#i hope they patch that in one day cause it’d be a lot easier to do that then to have to use a mod/doc/website to keep track of what u got

[heavymetalvamp]

I told myself that my sorcery playthrough would be casual and not as in-depth as my first as if i’m not almost ~120 bosses in out of 165 total

[silverwhittlingknife]

only you will have stars that can laugh

Robin!Tim is alone for Christmas. Dick finds out, and fixes it.

Also featuring: a Christmas party for loners, Tim's empty house, found family, snow in Blüdhaven, and the meaning of Robin.

Also posted on ao3. All thanks and kudos to my marvelous beta @bitimdrake, whose fics you should read.

* *

It’s Christmas Eve, and for the first time in a long while, Dick has plans that aren’t “mope privately and hope no one notices.” He has good plans, even. He’s heading to Gotham for a party at the Clocktower. A Christmas party for loners, Babs said when she invited him. Read: this is not a date, Grayson, so don’t get your hopes up.

Which is fine. Dick can roll with that. Babs is a friend. If she wants to just be friends, they can be friends and he can value that. He’s not gonna push, and he’s not gonna get ahead of himself. He’s trying not to, anyway. The thing is. He likes to think he can tell the difference between I’m not interested and I’m interested but I have to think about it first.

And Babs? Right now? Is a whole lot of the second one

Bruce is gonna be off-world with the JLA, but Babs invited Alfred. To be honest, Dick’s kind of relieved Bruce is off-world. Everything’s patched up, in theory anyway, so if Bruce were here Dick would probably be invited to Christmas—at the very least by Alfred—and then he’d have to decide whether to go or not, and…

It’s just easier this way. He hasn’t spent Christmas at the Manor since everything went south with Bruce. It’d be awkward.

(He can’t stop wondering if he would’ve been invited. Probably, right? You’re better than me, Dick. That’s surely worth a Christmas invitation?)

* *

It’s around five, which is too early to leave Blüdhaven. Babs said six-ish, and discretion, better part of valor, prove you can be patient, etcetera, so he’s gonna wait until—oh, six-fifteen or so.

There’s something about Barbara Gordon that makes him feel like an overeager kid again. But it’s fun, actually. It’s a novelty, not being the leader. He can’t lose Babs’s respect ‘cause—heh—he’s never had it. Batgirl may have thought Robin was a goofball, and Oracle may be fondly unimpressed with Nightwing, but Dick Grayson still got a Christmas Eve invite.

Not a Christmas Day invite, but that’s okay. On Christmas Day, Dick will—mope, probably. But tomorrow is not gonna ruin tonight. Tonight, he is determined to enjoy himself.

* *

Phone buzzes. He checks—please let her not be canceling—but no, it’s a text from Tim.

Tim: do you have plans for christmas?

Dick: going to a party tonight!

There’s a weirdly long silence before the response.

Tim: cool! have fun

There’s something pinging in the back of his mind—Tim, Christmas Eve—

—shit, Christmas Eve is the day Tim’s mom was buried.

His good mood takes a dive.

Dick: you doing okay?

Tim: ?

Maybe it’s a faux-pas to bring it up? He knows he didn’t misremember. Dick’s not great with dates, but the funeral was—memorable.

Strange to think it was only a year ago. So much has changed. The awkward funeral, things on the verge of imploding with the Titans. And now: new city, about to have a new job. New beginnings all over the place. He almost wishes he could go back to the person he was—hell, even a few months ago—and say, look, don’t worry, it’ll be okay.

None of that helps him with Tim, though. There’s no tactful way to say sorry about your dead mom over text.

He calls.

“Hey,” Tim says. “So, a party, huh?”

“That’s the idea,” Dick says. Hmm. Maybe better to keep it light, actually. He doesn’t want to pry, and at least Tim sounds fine, which is reassuring. He wonders if the Drakes went to the cemetery earlier, if they leave roses the way Bruce does for his parents, the way Dick does for his. But it’s none of his business, actually. “You’re with your dad, huh?” he says.

“Yeah. Um. He’s with Dana right now. I mean, they’re not home. They’re coming back later.”

Ah. The new girlfriend. Awkward.

He feels a pinch of sympathy. Tim’s said nothing but polite things about Dana, but no matter how nice she is, the anniversary of the wife’s death must be tricky.

Actually, though, wait—morbid thought though this is—Janet Drake didn’t actually die on Christmas Eve. The death must’ve been, what, at least a week before the funeral? Maybe Tim’s not even thinking about it.

Dick should ask Alfred about the timing of everything, find out for next year. A little intrusive, maybe, but…it’d be good to know.

“So they’ve gone out to dinner, huh?” Dick says, more to fill the silence than anything else.

“Um, yeah, kinda.”

Upper-crust Gotham is so strange. Out for Christmas Eve dinner without the kid?

But then again, maybe it’s Dick’s expectations that are off. The circus was close-knit by preference and necessity: the Graysons would no sooner have left Dick alone for dinner on Christmas Eve than they’d have flown to the moon. And though Bruce is distant in his own way, being Batman and Robin was a similar kind of gig. They might’ve spent Christmas Eve on patrol a few times, but when Dick was a kid, they always spent it together.

(Some pretty good memories, actually. Don’t think about it.)

Maybe the Drakes are the normal ones and it’s Dick’s family—families?—that are weird.

“Anyway,” Tim says. “I’m gonna watch TV or something.” His voice turns annoyingly knowing. “So. Your party. With Babs or with your landlady?”

Ooh, brat. “Just for that I’m not telling you.”

“I’ll deduce,” Tim says. “Wait, it’s not with Huntress, though, is it? ‘Cause I really do think that’s a bad idea.”

He’s being fussed over by a teenager with a pregnant girlfriend. “It’s not with Helena. She dumped me, remember?”

“Sorry,” Tim says, managing to sound halfway sympathetic.

“Nice try.” He checks the forecast: snow flurries. Maybe better to head to Gotham sooner rather than later. “Hey, I gotta go, but���you have a good evening, yeah? Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah! You too.”

They hang up.

* *

Train over to Gotham.

Flipping around on the rooftops. Maybe showing off a bit for Oracle’s cameras. She’ll roll her eyes, but she’ll think it’s funny.

Buying eggnog. The cashier does a hilarious double-take at the Nightwing costume.

Arriving at the Clocktower street entrance, ringing the doorbell, stamping the snow off his feet.

(Tim, parents out to dinner, alone on Christmas Eve.)

* *

“The cookies are burnt,” Babs greets him, rueful. There’s a blast of warm air from inside.

“It’s okay, I brought eggnog,” Dick says. He closes the outer door behind him, and they’re standing in the hallway, and he meant to lead up to this, but what comes out of his mouth is: “Hey. I was thinking. You mind if we invite Robin?”

Surprise on Babs’s face before she smooths it away. “Of course not,” she says. “The more, the merrier.”

Babs’s mind is like Tim’s: a steel trap, inescapable. He can see her tucking away the knowledge, probably coming to the wrong conclusions about why the new Robin might want company on Christmas Eve. Bruce does have an orphan habit.

Or maybe she already knows Tim’s identity. Babs is so discreet it’s hard to tell. It wouldn’t be hard for her to figure out if she poked around, and Dick’s honestly been a bit surprised that she hasn’t pushed him for details. But then, maybe it’s not that surprising. Babs cares, a lot, about privacy. He knows she resented it when Dick and Bruce unmasked her, way back when. And she knows that Tim—that Robin—isn’t comfortable telling her yet. Maybe that’s enough for her.

“I don’t have a phone number for him,” Babs says, too neutral, and okay, maybe she’s a bit curious.

There’s no way Tim just sat around the empty house. “He’ll be on comms.” Oh, hey, there’s an idea. “Tell him it’s an emergency.”

Babs’s eyebrows are up. “Really.”

“It’s a Christmas emergency,” Dick says, grinning. Now that he’s made the decision to ask, he feels a lot lighter. “I have an urgent need for both my favorite computer nerds.”

That gets him a smile, though she’s biting it back. “Your call, Man Wonder. But if it goes sideways, I’m blaming you. Come on up.”

