stumbled in your chest upon the direct mention, your teeth biting into the lower lip and drawing blood, “I hope you’re listening too, Bruce Wayne. This is your legacy. Gotham needs you to answer for the sins of your father. Goodbye”

With one click, you exited the browser. Tears pooled into your eyes for the second time within minutes as the reality sunk in. Maybe it was just that easy. Maybe your father’s murder was not a cruel trick of fate but a cold-blooded plan all along. Maybe. It felt like a living nightmare as you stumbled back into the elevator and pressed the button to the ground floor.

Like your worst fears coming true. Like a betrayal. Like losing your mind and preferring the insanity to what was real. Because nothing could be worse than this. Without a second thought, you bolted out into the street. Needing to breathe. Needing to think.

How do you go on when your world is crumbling?

***

By the time you returned to your apartment, you had five unanswered calls from Bruce and a text. You were also drenched, getting caught in the rain between the station and your house, too numb to run home. Tossing the burner phone on the table, so you were not tempted to look at it, you methodically removed the wet clothes and scrubbed your body clean in a scalding hot shower. Until your skin was tender and you had no more tears to offer. Not brave enough to turn on the news and see the headlines, you sat on the sofa, staring mindlessly at the black television screen till the rectangle was burned into the backs of your eyelids.

If everything Riddler said in that video was a lie, you had to admit it was very convincing. But then, he never lied before, correctly unmasking all three victims as liars and cheaters. So why would he start now? The worst was that it was so much easier to believe the story he sold you. You could see it happening. Your father as the brave reporter digging for the truth no matter the costs. And Thomas Wayne as the villain, protecting his wife’s past, willing to do all it takes. Even have a man murdered. A man doing his job. Isn’t that what journalists were supposed to do? Supposed to be?

A heavy sigh escaped your throat as you hid your face in your hands, feeling the surge of emotions. It felt almost like a long-sealed wound prodded open. For a second, you had the mind to be grateful your mother was not really there to witness it. Then you felt guilty for it. Even if it was true. Maybe she was right all along. Maybe your father was murdered because he believed in what could never be. Maybe Wayne was responsible for it, preferring his ego to ethics and morality. That would be quite the twist, wouldn’t it? Did Bruce know, or was all this a revelation to him too? Another question you could not answer yourself and were scared to ask the only person that could tell you. Because what if he did know? What then?

But he couldn’t. Right?

And then there was you, tangled up in the story like a fly in a spider’s web. Waiting for the predator to strike, unable to do a thing about it. You did not even know how you got there. How you went from innocuous crime-solving with Bruce Wayne to being quite fatally in love with him. The son of Thomas Wayne. The man who might have had your father killed. And it was not even worth it. Not when he wasted no time to kiss another woman. Clearly, you were right all along, and to Bruce, you were just a convenient opportunity to try what sex is all about. And then use that knowledge with someone more interesting. Anyone but you. Because why would he care?

A familiar sting of tears made you screw your eyes shut, ignoring the hunger and the aching chest. Perhaps you had a little more water left in your system to continue crying. You never got that far when another buzz interrupted the silence with its insistence. Sixth missed call.

You picked up the phone just as it stopped ringing. You almost felt bad for ghosting Bruce like that. Almost. Because you did not know what you could tell him if you did call back. You needed time and space to think and breathe and come to sensible conclusions. With a sigh, you opened the text he sent you over an hour ago:

“Please call me back. I think we should talk. I had no idea about any of this,” and God, you wanted to believe him.

But it was not that easy. Not yet, anyway. You decided to tell him that, replying to the message the best way you knew.

“I’m sorry, I can’t right now. I need some more time” you could only hope Bruce would understand.

All the harsh words you could push back his way if he pressed you had been gathering on the tip of your tongue, bitter like venom. You did not want to let them out, lend the ugliness a voice. But everything was still hurting. Another flashback willing itself on your mind just to make everything more painful. The way Selina looked at him. How he closed his eyes as she pressed her lips to his-

Another text made the phone vibrate in your hand. Without hesitation, you opened the message:

“Are you alright?” your heart gave out a pang, revelling in the newly established vulnerability.