* *

Elevator up to her place, and—

Alfred.

Alfred, in the kitchen, frowning down at the burnt Christmas cookies, carefully anointing each one with icing. It could be years ago, with little-kid Dick’s burnt cookies, and a Christmas in the Manor, and—

He blinks the memories away. Not stately Wayne Manor, but Babs’s cramped and boxy little place, full of sharp angles, covered with computer wires. Babs doesn’t like big open spaces anymore, not since the gun.

“Hey,” he says, and has to clear his throat. “Hey, Alfie.”

“Master Dick,” Alfred says, warm.

* *

“I am afraid these cookies may be unsalvageable,” Alfred is saying.

“We’ll have Robin eat them,” Dick says. Tim will eat anything.

“An excellent solution. Though I believe the young man is unavailable at the moment.”

Dick will see about that. He taps a few keys on Babs’s computer, and—yep, Tim’s online. Called it. He types Robin, need your help urgently at the Clocktower, and hesitates. It’ll freak Tim out, and it doesn’t give him the option of saying no, which is maybe a little presumptuous, but…

Nah.

He signs Oracle, and then hits the enter key.

“He won’t fall for it,” Babs says over his shoulder. “I never sign my name.”

“He’ll fall for it,” Dick says.

Tim’s a great detective—with strangers.

* *

Robin arrives in full gear with batarangs.

“Told you he’d fall for it,” Dick says.

“Huh?” Tim says. He’s staring at the tree, the gathering, the costumes. He’s such a kid sometimes. He looks totally baffled. Boy detective, hah.

“It’s a Christmas party for loners,” Babs says.

“Babs burnt the cookies,” Dick says, “but the eggnog’s good.” Babs elbows him for that. And Tim does still look a little stunned, so he adds, “We didn’t mean to scare you.”

“That’s okay,” Tim says. At first Dick’s not sure if it is, but then the confusion drops off Tim’s face and he’s honest-to-God beaming, big bright smile. “It’s really okay.”

Good.

* *

It’s a good party. A great party, even. It’s a little awkward—they all know each other, obviously, but they’ve never all socialized together. It’s strange and a little bittersweet to have Alfred hovering around, out of his element, no Bruce. And it’s obvious that Tim and Babs—Robin and Babs, he has to watch himself—have only ever interacted while teaming up on projects. Tim offers to wipe the table, and then to wash the dishes, and generally gets underfoot trying to assign himself projects until Babs snaps at him to cut it out.

“Sorry! I, uh. I just want to help?”

“You can help by sitting and by eating the food,” Babs snaps, and then winces. “Or not eating. I can’t vouch for the food. It’s up to you.”

“It’s good,” Tim says loyally, but he has in fact been nibbling rather than devouring, which means his taste buds aren’t completely haywire.

Babs frowns. “Really?”

“Robin’s just a suck-up,” Dick says cheerfully. Tim sticks out his tongue. “Hey, watch it. You’re still not too big to spank.”

“I’m not a suck-up,” Tim says.

“He just has manners,” Babs says. Ooh, betrayal. But she’s teasing, too. “Hey, Robin, you know how many thank you notes this fellow wrote me? None, that’s how many.”

“The pleasure of my delightful company wasn’t enough?” Dick says.

“No,” Babs says.

Dick mimes clutching his heart. Also, hang on. “Wait, did you get thank you notes, too?”

“Wait,” Babs says. “He wrote them to you too?”

Tim’s ears turn red.

Best Christmas party ever.

* *

Alfred goes home early, and then it’s Dick and Tim and Babs for a while. Dick and Babs drink a little wine, after Alfred goes. Babs is wearing a Christmas sweater, and it brings out her eyes. He keeps catching himself staring, having to look away. Tim’s here, he reminds himself. But maybe, after Tim leaves—?

Actually, hmm. It’s nearly ten.

Reality interrupts the romantic daydream. Tim probably needs to get home. His parents’ dinner can’t have lasted that late. Tim must’ve forgotten. Uh oh.

He has two options here.

Option one, the tempting one: hint that Tim should go home, as casually as he can without leaving too many breadcrumbs for Babs. Risk accidentally hurting Tim’s feelings. Risk giving something away to Babs. Hopefully have a bit of one-on-one time with Babs after.

Option two, the responsible one: head home himself and scoop Tim along.

Well. There will be other days, other chances, with Babs. And maybe he shouldn’t push his luck, anyway.

Dick makes a show of stretching. “I should probably head back. Robin, want to head out together? It’s getting kinda late.”

He sees Babs register that clue, too, realizing Dick knows where Robin lives: nothing obvious, just a slight narrowing of her eyes. There’s not much point trying to keep secrets from Oracle, but it is kinda fun to watch her work. If this goes on long enough, she’ll figure it out whether she’s trying or not.

“Oh,” Tim says. “Yeah, I didn’t realize—yeah. Um. Thanks for the party. And the cookies.”

Dick thinks about Babs quietly inviting Alfred so that Dick wouldn’t have to agonize over it, Babs going along with inviting Tim. Babs letting them all into the personal space that she’s so protective of.

“He’s right,” Dick says, clearing his throat. “Really, thanks. This was great.”

“No problem, Boy Wonders,” Babs says.

* *

Tim’s place isn’t that far away, and—okay, so maybe Dick would like to just glance over at the Manor, see the lights that mean Alfred’s arrived safe.

“Walk you home?” he suggests to Tim.

Of course, they don’t actually walk.

* *

Nightwing and Robin get to Bristol and stop on the roof of Tim’s house. Wayne Manor’s only a smudge in the distance, but it does have some lights on, which means Alfred’s probably staying up cleaning, keeping himself busy until Bruce is back. It would be easy to spend the night, if Dick wanted. But—

No.

Tim’s house, on the other hand, is still dark. Still not back? That’s a little worrisome. He knows Babs was monitoring the police broadcasts, it’s not likely that anything happened, but— “Do you think they’ve gone to bed early?”

“No, they’re, um,” Tim says. “They’re in Chicago, actually.”

Dick doesn’t lose his balance. “Sorry, they’re what?”

Tim looks uncomfortable. “They were gonna fly back this evening, but they got snowed in, and…yeah. My dad left a message. They think tomorrow afternoon, maybe.” Tim nudges a loose tile with his foot.

Chicago, fly back, do you have Christmas plans.

What the hell.

“They went on a Christmas vacation without you?” Dick says.

Tim bristles. “It’s not a Christmas vacation, it’s an archeology conference. And then they stayed in Chicago a bit. Dana wanted to visit her relatives there.”

Yeah, you know what, screw giving the Drakes the benefit of the doubt. “It’s gonna be Christmas in two hours, Tim. Pretty sure that’s a Christmas vacation.”

He remembers, suddenly, when he was sixteen, that year when Bruce was pissed for whatever reason he was pissed that month and swung out of town abruptly the week after Christmas. And after chewing Dick out for spending time with his friends.

“It’s not like that,” Tim mutters. “Cut it out already. I don’t need supervision. I’m not a kid.”

Tim is the most grown-up kid that Dick has ever met, but that’s not the point. “Tim, it’s not about supervision, it’s—”

“No one asked you!”

The outburst cracks between them, and Dick freezes. Tim looks a little guilty, but he doesn’t take it back. He’s still flushed, still upset.

Ow.

But—okay. It isn’t Dick’s business. This is Tim’s family, not Dick’s. Dick’s just a—

A what? A busybody. A judgmental stranger. They fight crime together, but that doesn’t mean he gets a say on Tim’s personal life. Maybe he is overstepping. He bites his tongue, tastes blood.

“It’s not like it even matters,” Tim says, a bit too forcefully. “And they’ll be back tomorrow. And I can handle myself.”

That’s not the point. But there’s no point in pressing him on it. Dick and Tim haven’t talked about Jack Drake much—Tim doesn’t talk about his civilian life much, in general—but they’ve talked enough for Dick to get the contours: Tim alternates between sullen resentment of his dad and stubborn defensiveness.

It’s a dance that Dick understands a little too intimately.