One that you could not regret if you tried. Instead of attempting to get rid of the feeling in your chest, you texted Bruce back:

“No. But I’m home, and I’ll talk to you later,” and then, almost as an afterthought, testing if you were that brave, you sent him another message “Stay safe, Bruce,”

You could only hope he would listen.

***

It was much later when you got a response. Instead of sleeping, you were lying in the dark and staring at the ceiling, unable to turn off your brain. A text-related buzz was enough to rouse you from the stupor, making you reach for the device, blinded by the harsh light:

“Alfred woke up. He says you can visit him if you want to,” an invisible weight lifted off your chest as you allowed yourself a breath of relief.

It was not much, but it was always something. You already knew your answer to the proposition offered in the message, throwing back the covers and putting on dry clothes to head into the night. Anything was better than letting the darkness consume your thoughts. And you needed answers Alfred might be able to give. You could suffer a little more rain for it.

This time, the hospital staff was much less suspicious, letting you into Alfred’s room without questions, for which you thanked them with a timid smile. The butler was not surprised to see you either, instantly pressing the button on the bedframe to prop himself up and giving you a tired, albeit beaming smile:

“Hey, Bruce told me you’re awake,” quietly shutting the door behind you, your eyes settling on the older man to ask, “How are you feeling?”

His face had gained back colour, standing out more from the pale green of the hospital gown. Alfred gestured towards the chair beside his bed and reached out to you with the hand that was free from the iv needle:

“I’m glad to see you” though his palm was cold, he still gave you a firm handshake, “Far from splendid, but it’s been worse. I might be getting old, though” the sardonic chuckle escaped his throat, making you eye him with scepticism.

You relaxed into the chair with a comment:

“You? Never” grinning wide as Alfred returned the smile; however, the worries not allowed you to stall for much longer “Have you seen the new video from Riddler?” as soon as the question left your mouth, you could tell what the answer would be.

A frown replaced the smile on his face as Alfred nodded somberly.

“Yes, I nagged one of the nurses to show it to me after Bruce left” when his eyes met yours, the sadness in Alfred’s gaze deepened, “I can only imagine how you feel after that” he searched your face for a beat as if trying to foresee the response.

You did not feel like acting anymore as your throat tightened, threatening to spill more tears. Clenching your hand into a fist, you offered a half-hearted shrug, biting your lower lip till it stung.

“Yeah, well… It’s shit” from the look in his eyes, Alfred understood all that you did not tell him, silently urging you to continue and get to the point “Did you know? About my dad and…” trailing off meaningfully as you stared at your lap, unable to voice the most outrageous of assumptions.

Luckily for your sanity, Alfred did not falter, clearing his throat once before replying:

“When you introduced yourself to me, the surname did sound familiar, but I didn’t know why” you felt the weight of his gaze, the particles of pain fading upon the admission “As far as I know, Thomas didn’t do it. Yes, he was worried about the secrets your father made public, but he would never have anyone killed” swallowing hard you felt your eyes glaze over with tears “Only Falcone is that cruel, desperate to reach his means any way possible. He had your father killed, wanting to have some sort of a hook for Thomas Wayne” hearing the name, you raised your head, the fist resting in your lap tightening even more.

The pulse pounded in your ears as you soaked in the information, unable to keep your voice steady:

“It was all Falcone? My dad, Thomas, and Martha Wayne?” it felt as though the world had stopped, leaving you suspended in the moment.

Aware that you were on the brink of the truth you had been seeking for as long as you could remember. Aware that from now on, nothing would be exactly the same.

“I think so, yes” Alfred pursed his lips in thought, his attentive gaze never leaving your face.

As if he was expecting an explosion or an outburst. You had to disappoint him, feeling the steady simmering underneath your skin, waiting to reach its limit soon, but not yet. Not here. Because if it was all Falcone, you did not know whether you could leave it alone. Whether you could forget it.

“Fuck…” sinking further into the seat, you muttered the curse quietly.

You couldn’t forget it. Not if you were to try living on and forgiving yourself for things that were never your fault. As if sensing the chaos in your mind, Alfred placed his hand on your forearm and squeezed it gently.