“Anyway,” Tim says. “I, um. I’ll just…”

Leaving Tim alone in his dark house on Christmas Eve doesn’t feel right. The ghosts of unhappy Christmases past don’t help. And it’s not the same, Tim’s not the same, and Dick’s probably half-projecting, but…he still doesn’t like it, Tim going back to an empty house.

“Can I come in?” he asks, before he can think better of it.

“I don’t think…” Tim says, and then his brow furrows, like the possibilities are just now occurring to him, too. “Yeah. No one’s home so…yeah. I guess you can?”

“Do you mind?” Dick checks.

He can at least make sure the room is warm, that Tim has food, that there are no other shadows lurking around this house. Tim’s capable and he’s smart, and Bruce and Alfred have both looked into the family without finding anything actionable, and anyway Tim would say something if something was really wrong, but…

“Sure,” Tim says. “I mean. Yeah. You can come in.”

* *

They go in through Tim’s window, which has a slippery catch that Tim handles easily—well, of course he does, Grayson, he lives here.

Getting into the house is physically easy. It still feels like crossing a boundary. Dick likes to think he’s gotten to know Tim pretty well, over these many months, but Tim’s civilian life has stayed behind a blank wall. Tim’s been in the Manor, in Dick’s apartments, he’s threaded all through Dick’s life, but Dick doesn’t know him in the same way.

And that’s not just about the circumstances. Tim’s cagey about his family. About his personal life in general. And Tim’s entitled to his privacy, and maybe it’s a bit intrusive, but…Dick would like to know more. Sue him: detective. Not knowing things, especially big things, puts an itch under his skin.

It’s probably fine, but.

He’d just like to know a bit more.

* *

The first thing he learns is reassuring: the house is warm. The heating’s on and working fine.

The second thing he learns is that Tim lives like a pig.

“This is your room?” Dick says.

“You can’t judge me,” Tim says, though he does look a bit embarrassed. “You keep your stuff in cardboard boxes.”

Dick nudges a floppy stack of papers. “Comic books, really?” And—no way. Tim’s got a music video paused on the computer screen. “Enya?”

Tim looks like he’s regretting everything. “Why don’t we go downstairs? And, um, we could get something to drink? I think we’ve got more eggnog. Or…”

Robin and Nightwing look at each other. They’re both in costume.

“Don’t you have a housekeeper?” Dick checks.

“She’s in Ireland. With her family, for the holidays, you know? Nobody’s gonna come in.” But Tim must have the same superstitious feeling, because he adds, “You don’t have any, like. Normal clothes with you, do you?”

He realizes he does—the just-in-case Babs wants to do something in-person afterwards clothes, under the uniform. “I do, actually. Hang on.”

Changing is quick, and then the costumes go in Tim’s closet, and then it’s just—

Dick Grayson and Tim Drake.

In Tim’s house.

This is so weird. It ought to be normal, which is the weirdest thing about it. Tim’s over in Blüdhaven practically every other week. He is, in fact, over so often that Clancy’s under the impression that he’s Dick’s actual kid brother. Dick knows what Tim does when he’s bored on a transatlantic flight and what he looks like when he thinks he’s dying. Tim has opinions about Dick’s old couch versus his new couch, and on all his favorite movies, and on his pizza preferences.

Last month Dick dragged him out of a firefight and took him home and pushed his guts back into his stomach and patched him up and then they watched TV.

But he’s never been in Tim’s house before.

Tim shifts a little, shrugging away the invisible tension. “C’mon,” Tim says. “I might as well give you the grand tour.”

“Lead on, Macduff,” Dick says.

He mentally apologizes to an imaginary, scandalized Alfred for the misquotation.

* *

Tim’s house is big. Not nearly as big as the Manor—hardly anything is—but it’s still enormous. Tim pads down the enormous staircase, and Dick follows him and tries not to feel too self-conscious. What the hell does Tim see in Dick’s apartment, that he’s over all the time? Tim’s not snobbish, but still. Money does buy comfort. There’s a reason why Dick hasn’t invited Alfred over to his place.

“I think we’ve got eggnog in the kitchen!” Tim calls over his shoulder. “Over here.”

Dick doesn’t really feel like more, but why not. “Let’s do it,” he says aloud.

It’s habit to scan the area. Christmas tree lights winking around the corner in what must be the living room—no doubt decorated by the housekeeper, if Tim’s dad is out of town.

Enormous kitchen. Marble countertops. Stainless steel everything. He forgets, sometimes, about Tim’s wealth. No Wayne Manor, but it’s formidable all the same.

Well-stocked fridge when Tim opened it, but all packaged, reheatable meals: that must be the absent housekeeper’s doing. An archeology conference wouldn’t be held during the holidays, so if Tim was telling the truth, Jack Drake and his girlfriend have been gone for at least a week.

But Tim obviously has food. He’s fine. Objectively, Dick is being stupid. If Robin can patrol Gotham and fight crime, he’s gonna be fine sleeping in an empty house in Bristol. It’s not like Tim’s in danger.

“Do you want, um,” Tim says. “Sorry, I forgot, I think I drank it all. We’ve got beer and wine. I guess you’re sick of beer, huh?”

There’s nothing like working full-time at a bar to really sour you on the smell of beer, yeah. “Just Zesti’s fine.”

Tim winces. “Sorry. We don’t have any.”

Huh. Dick was banking on that being the easy thing. “You drank all of those, too, huh?”

“My dad doesn’t like them,” Tim says, looking back in the fridge.

So the sodas Tim drinks whenever he comes over are a special treat, not one of Tim’s everyday things. Interesting. Maybe his dad’s diet-conscious; Dick vaguely remembers Tim saying something about a home gym.

“If you don’t want wine, we’ve got, um, vegetable juice,” Tim says. “Um. Do you like red wine or white wine?”

There is no way Dick’s gonna drink Tim’s absent parents’ no-doubt-very-expensive wine. On top of everything else, he doesn’t particularly like the idea of owing Jack Drake anything.

“Just water,” he says aloud.

“My dad won’t care,” Tim says, doing his mind-reading trick. “He won’t even notice. He brings the bottles back from Europe to give as gifts to people. You can have one if you want.”

“I’m not much of a drinker,” Dick says, and can’t help adding, “Is your dad gonna bring back wine from Chicago, too?”

He regrets it when Tim stiffens. Shit.

“You don’t know anything about my dad,” Tim says. His face is unreadable, his tone is even, but his knuckles are white next to the fridge handle.

“Hey,” Dick says. “I’m sorry.” Realizes he is. It’s not like people giving him a hard time about Bruce have ever helped anything. “I’m not mad at you.” He raises his hands: look, I surrender. “And I’m not mad at your dad, okay? It just…it sucks that you got stuck here alone. That’s all I was thinking.”

It works; Tim makes a face. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you either.”

Tim pours glasses of water for them both and perches on a stool next to the kitchen island. They drink in silence. Dick stays standing, trying to resist the urge to—he doesn’t know what. Swing himself up on the countertops. The place is intimidatingly spotless. It’s more disconcerting than it should be. It takes him back to those first months in the Manor, feeling desperately out-of-place in Bruce’s world.

Tim’s eying him. Why is this so awkward.

He wishes they were in Blüdhaven. Forget sniffing out more details about Tim’s regular life—he’s ready for a night in and maybe a dumb Christmas movie and some of his own food. And a little brother that he can pretend belongs to him, instead of to this empty house.

…Actually, hang on.

“Your folks aren’t back until tomorrow afternoon, right?” Dick checks.

“The snow—” Tim begins.

“No, I get it, that sucks. Why don’t you come back to Blüdhaven with me? We could do a quick patrol. And you could stay over after.”

God, the look on Tim’s face. “Really?” he says, too fast, and then, flushing, “You don’t mind?”

You coming over is possibly the only thing that’s gonna stop me from wanting to punch your dad in the face, Dick doesn’t say.

My current Christmas Day plans are 1) pace around at home, and 2) try not to obsess about what Bruce is up to, so trust me, you’ll be an improvement, Dick doesn’t say.

He keeps his mouth shut. He is self-aware. Dick may be a mess, but he’s at least in control enough not to dump all his issues on a fourteen-year-old. Tim signed up to help them with crimefighting, not to be Dick’s emotional crutch.

“Of course I don’t mind,” he says aloud.

* *

Train to Blüdhaven, and they swing by the Zee Mores and help a couple lost souls find homeless shelters. In one alleyway, Dick watches Tim talk a runaway teenager out of her hiding place, patient and steady. You can trust us. I promise, nobody’s gonna hurt you. You’re just scared, right? Tim’s textbook-perfect at this kind of stuff: the runaways and the suicide risks, the drunks and the addicts. Earnest and reassuring. Like an after-school special.

It’s a funny out-of-body experience, watching Tim talk down strangers. His technique’s gotten a lot better since he was thirteen and facing down a grim-faced Bruce, but—well, it’s the same kind of thing, isn’t it? Tim cares so intensely. The full force of Tim Drake’s concern is like a tidal wave, impossible to resist.

Dick wishes this was the sort of thing he could brag to Clancy about: you should’ve seen him, Clance, she drew the knife and he didn’t even raise his voice.

Dick takes over once the girl’s a bit calmer, less likely to bolt. She nods shakily. She looks like she could do with some physical comfort, so Dick opens his arms just enough, an invitation, and—

Yeah. A crying girl with ratty hair in his arms. Robin puts a hand on her back, and that just makes her cry harder. Hasn’t had a home in a while, this girl.

In the end they take her to a shelter Dick knows, and some people he trusts, and stick around long enough to make sure it works out.

It’s a hard night, but it feels good. He thinks about Tim a year ago, back in NYC, simple and stubborn when Dick teased him about the overgrown boy scout act: I like helping people.

Dick likes helping people, too.

* *

Back to the apartment, past midnight, and their snow-dusted costumes leave little puddles on the floor. Dick’s gotten into the habit of keeping a spare change of clothes for Tim so he won’t have to bring it over in a backpack, but the only thing he’s got right now is jeans and a T-shirt. Not ideal while it’s still freezing. So Nightwing turns into Dick Grayson, but Tim stays Robin for now, taking advantage of the suit’s thermals. Dick cranks up the heat while they dry out from the flurries of snow.

“What do you want to—to watch?” Dick asks, yawning.

“It’s a Wonderful Life,” Tim says promptly. “And, uh. Can we make apple cobbler? Or roasted potatoes?”

Okay, that’s hyper-specific. “Sure? Do you know how?”

“Ye-es,” Tim says. “I think so.”

Dick assembles his best stab at ingredients, and Tim frowns down at them like he’s gonna march into battle. “I can do the potatoes,” Dick volunteers. “I think for apple cobbler you just need—” Hmm. What do you need? “I’ve got apples and sugar and cinnamon.”

Tim’s looking up a recipe on his phone. “Yeah,” he says. “And I need a pan, I think?”

“You think?”

“Shut up,” Tim says. “Okay. I’m ready now.”

This will be either very good or very bad.

* *

Both the potatoes and the cobbler turn out fine, actually, though it might just be that Dick missed dinner and isn’t feeling picky.

“They shoot, they score,” Dick says, and offers Tim a high-five. Tim matches it without taking his eyes off his food.

It’s not exactly, Dick thinks, that they’re learning each other’s rhythms. They’re creating a rhythm that’s all their own.

* *

The heat is still not working well, so Dick digs a few blankets out of one of his cardboard boxes. Tim’s sardonic about the cardboard boxes, so Dick throws a blanket over his head and holds it there until he surrenders, and then they watch TV. It’s a Wonderful Life is showing on half a dozen channels.

Tim toes off the Robin boots so he can put his feet on the couch, and curls under Dick’s blanket. He’s still got the mask on, which makes an odd picture. Robin’s serious young face and the top of Robin’s cape and green shoulders, and then the blanket.

Tim looks like such a kid, sometimes. Messy kid with a messy room. Dick’s having one of those moments where it feels surreal, to think this is the kid he fights crime with. Tim ought to be burning out his brain cells on a Playstation, or hanging out with girls at the mall. Anything but sparring with nutjobs from Arkham.

What’s in it for him? Why does he keep doing it? Should they even be letting him? Batman needs Robin, Gotham needs Robin, I need Robin, Tim told him, a few weeks back, when they talked about it. But it still feels like Tim gives them so much more than they give in return.

The apple cobbler, though. A weird late-night craving. But at least Dick’s given him something for Christmas.

* *

“So,” Dick asks eventually, during a commercial break. “Is apple cobbler a Christmas thing, for you?”

“It’s just, like. A holiday thing,” Tim says, not looking at him. “I haven’t had it in ages.”

“Your housekeeper got bored with making it?”

“No.” Tim fiddles with the blanket. “We just haven’t had it in a while.”

“I guess she probably did a better job that we did,” Dick guesses.

“Not Mrs. Mac. It was, um. My mom. She used to—she used to bake them.”

Dick doesn’t move. Barely breathes. He has half a plate of cobbler in front of him, and the remains of a potato, and a mystery with pieces that are snapping together. So this is the secret point of the food. Probably also the movie.

“Lamb and roast potatoes and apple cobbler,” Tim says. “It was, like. It was her big meal that she’d do. For special occasions, you know?”

Dick has questions, but he waits.

The trick with Tim, he’s learned, is that you’ve got to wait. He wants to talk, he’s just no good at it. But if you wait him out, he’ll get there.

He listens to the creaking of the radiator, and watches the faint specks of snow hitting his window, and tightens his grip, very lightly, on Tim’s shoulder.

He waits.

“She liked apples,” Tim says at last.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She didn’t like cooking much. She could do it, but she thought my dad… They fought a lot, you know? She wanted him to cook more. We didn’t have Mrs. Mac then. And my dad, he wanted her to be more…this is gonna sound bad, but my dad’s kinda…traditional?”

Dick’s pretty sure the word Tim’s avoiding is sexist, but if Tim doesn’t want to say it, Dick won’t. And to be fair, Dick doesn’t actually know Jack Drake. Coupled up within a year with his much-younger physical therapist is…a choice, but it doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

“And my mom, she’d get mad at him. So then she didn’t want to cook, and she wanted him to take more responsibility for…things. That he thought were her job.”

“People fight sometimes,” Dick says, trying to figure out what Tim needs to hear. “It doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.”

“They were gonna get a divorce. I think.”

Oops. Okay, change direction. I’m sure they both loved you? I’m sure your mom loved you? The problem, of course, is that Dick’s not really sure of anything when it comes to the Drakes. Doesn’t know how to avoid putting his foot in his mouth.

The commercial break is over and It’s a Wonderful Life is back on, but Dick leaves the TV set muted. He tries not to stare directly at Tim, in case that’s too much pressure. But he’s very conscious of the kid at the edge of his awareness.

“There was this one year,” Tim says. He’s got his arms around his knees. “When I was a kid. I was…ten, maybe? And they were both home, and we did a big thing for Christmas Eve. She made a big meal, and we watched movies, and I ate, like, half the apple cobbler, I think. And we walked around the neighborhood—she always walked really fast, and she’d—it was funny, because she’d forget, and then she’d be too far ahead, and she’d have to turn and come back to us, and—” Tim’s voice wobbles a bit, and he breaks off sharp, flushing.

Oh, kiddo. Dick gives into temptation and runs a hand through Tim’s hair, digs his fingers into the scalp. Tim closes his eyes.

“Sounds like a good memory,” Dick says, when he trusts his voice.

“That’s when,” Tim says, voice thick. “When she—that’s when I told them to have the funeral, you know? On Christmas Eve. Because…I wanted to remember her like that, you know, and not…”

So that was Tim’s idea. Right, of course, his dad was in a coma. “Yeah,” Dick says aloud.

“I feel like I’m forgetting her.”

That one hits a bit too close to home. “Yeah,” Dick manages.

And of course Tim catches it. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”

“Hey, you’re good.” Breathe.

That bothers me too, he could say, the forgetting.