“When Bruce came here, he was utterly distraught at the idea that his father could’ve done something so horrible. That it could all have been the cause of your misery, of what happened to your parents” when he spoke again after a brief silence, you did not expect to hear that.

But in Alfred’s eyes, you saw nothing but honesty, confirming that he meant what he shared. That it happened. That Bruce was shocked by the revelations too. That he cared, at least a little bit.

You could only repeat the weak shrug, levelling the butler with a tired look:

“To be honest, I was ready to accept that I have Wayne senior to thank for this. Now I don’t know what to think” as good as any summary you could offer.

The essence of your mind for the past hours. Ever since the kiss, to be exact. The reminder was enough to send a bolt of pain through your heart, which likely had nothing to do with your father or his killer.

“Bruce really cares about you, you know” Alfred broke the silence again, changing the subject to what you hoped could have been avoided, “God knows he’s not good at expressing it, but you’re more important than he dares to admit” on its own accord, a scowl painted itself across your face.

As surprise flashed across Alfred’s eyes, you knew there was no way forward but the truth. So, you gave him just that, fidgeting nervously in the seat as uncertainty made its home in the pit of your stomach:

“Well… I was beginning to believe that, but then I saw him kiss another woman today, so…” the shock deepened in his grey eyes as you chuckled mirthlessly, a stray tear trailing down your cheek “I know fuck all, I guess” the bitter laugh was a hard one to stifle, begging to be released as though it could solve anything.

You did your best, clamping your mouth shut in time for Alfred to find his voice again:

“He didn’t- Oh, I’ll have to knock some sense into that idiot” his hand flexed into a fist as you saw his lips twist into a stern frown.

There was no way to stop the brief flash of gratitude in your chest. Or the tiny smile that raised the corner of your lip. But no matter the thankful feeling, you could not get rid of the overwhelming resignation, the desire to let spill it out impossible to be denied:

“I appreciate the sentiment, it’s just… I don’t know. Maybe it’s better this way” once you met Alfred’s eyes, you knew you had to keep going, using the chance to speak your mind, “You know, ending it before it even began. Ripping off the band-aid and the like” and there it is.

What you did not feel like adding were the details of the pain you would have to endure if you were to let Bruce go. Or the fact that it was likely impossible to forget him, even if you were desperate to try. Or that what happened the previous day had made you his for a better part of eternity. No, Alfred was better off without it.

“Why do you think so?” his question brought you back into the moment, endearing in its simplicity.

That one you had practised long before. Long before you had reasons to.

“Because it could never work out. It never does” seeing the disbelief in the older man’s eyes felt like a spark igniting the fire, making the irk let itself known through the insistence in your voice “I mean, me and Bruce Wayne? Who’s going to believe that?” staring defensively at Alfred should he have something more to say, you waited.

As if sensing your defiance, Alfred did not argue, changing the subject until you quickly left him with a hug and a promise not to do anything stupid. There was no saying you would keep it.

***

It was impossible to say when the spiral began or whether you could have done anything to stop it. As soon as the hospital unit doors closed behind you, your throat contracted with the pressure of the unshed tears. As if you had just awakened from the twenty years long coma, unable to do anything but absorb the reality. You did not doubt whether Alfred could have lied to you. It was clear he told the truth as he understood it. It made so much sense, too. How did you not think of it before?

Falcone was a fixed part of Gotham’s ecosystem, just as much as the Waynes and the Arkhams. His name was easily found among the history pages and chronicles, mentioned in the gossip columns and the most recent crime stories in the daily newspapers. An assassination of an inconvenient and snooping reporter was certainly not beneath him. Especially not if he could have gotten a favour from Thomas Wayne in return. For men like him, the math ended right there. It was a simple deal. Death was just collateral damage. Same as what followed after, since there would be no consequences for Carmine Falcone. There never were.

People like your father, like you, they did not matter. Had no importance in the greatest of equations. If they died… well, shame. Just that.

Tears were flowing steadily down your cheeks now blurring the cold light of the fluorescents. For years it had been the same question over and over again. First, your mom asked it, wailing as the cops brought you the news on a weekday evening. Who did this? Who could’ve done this to him? They had no clue. The case was soon closed, with too little evidence to do anything chosen as the official ruling. The question still drove your mother mad, turning her into nothing but a shadow of who she once was. You promised yourself you would not let it happen to you. That you would be the one to find justice for your family.