But he can’t say it. He can’t talk about his parents. He’s never been able to, not really.

Tim still looks worried, so Dick ruffles his hair to make him relax. “Forgetting,” he prompts.

“Dana likes cooking,” Tim says.

It sounds like a non sequitur. But maybe it’s not. Dick watches the silent figures moving on the TV screen. He’s got a bit of the shape of it now, he thinks. Jack Drake on a trip with his new girlfriend. And the girlfriend isn’t a hasty replacement for the dead wife; she’s the opposite of the dead wife. He’s already gotten from what Tim’s said that the new girlfriend is conventionally feminine, young, attractive. A helper career, and dating her employer. She’s probably happy to cook for Jack Drake.

“I like Dana,” Tim says. Careful. “She’s good for him.”

“But you feel disloyal.”

“I mean…not exactly, but…” Tim trails off. “Kind of.” And then, very reluctantly, “She’d be so mad, my mom. She’d be so mad.”

Dick bites back his first instinct to reassure. Tries to think what he should say.

All he knows is that he doesn’t want to argue.

Maybe he can offer something in exchange. A secret for a secret. “Bruce offered to adopt me,” he says. “When I was a kid. I said no.”

Tim goes still.

“I felt like…I felt like it would be replacing them, you know? And—” There’s another truth, behind this truth, and it’s not one he shared with Bruce and Alfred, though they probably guessed. “I don’t know if they would’ve liked him. Bruce.”

It’s not quite what he wants to say, but he doesn’t know how to say what he means. He’s not sure what advice he wants to give, or if he even has advice. He doesn’t know how much he wants to admit. Tim’s good at reading people, and he’s got a scarily good memory. Dick has to watch what he reveals, because he won’t be able to take it back later.

Tim’s watching him.

* *

He could say: I said no to Bruce because I didn’t want to lose them. But sometimes I feel like I’ve lost them anyway. And then I lost Bruce. And I wonder, sometimes, if I’d said yes back then…Bruce was so close to Jason, you can’t imagine, and I can’t help wondering if maybe…

The thing is, there are costs to holding onto the dead. And you keep paying them. Because the dead never come back. And life doesn’t wait. Other people don’t wait for you.

He could say: I loved them. They loved me. I wish I’d known them better. I was a kid, I spent half my childhood with Bruce, and I don’t regret it, it made me the person I am today, but…I don’t know if they would recognize me. I don’t know if I remember them the way they were, or if I’ve polished all the memories in my head. Were we really that happy? Was it really as good as I remember? What would they think of Bruce? What would they think if they saw me now?

He could say: My dad would’ve hated Bruce. Or—maybe not hated him. But my dad never had much use for rich people. And I’m afraid he’d be disappointed, that I didn’t go back to the circus. We were the flying Graysons, my father and his father and his father, our colors and our stories, and I’m the one who broke the tradition. I’m the one who left.

He could say: I’m forgetting my father’s language. I never knew it that well, but my father—and then my mother learned it for him, for him and for me, and she used to sing, and—I’m too ashamed to ask to someone to teach me when these are things I should know, and—

He could say: I wish I knew a path that wouldn’t hurt you, somehow.

* *

“I don’t think there are right answers,” Dick says at last. “To things like that.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know what your mom would think. But you don’t, either, you know? So you can’t…you shouldn’t put too much weight on it.”

“Yeah.”

And because now Dick feels like a hypocrite, he forces himself to add, “I get it, though. I—I worry about stuff like that too. Sometimes. Bruce…my life changed a lot. After I lost them. And I made choices… I don’t know what they’d think, you know? I don’t know if they’d even recognize me, the person I am now.”

Dick’s parents would’ve wanted him to be happy, with or without them. He knows that. And Dick’s father had fallen in love with a gadji woman, and married her, and he never seemed to worry too much about whether Dick knew the right customs or pronounced Romani words the right way. But nowadays when he tries to speak his father’s language, it comes haltingly to his lips. He sounds like an outsider. He is an outsider.

Can he even call himself a flying Grayson anymore? Visiting the circus sometimes isn’t the same as being a real performer.

Tim’s frowning. “Of course they’d recognize you.”

Tim means well, no doubt, but the easy platitude stings. “You don’t know that.”

“But you’re not that different?”

“I used to spend my nights doing somersaults and now I spend them punching people. You don’t think that’s a little different?”

“But it’s kind of the same thing, isn’t it?”

“Acrobatics and crime fighting?”

“I mean, not exactly, I guess,” Tim says.

“You guess?”

“Shut up. I just meant—you make people not be scared. Like. You make their lives better. They could be having, like, the worst days of their lives and they look up and see you and then it gets better. You make them happier. I dunno. Isn’t it kind of the same thing?”

Huh. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a platitude. Tim believes that.

It’s a nice thought. Dick tries to decide if he believes it. The thing is, Tim is the only person in the world who ever looked at Dick Grayson, acrobat, and Dick Grayson, Robin, and thought, ah, exactly the same, so he’s not exactly a representative source. And then, too, Tim’s—

Dick avoids thinking about it, mostly. But sometimes, Tim gets a particularly earnest tone in his voice, and it’s like he’s talking about someone else, this version of Dick he’s got in his head, who’s kind and good and caring, instead of selfish and angry and lost half the time. Who’s so much better than Dick could ever hope to be. You’d think that a year of actually knowing Dick would’ve snapped Tim out of it, but sometimes…

“I think most of what we do is scare people,” Dick says at last.

“Not the important stuff,” Tim says. “Like that girl, earlier. She was scared, right? And you made her feel better.”

Okay, yes, but… “You talked her down.”

“But you comforted her. I’m not good at that.”

“You did fine.” And Tim sometimes responds better to the name, so he adds, “Robin. Trust me. You did good.”

That wins him a smile, quick and small, and Tim ducks his head. “Thanks.” Earnest: “But, I mean. You too. I guess I didn’t know your parents. But they seemed really nice. And you help so many people, and that’s kind of what they did, right? Of course they’d recognize you.”

Dick has to look away. When he’s composed himself enough to look back, Tim’s eyes are wide and worried.

He’s such a sweet kid.

It’s hard to fight the instinct to pull him closer. He has vague, half-formed fantasies of closeness: hugging the kid, or kissing his forehead, whispering endearments. He wishes Tim were his real little brother, and that they were going to their parents’ house for Christmas tomorrow—imaginary parents, imaginary house, or even Bruce’s house, and Bruce’s old smile, and Alfred fussing over the tree.

Or even farther back: the circus trailer, and a little brother huddled up next to him in the cold, and they’d be speculating about what gifts they were gonna get tomorrow, and Tim disappointed about—something, it doesn’t matter what, but Dick would tease him out of it, make him laugh, and Ma would ruffle Dick’s hair, pleased and proud, and say, that’s my little Robin—and—

Impossible fantasies.

“C’mere,” he says.

Tim leans his head cautiously against Dick’s side, and Dick wraps an arm around him. His hair is still kinda damp. Tim slipped and ended up headfirst in a snowdrift, coming off the train on their way back, and though the suit’s thermals made swift work of everything on the suit, there’s nothing to be done about Tim’s hair. Dick noticed him sticking his head by the radiator earlier and probably should’ve offered him a towel or something, but the picture of Tim attempting to dry his hair via radiator was so funny that Dick had put it off and then forgotten.

He lets his knuckles brush lightly against Tim’s shoulder, and Tim closes his eyes. Everything feels slow and sluggish and tender, the rise and fall of Tim’s chest, the weight of him. Little brother, almost. Not quite, not really, but—enough to pretend. Just for a while. Just for tonight.

“Hey, there, Robin,” Dick says softly, and hears Tim’s breath stutter.

Sometimes, Dick wonders if he knows. Or, no. He knows Tim doesn’t. Tim’s grown up a bit, since last year, but when he showed up he was completely tactless. If he’d overheard the nickname, back at the circus, he would’ve blurted it out along with all of his other evidence. But there are these moments, sometimes, when he can almost pretend Tim knows. And Dick doesn’t have to tell him, he just knows, and it doesn’t matter that the name means something a little different now, because Mary Grayson is still part of it, and so is Dick, and so is the kid at the circus.