Knowing the answer to the question made things worse. Once you heard it, you could not unlearn the fact. You could not forget it. Falcone’s name bounced in your brain like the most insistent of thoughts, tightening the knot in your chest and making you feel sick with each heartbeat. Staggering forward through the sliding doors and outside, you forced your lungs to take a deep breath. Fighting the panic surging through the system. Bringing an abrupt stop to the snowball rolling down the hill and gaining speed. The burner phone in your pocket started ringing again. Unable to think clearly, you picked it up and pressed the mobile to your ear:

“Where are you?” Bruce’s tense tone cut through the haze in your mind like a knife.

You let out a long exhale, piecing together the answer and looking around to get your bearings, even if for a moment:

“Leaving the hospital just now. Why?” your voice came out weaker than usual.

You had a feeling there would be no pretending tonight. Not with Bruce.

“It’s been Falcone all this time” as if responding to your earlier spiral, the mention of the man made you stop in the middle of the sidewalk, gasping as Bruce added, “He’s the goddamn rat,”

Fuck. Once Bruce said it, it almost seemed too obvious. How could you have missed that?

“Oh,” another falter, listening to Bruce’s shallow breaths over the phone until you dared to speak the truth, “Alfred told me he’s had my father killed. Your parents too” sometimes, when facts were spoken out loud, they became real; the desperation rose like a wave in your heart, swallowing reason and logic until you could only choke out a few words “I- We need to do something,”

Anything.

“I’m going to the Lounge right now. Gordon and I will try to turn him in” the blind rationality in his answer made you huff in frustration, unable to calm down even as Bruce added to Falcone’s list of transgressions, “We’ve got evidence he murdered the girl Mitchell was seeing”

But it was hardly enough. The anger sizzled in your veins as you picked up the pace, hand gripping the phone tightly.

“And what?” you all but spat the question, not letting Bruce interject as you doubled down with another question “Do you seriously think Falcone can be arrested and put on trial like any ordinary Gothamite?” the ringing silence on the other end spoke for itself.

You knew it was not his fault, that Bruce had nothing to do with Falcone or what he had done. But it still hurt. So much that you could barely breathe.

“What more can we do?” the tiredness in his voice seemed palpable as you could hear him bite back harsh comments.

Perhaps the tables had turned. Maybe now you were supposed to be the mean one.

“He should pay for what he did to us. To me,” it was impossible to stifle the pain as it seeped into your tone, making your voice crack as tears welled up again, blurring the sidewalk.

This time, Bruce did not turn a blind eye to what hardly was hidden. He gasped sharply before asking:

“What do you mean?” the tentativeness permeated the spaces between his words.

As if he was afraid of being straightforward. As if he did not actually want to know what you meant because that would make it real.

You barely knew what you meant. Only that the despair still rose, crawling into the crevices of your heart and making it impossible to think about anything else but the fact that justice had to be delivered. In any shape or form. You could not go on much longer with Falcone breathing the same air unpunished. You could not forgive yourself if you did.

“I have to make him pay, Bruce” that’s what you meant, the sincere tone breaking through the pretence, dissolving the walls and the illusions, “I’ve spent over half of my life wondering who’s responsible for this nightmare. Now I know, and I can’t just let it go,”

Even if it’s the last thing you ever do. But you did not tell him that. Bruce knew without you needing to put it into words.

“No,” his voice broke on the syllable, making you gasp, the traitorous throat closing up again as Bruce added, “God, please, promise me you’ll stay out of this” his tone was overcome with emotions and rough around the edges.

As if he, too, was on the brink of tears. As if he understood what you were going to do, and he did not like it. Well, tough.

“I can’t” breathing out to stop the tears, you whispered that which you hoped he would understand, “Bruce, please don’t ask for what I can’t give you,”

It was the one rule you would never break. Don’t make promises you cannot keep. And Bruce was not an exception. Even if only in this one case.