Like they’re all caught in a snowglobe that someone’s shaken—and the snow whirls around them, and it settles in a different place, and all the names change, but everything important is still the same.

The world turns and it moves around them, but this one kid, this one moment, stays forever. A shy smile preserved in Polaroid, and a half-remembered embrace, and a kid asleep in Wayne Manor that one time, and Tim’s face pressed against his side now, memories and reality like fractals, like snowflakes, all colliding together.

The silent center of the changing world.

* *

The moment ends, as moments always do. The snowstorm is picking up outside, and Dick ought to double-check that all the windows are closed. The leftover cobbler is drying on the plates, and Dick ought to get up and wash them. Or maybe he’ll make Tim do it. Having a sorta sidekick has its advantages, especially when he’s as easy to bully as Tim.

But Dick doesn’t get up, not yet.

Tim’s mask is peeling off, just a bit, around the edges. Not so you’d notice if you didn’t know what to look for.

That’s probably the radiator’s fault, too. The adhesive stands up to a lot, but the combination of sharp cold and then hot air isn’t a great one. Dick nudges the mask with a finger, and yeah: right near Tim’s cheekbone, the corner is lifting off.

“I know,” Tim says, eyes closed. “Don’t poke my eye out. I was gonna fix it later.”

It can’t be comfortable, though. Peeling adhesive itches.

Tim doesn’t actually need a mask in Dick’s apartment, though it’s smarter if he stays in uniform. Just in case. It’s better not to be half-in and half-out. Robin curled up next to Dick Grayson is a pretty damning image vis-a-vis secret identities, but it’s not half as bad as unmasked Robin next to Dick Grayson. With a masked crimefighter, you can still make up stories. No idea, Clance, he just showed up in the window. It’s a funny thought. Dick Grayson’s home for wayward vigilantes. Though of course Clancy’s met Tim.

“C’mon,” Dick says. “Up and at ‘em.”

“Don’t wanna,” Tim mumbles into his shoulder. “It’s cold.” He scrunches up his face. “I hate winter.”

“Are all the Drakes cold-blooded, or just you?”

“My mom hated it too,” Tim says.

My mother loved the spring, Dick could say. She used to tell me that—

Mi dey volisardyas lolé-kolinachên, he could say. She loved me, and she was always teasing—they both were, both my parents, they loved to laugh—and she used to say I brought springtime with me.

You’re so good, Tim.

Kámas-volisardyas tu. Kámas-volisarde tu.

He’s only half-spoken, under his breath, but Tim catches everything. “What’s that mean?”

It means my mother would’ve loved you, but Dick can’t bring himself to say it for real.

And it’s too much, anyway. He knows that, when he’s being more rational. Not fair to dump that on Tim, the weight of all Dick’s grief and memories. He’s aware that the lump in his throat is not really about Tim himself, not quite. There’s something talismanic about the circus memories, but that’s not particular to Tim-the-person. Anyone could’ve been there, that day. It just happened to be that afternoon, that moment, this kid. One little boy, just like a hundred thousand other little boys. A random moment of chance. A gift from the universe.

“It means,” Dick says, and clears his throat. They do, actually, need to get up, and Dick needs to stop brooding. Holidays are not a good time for him. He gets lost in memories, regrets, nostalgia. Stuck in the past, Babs would probably say.

But he has a good life now, actually. Regrets or no.

And he’s got an honorary kid brother who has not smiled nearly enough tonight.

* *

“It means,” Dick says, lowering his voice portentously, “You have a ridiculous nose.”

“It—what? It does not. Wait, does it?” Tim self-consciously touches his nose. Oh man. He’s so easy. “What’s wrong with my nose?”

“I’m glad you asked. Did I tell you the story about the elephant’s child and the crocodile?”

“Only a million times,” Tim says.

“You see, what happened,” Dick says, ignoring him, “is that the elephant’s child went around asking so many questions that the crocodile bit his nose like this—”

He reaches around to yank Tim’s nose. Tim’s retaliation is an elbow to the side—predictable—so Dick grabs him and twists his arm around. Tim’s defenses are getting better but his forearm blocks still suck.

Ten very entertaining seconds later, Dick’s got one arm braced against Tim’s back and the other hand forcing his face into the sofa cushions.

“Mmph,” Tim protests.

“I’m counting that as an uncle,” Dick tells him, “but only because it’s Christmas and I’m nice. You haven’t been practicing forearm blocks, have you?”

“I practice! Just not all the time.” Tim’s trying to twist around, so Dick takes pity and lets him. Tim makes a face, but he’s not actually mad; he’s pressing his lips together the way he does when he’s trying to turn a smile into a scowl. Robin, legendary terror of the night. A noogie is really the only proper response. “Quit it!”

“Shh.”

“Quit iiiiit.”

“Shhh.”

“Quit it!”

But Tim’s already dissolving into giggles.

* *

“You’re such a jerk,” Tim says, later, all dignity, once he gets his breath back. He’s sprawled upside-down on the couch with his legs in the air, the blanket dangling from his toes. “I don’t even ask that many questions. I haven’t asked you any questions about you and Babs all night.”

Uh huh. Dick flips himself up on the couch. “I’m counting that as a question.”

“Okay, but,” Tim says. “She invited you over to her Christmas party, right? That was her party. Like. If you had a party, it’d be here. So. What’s the deal with you guys?”

He’s so nosy. But this is Dick’s fault for opening the door. Give Tim an inch, and then you get all the pestering. “That was a vigilante party,” he says. Can he balance on one hand on this couch? Hmm. Maybe better not try.

“Is that why her dad wasn’t there?”

“He always works Christmas,” Dick says. “He’s like B, you know. Never a night off.”

This is somewhat misleading. Bruce didn’t always work Christmas. But Jim Gordon always has, as long as Dick’s known him. Every Christmas, no exceptions. When Dick was a kid, he never questioned it. Nowadays, he does wonder. The detective habit is hard to break.

It could be general workaholic behavior (always possible, with the Gordons). Or there might be some upsetting story involving something creepy that James Gordon Jr. did at Christmastime (Dick’s personal theory). But Babs’s sorta little brother is a verboten subject, so Dick hasn’t asked. Babs, he knows, will spend Christmas with Sarah Essen.

“Are you going to date her?”

“None of your business.”

“Because you kept staring at her all evening,” Tim says. Dick’s balancing two-handed on the back of the couch, but lifts one hand. Can’t cuff his head, so his legs will have to do. “Ow!” Tim almost kicks him in the face, and Dick heroically doesn’t retaliate. “You did, though.”

Well, that’s embarrassing. Do you think she noticed, he’d like to ask, but obviously Babs must’ve noticed if Tim did. He jumps down. “If we start dating, I promise you’ll be the last to know.”

“Aw, c’mon.”

“You c’mon. We need to wash up. And you’ve gotta fix your mask.”

“I don’t have any extra adhesive.”

“I do.”

“What did you really say?” Tim says, because he never forgets a question once he’s asked it. “Earlier? Kamas volu-something.” His accent is worse than Dick’s.

“Voliv tu,” Dick says. “It means Merry Christmas. C’mon, Boy Blunder.”

* *

They retreat to the bathroom, and Dick searches his cabinet until he finds the right bottle. Tim doesn’t need help, but Dick hangs around anyway. There’s something absorbing about watching masks come on and off, about the way it transforms your face. Later, when the heat’s finally warmed up the place, Tim will change into real clothes, and ditch the mask, and maybe Dick will loan him a jacket, and he’ll curl up in a little lump on the couch.

And tomorrow morning, he’ll still be here. Like the answer to an unasked wish. Dear Santa, please bring me some family for Christmas, sincerely, Dick Grayson. P.S. If parents unavailable, honorary little brothers are okay. It’s an amusing thought.

But it’s nice, honestly. He’s already imagining the conversations, after. With Clancy: yeah, our dad had to work, but my little brother came over. With Babs: actually, I ended up spending the day with Robin, and her brow will twitch while she adds that clue to her mental list. With Alfred: Tim’s parents got stuck in Chicago, so I thought I’d keep him company for a bit, and Alfred will smile.

And with Tim, someday, maybe: Hey, you remember that one Christmas when we…? It’ll be a good day, he can already tell. Something to hang onto.

A gift.

He watches Tim carefully remove the mask, and splash water on his face, and rub away the last sticky traces of the old adhesive, and then reapply everything.

“Hey, um,” Tim says, quiet, not looking at him. “I forgot if I said. Thanks. For inviting me and…and having me over and everything. And the food. I, um. I appreciate it.”

Sometimes, it’s not the gifts you get but the gifts you give that mean the most. Dick’s breath catches in his throat.

“Sure,” he says. “Anytime.”

* *

Comic notes:

This fic is set during and after Holiday Bash 3. I stole a few quotes from the comic, along with the burnt cookies, Jack and Dana being in Chicago on Christmas Eve, and Dick and Babs ambushing Tim with a party.

Janet Drake is buried on Christmas Eve in Batman 455. In Batman Chronicles 4, while delirious with the Clench, Tim dreams that his mother is alive again, and he “realizes” she’s alive when he smells the food they haven’t had since her death: lamb, potatoes, and apple cobbler.

Dick’s comment that Tim’s too young and should be playing Playstation instead of sparring with nutjobs from Arkham, and Tim’s reply that Gotham needs Robin and he needs Robin, are both from Secret Origins 80-Page Giant. “You’re better than me, Dick,” is something Bruce says to Dick in Detective Comics 725, when Dick’s reminiscing about the old days. Dick’s father was first retconned as Romani in Nightwing Annual 1, and is later shown speaking the language in a flashback; I’ve used the Kalderash dialect for Romani phrases. Tim reads comic books in Young Justice and has an Enya CD in Teen Titans; I changed the CD to a music video. Dick and Tim's synchronized moves show up in various comics, including Gotham Knights 8.

Babs mentions getting notes and thank yous from Robin in Showcase 94 #12, and Dick refers to Tim as an “earnest little computer geek” in Nightwing 110.

I used two lines from The Little Prince:

“‘Yes,’ said the fox. ‘I’ll explain. To me, you are just a little boy like any other, like a hundred thousand other little boys. I have no need of you and you have no need of me. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world.’”

"All men have stars, but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travelers, the stars are guides. For others they are no more than little lights in the sky. For others, who are scholars, they are problems. But all these stars are silent. You—You alone will have stars as no one else has them. In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars will be laughing when you look at the sky at night... You, only you, will have stars that can laugh!”

[illfoandillfie]

Kinktober Day 4: Bimbofication + Cockwarming

Kinktober Masterlist | Regular Masterlist

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Fem!Reader

Words: 3,164

Warnings: Bimbofication/intelligence play, hypnosis/trance state, cockwarming

A/N: This fic is very much set in my Future Management universe though I think you could get away with not having read the others. I’ve missed writing these two tbh and then I saw that one of the prompts for day 4 was bimbofication and decided it was a good enough excuse to get back to them. But I also really loved the second prompt for day 4, cockwarming, so decided to mix the two together!

After the long week you’d both been dealing with, you and Roger were glad to have a weekend to yourselves to relax. You’d spent too many nights out at various political functions, lobbying politicians and trying to convince the wealthy elite to donate to your cause. It was frustrating though and despite the numerous late nights and all your best efforts, it didn’t feel like you’d got particularly far. Roger had returned to the studio that week to begin recording Queen’s next album, so he was having a better time than you had been, though by all accounts everyone had been a little on edge as the week drew to a close. He’d come home complaining about how snippy everyone had been and how little progress they’d made that day. It was nice just to curl up on the couch together and zone out in front of the telly, not least because recently you’d barely found time to just be together without interruptions. It wasn’t a problem exactly, and you’d known you’d have patches like that when you first started seeing each other, but the lack of intimacy and physical affection created by your busy schedules did take its toll. So, on Friday night, Roger took great joy in turning off the alarm clock, deciding you could both use a lie in. You were too exhausted to even suggest anything more than talking before you went to sleep, but Roger made sure he was spooning you as you settled down, holding you tight.  

Roger was still asleep as you woke, carefully detangling yourself so you could tiptoe to the bathroom, but he offered you a sleepy grin when you came back.   “Sorry, did I wake you?” “Maybe a little. Thought we were going to lie in.” He pouted at you as if you’d betrayed him.   “I had to pee!” you laughed, “But I’m all for lying in now.”   Roger chuckled along with you as he beckoned you over, encouraging you to lay your head on his chest as you snuggled back up. His hand found yours, softly tracing the length of your fingers as he sighed happily.   “I missed this,” he half whispered, pulling your hand up so he could kiss your knuckles.   You hummed in agreement. For someone who’d not been in the habit of sharing your bed or encouraging physical contact, you’d certainly gotten used to Roger’s touch. He’d thoroughly converted you as the relationship became more serious, made you see how nice it was to be held, how comforting his hand in yours could be. And you had missed it over the last week when there’d not seemed to be enough time for those soft, quiet moments with him. You’d sat next to uninterested politicians who nodded politely at what you said but never offered anything useful, and thought about how nice it’d be to feel Roger kiss your temple or squeeze your thigh. And then your mind had taken it further, reminding you how warm you got when his weight was over you, how it felt to fill your lungs with his breath and to taste him on your lips. You shifted at the idea and realised you weren’t the only one who wanted more than just to relax. Scooting away from Roger so you could better face him, you began to suggest you could maybe slip down under the covers and help him get properly excited, but before you got more than a few syllables out he was talking about a different idea.  “So, I’ve been thinking about something I thought might be fun to try with my bimbo doll.”  “Oh?” You weren’t entirely sure how you felt about that. On one hand you loved when Roger turned you brainless and cock-crazed, how fun it was and how freeing. But this was the first time you’d really been able to be together in a little while. What did it say about the state of your relationship or his opinion of you, if he’d prefer your bimbo alter ego over the real you, “You want her?”  “Not necessarily right now,” he said, rubbing his knuckles softly against your cheek, “Not if you don’t want to. I’m happy staying like this with you all day.”  “Don’t pretend you don’t want to fuck. I want to fuck.”  Roger laughed, “Oh I definitely want to fuck. I’m just saying I’d be perfectly happy fucking beautiful, brainy, you, instead of the slutty idiot.”  You couldn’t help but smile at that.  “But it’s something I’ve thought about quite a lot. And I think it’d be kind of perfect for such a lazy morning.”  “Okay.” you said, thinking about it more, “I’m not entirely opposed to the whole bimbo thing. It might actually be nice to be a bit brainless, maybe even make it a bit easier to relax. Y’know, sort of keep me focused on enjoying the moment and really feeling everything. So why don’t you just tell me what the idea is and then I’ll know how up for it I am right now.”  “Hmmm. I thought maybe it could be a surprise. But don’t worry, it’s something we’ve done before. I’m just curious how she’d react to being made to do it.”  “Being made to?” you asked, raising your eyebrows in disbelief, “Is this something I like?”  “Oh yeah, definitely. Believe me, we’ve done this a few times before. Usually, it’s less part of sex and more to do with the aftercare or the foreplay.”  You tried to think of what he meant but nothing came to mind that fit the description. It was intriguing though. And you trusted Roger, you knew he wouldn’t take advantage or force you to do something you wouldn't normally do. If he said you enjoyed it then you must enjoy it usually.  Roger waited to see how you’d react.  “Nothing to lose?”  “Nothing to lose.” He said with a smile, “I promise it’ll be fun, love.”  “Okay, let’s do it. I’m insanely curious. But also, sometime later today or tonight, we’re going to have regular, non-bimbo, sex.”  “Anything you want. You ready?” 