The pause before he spoke again told you he caught on to it too. He took a deep breath as if bracing himself to do something requiring bravery:

“I-” as Bruce’s voice cracked on whatever he intended to say, you could not bite back the strangled gasp, clamping the hand over your mouth to stop yourself from speaking, “Don’t do anything stupid,”

You could only nod, feeling the complacent tone sink in and anchor the resignation deep within your bones. There was nothing more you could tell him. No promises you could make or apologies worth giving.

“Goodbye,” you whispered the word into the speaker and ended the call as it left your mouth.

You picked up the pace to get home, your mind already occupied by the small gun hidden in the bedroom drawer. It would have to do.

[frodo-with-glasses]

Discord Highlights: The Fellowship of the Dudes

[4/28/23]

InvisibleWashboard:

I have a head canon that one of Merry's sons in particular had to be taught to swim early because the kid was OBSESSED with any and all things to do with water. Estella was afraid to ever let him out of her sight for fear he would end up drowned before he could even walk.

meg is me:

Imagine merry desires his kids to be Equestrians and good old Stybba bears many a baby Brandybuck rider To Merry's dismay bby Eomer HATES ponies

InvisibleWashboard:

Eomer is the son that loves the water in my head.

[4/29/23]

Writing Valkyrie:

I was thinking last night, and I'd like to think that surfing was big in Numenor. Elros and his Queen made it a family tradition, and the whole populace really took to it. It died off a bit with the King's Men, deeming it not worth their time, something only the Faithful indulged in. Now adays, it only survives in Dol Amroth. And can be found in Alqualondë It took Thorongil some time to learn it, but once he did, Prince Imrahil never beat him again.

On the first diplomatic trip the High King makes to Dol Amroth, Imrahil demands a rematch. "Lets get barreled, dude!" -Imrahil (probably) "Yeah, dude, lets go shred some waves!" Aragorn (also probably) "Don't forget to reapply your sun balm." -Arwen (definitely)

Rumor has it, that the King is set to take the title of "Surf Champion" from the previous master, Thorongil.

InvisibleWashboard:

Someone who can draw please draw Aragorn as a surfer dude, I am begging.

Writing Valkyrie:

Shaka sign and everything.

InvisibleWashboard:

Does Arwen participate/get good at it? I feel like Legolas would be decent when he comes to visit.

Writing Valkyrie:

She'd be very graceful at it, and soon comes to surpass her husband.

InvisibleWashboard:

Mmmm. Yes. Very good.

Writing Valkyrie:

Legolas would just do handstands on the board. Or shoot targets while shredding the waves.

InvisibleWashboard:

I like the idea of him showing off with handstands. I know canonically he doesn’t have siblings but he has SUCH youngest sibling energy and handstands on the board is very much a youngest brother thing, I think.

Writing Valkyrie:

He can even do 'em one handed "Look ada!" The Good Surfer gene runs in the Olwë/Elwë bloodline.

Gimli would just like to enjoy the sunshine, thank you very much.

InvisibleWashboard:

Who else gives it a go? Faramir? Eowyn? Would Boromir from the Boromir Lives comic have tried?

I’m obsessed with this idea now.

Writing Valkyrie:

Boromir would give it a try, but he'd surf like the old timers that just kinda stand and just ride it out.

Eowyn and Faramir would boogey-board.

Lothiriel is a pro at surfing. Eomer would like nothing with that thank you very much, but he will just get in the water and float a bit.

Imrahil kinda hopes that [Lothiriel would] surpass Aragorn, but she just enjoys it for the fun of it and not competition. Though if she did compete, everyone better watch out.

Elrond and Celebrian get into it a bit after Elrond sails, due to 1) Elros did it, 2) Arwen and Aragorn did it, and 3) Elladan and Elrohir enjoy it.

Though they steer clear of Galadriel, 'cause she absolutely shreds them waves.

Celeborn just like his floaties, thanks.

InvisibleWashboard:

Celeborn is such a trophy husband. I love him.

Writing Valkyrie:

Finrod thinks it's neat, and is the best at getting barreled.

But yes, surfing picks up again in the fourth age, and becomes a tradition of the royal families, that unites them all.

Me:

I haven’t read the Silmarillion, but based on Tarva’s comics, Finrod gives me such strong surfer dude vibes.

Writing Valkyrie:

I haven't read it yet, either, but maybe we're onto something. 😂 I mean, they did grow up on the beach. You can't tell me Earwen and Grandpa Olwe didn't teach the kids about the beach and the ocean.

Gandalf would do it sometimes, but he'd just stand on the board as if on dry land, staff and everything, riding it like it was a segway.

InvisibleWashboard:

Not to bring up stuff from yesterday, but Merry brings his family to visit and water obsessed Éomer is losing his mind over the surfing and wants to figure out a way to do something similar back in the Shire.

meg is me:

pippin is canonically good at balancing just throwing that out there

Writing Valkyrie:

He'd be good at it, but he'd ride goofy-footed.

ladyofgifts:

what if he's better at it than Merry so whenever they visit, Eomer sticks to him for the whole time going this is my Favorite Uncle

InvisibleWashboard:

Yes. So much yes.

meg is me:

Merry: gasp how rude eomer: dad you aren't my uncle Merry: i know but still

Me: (re: surfing in the Shire)

Hmm…okay, no way they’re gonna have wind strong enough to make waves on the Brandywine, but if they can get a dinghy going fast enough on a brisk day, they might be able to water ski! X-D

InvisibleWashboard:

Estella would hate that. So much. Merry would think it's great though.

Me:

If you’re ever lacking wind, you can always compensate by tying the prow to two ponies, one on either bank, on a narrow stretch of the river 🤣🤣

InvisibleWashboard:

What I'm picturing now is a bit closer to what I grew up doing with my brothers... if it got really muddy, we would tie a skimboard to the back of a four wheeler and ride/pull each other around on that. I could see little hobbits trying something similar with their ponies.

Me:

Oh the mess it would make. But how fun!

InvisibleWashboard:

Oh yes, so much dirt in places dirt is not supposed to be!

Me:

All I’m hearing is that Eomer Brandybuck is the first hobbit to move to Dol Amroth. Ostensibly it’s to be an ambassador on behalf of the Shire, but in actuality, it’s for the waves, bro.

InvisibleWashboard:

I'M OBSESSED.

Me:

Tolkien: Hobbits, as a rule, hate the water. Us: So this is our OC Eomer Brandybuck, he’s a hobbit surfer bro

chaosandwhatnot:

"this sign can't stop me because i can't read"

InvisibleWashboard:

No, you don't understand... Eomer wasn't even one of Merry's OC kids I was that interested in, but NOW...

Wait does he move out there by himself or does he have a family he brings with him? Does he form a small hobbit community outside of the Shire by doing this or does he just stay single forever because his heart only belongs to the sea?

Me:

“His heart only belongs to the Sea” sounds so beautiful and poetic and Tolkien-esque until we add the clarification “by that we mean he just really, really loves to surf”

Writing Valkyrie:

I'd love to say that he has a small family when he moves down there, along with some other like-minded hobbits, but I'd think that he'd also teach others, hobbit and non-hobbit, to surf, regardless if he's alone or not.

Kasey Gondor:

forms a community of inter-racial surfing enthusiasts. after Legolas leaves Ithilien some of the elves that were there join up. we'll get some dwarves down there too. everyone just intermingles. here we are not hobbits or men or elves or dwarves. but dudes. surfing dudes.

meg is me:

The Fellowship of the Dudes The other fellowship was male of course but not all of them were Dudes

Writing Valkyrie:

Come to Gondor, we have surfing. 🤣 And thus, peace was established with Harad, Khand, and Rhun.

Morgoth cannot surf. Evil does not like water -> They will not come to the ocean -> Cannot surf.

meg is me:

Truer words have never been spoken

[4/30/23]

Me:

InvisibleWashboard I believe you requested this yesterday X-D

InvisibleWashboard:

This is perfection. Thank you.

Writing Valkyrie is @writingvalkyrie, InvisibleWashboard is @invisiblewashboard, chaosandwhatnot is @grondds-and-roses, Kasey Gondor is @captaingondor, ladyofgifts is our beloved Zara, and meg is me does not have tumblr :-3