You nodded and instantly felt Roger draw you back down so you were within easier reach. His fingers trailed lightly over your arms as he began to talk you down. You relaxed into the moment, letting his voice wash over you as his touch created goosebumps over your skin. As you closed your eyes your breathing began to soften and you felt the familiar drowsiness settle into your mind. Roger did his usual improvisation, making sure you knew how dumb you were, how easily confused and hopelessly idiodic you were. He made you understand that you couldn’t understand half of what he said, that you were just a giggly dummy who needed his help. And then, when he was sure you had gone brainless, he told you how horny you were. How all you could think about was his cock in every one of your holes, how desperately you ached for him, how being filled by him was your one goal in life. The only thing you needed or wanted. And how the longer you waited the hornier you got. He told you about being desperate and wet and you felt yourself grow desperate and wet as he said it though you couldn’t remember the word desperate. You tried you but just came up blank. The only world you could think of was cock. It flashed in your mind like a neon sign and just the thought of that word alone made your mouth water and you cunt ache.  You shifted, trying to rub your legs together, able to feel the slick forming between them as your stomach tightened with need. And then he told you one word, a simple word. No. He explained that every time he told you no, it was guaranteed to compound the horny desperation you felt.   “What’s co-com- ummm, com-pound?” You asked, confusedly.   “It means the feeling will get stronger. When I say no, you’ll get even hornier. Understand?”  “Yes,” you sighed, content now that he’d explained the hard word.  

By the time you blinked your eyes open, all you knew was that you wanted his cock. It was your very first thought and the first thing you said.   Roger looked at you, smiling, and greeted you. A pleasant, “Hi,” that made you feel warm and happy.  You’d smiled back, “Can I please have your cock Sir?”  That made Roger laugh, “No baby. That’s now what I want to do right now.”  Hearing him say that just made you want it more though.  “Please Sir? I could suck it for you. I really really really want to suck your cock.”  “No, I don’t think I want that either.”  You whined softly, “I promise I’m reallllllly good at it and I love sucking cock so much.”  “No. What else could you do instead?”  “Ummm,” it was hard to think, hard to remember anything beyond how horny you were, “Maybe I could ride you?”  “Hmmm, no.”  You groaned and clenched your hands into fists for a second as a bolt of energy ran through you, “Can I wank you?”  “No, baby, not that either.”  “Please Sir?”  “No.”  The bolt of energy ran through you again and you stomped your foot against the mattress to relieve some of the pressure.   “Keep suggesting things,” Roger grinned, “Maybe one of them might interest me.”  You scrunched your face up in concentration, trying to think of something Roger might like, “What about if you fucked me? I’d be so good and I’d stay so still and you could use my pussy and cum in me and-”  “No. No I don’t want that either.”  “But Siiiiiiir,” you whined, “You always tell me to take your cock!”  “Do I?”  “Yes!” you giggled, wondering how he could have forgotten, “You always say how good it feels in me.”  “I s’pose that’s true.”  “So can I have your cock now?”  “No.”  You whined and pouted but Roger didn’t budge.  “I’ll tell you what. Let’s start with taking your clothes off.”  “Okay Sir.” you nodded, giggling again at the idea, hoping it would lead to having one of your holes filled.  “Well go on then. Shirt off first, good girl.”  You rolled yourself off the bed and quickly began tearing off the pyjamas you were wearing, feeling hot as Roger’s gaze dragged over the newly exposed skin.   “Now undress me.”  You couldn't help but laugh as you crawled across the bed to reach him. He’d slept without a shirt so all you had to worry about were his flannel PJ pants and underwear pulling them down his legs one at a time. As his underwear came down your eyes fell to his cock, revealed inch by inch. You felt saliva pool in your mouth and had to resist the urge to lean forward and taste him.  “Can I touch you Sir?” you asked quietly, almost holding your breath as you waited for his answer.  “No.”  “Please?” you asked again, frustrated. Roger didn’t understand how bad you wanted it, how much you needed him. “I’ll do anything Sir, whatever you want.”  “No.”  With an impatient groan you threw yourself onto your stomach, beating your fists and feet against the mattress. It was the only way to relieve the energy and pressure building inside you.  But Roger just laughed, “Awww, is Dummy gonna have a tantrum? That’s not going to change my mind. My answer is still no.”  You whined and kicked your legs again, your pussy throbbing with how empty it was.  “You’re such a desperate slut, aren’t you Dummy.” Roger laughed again, “So maybe....”  You looked up excited and hopeful.  “I might decide to fuck you. Pin you down, fill you hard and deep and cum in you as many times as I can manage. Just to shut your whining up.”  You scrambled back to your knees and nodded happily, reaching to wrap your hand around Roger’s cock.  He slapped you away, “I said might, Dummy. That’s still a no. You’ll have to show me you deserve it. You’ll have to be a good bimbo doll and do everything I say. Can you do that?”  You whined but agreed you could. He didn’t need to make you promise to follow his orders. You’d have done that anyway. You’d have done anything he asked, anything to make him feel happy and pleased. 

“Sit up, hands behind your back. Show me your cunt.”  You scrambled to do as he asked, smiling proudly when he hummed at the sight of your spread legs and wrapped his fist around the base of his cock.  “You’re so wet Dummy. How’d that happen?”  You giggled again, “I told you I want you Sir.”  “Guess I didn’t realise how much,”  Your gaze fell to his hand and your breath caught as you watched him slowly stroke his length, stiffening more the longer your eyes were fixed on him. It just made everything worse. You couldn’t seem to drag your eyes away, nearly panting with desire. Wanting to touch yourself almost as much as you wanted to touch him.  “Oh you are desperate. I can see your cunt clenching around thin air and you’ve got drool on your chin. You don’t even care which hole I use.”  You shook your head. Whatever he wanted would make you happy because it’d make him happy.  “I could keep telling you no.”  A whimper slipped from your lips and you felt your pussy pulse with need.  “But maybe I’ll be generous. Lie down here, next to me. Good girl, now turn onto your side. No, other side, facing away from me. That’s right.”  “What are you doing Sir?” you asked over the creaking of the bed frame as Roger shifted around behind you. He didn’t answer though, just pressed himself against your back. You could feel his hard length being directed to your slit and you changed the position of your legs to make it easier for him.   “Good girl,” he said softly, his breath warm against your bare skin.  You moaned at the feeling of him moving between your legs, waiting for the sweet stretch of him filling you. Only it didn’t come. You could feel him between your lips, sliding easily through your soaked folds, every ridge and vein making you shudder. You tried to press back, to direct him into you, but his hand landed on your hip, forcing you to still.  “No.”  The word pulled another whine from you, louder than any before, exacerbated by how close he was to what you really wanted. But that just made Roger chuckle as he kept teasing you. It was pure torment, though worse was still to come.  

It took you completely by surprise when Roger stopped his teasing rubbing, readjusting his angle so he could sink into you slowly. The unexpectedness of it stole your breath but you managed to gasp out a small moan of thanks, finally getting what you’d been so desperate for. The position you lay in kept your bodies close as he sheathed himself fully, rocking his hips gently so as to withdraw a little and thrust back into you. You could have cried with joy at knowing you’d pleased your Sir, that you’d been so good and patient, and he’d finally decided to take what you’d offered him. And then he stopped. You tried to take over his rhythm, tried to fuck yourself on his cock the way you knew he liked. Last time you’d done that he’d praised you for being brainless and needy, called you a good bimbo whore and you’d kept going until he’d cum, laughing about how good it felt. But this time he stopped you. He pressed his hips flush against you and wrapped his arm tightly over the top of you.   “No, Dummy. No moving now.”  “But Sir,”  “No. Be good and lie still or I will make you,” He tapped the middle of your forehead with a finger, “Remember I have all the power.”  You didn’t know what he meant by that or why he’d tapped you but you knew how to be good. You knew how to please. And so you relaxed again and lay quiet and still, the way he wanted you.  “It’s still a little early for me to use you. I think I want to sleep a bit longer, so why don’t you stay here and warm my cock for me. It’ll keep me comfortable so I can sleep longer. And then when I’m better rested I’ll think about fucking you.”  You whined again, wanting to thrash your arms and legs again but unable to, wanting to be pinned down by your Sir and used, wanting to feel him move within you or to taste his cum or anything. But if that was what he wanted that was what you’d do, so you nodded and agreed softly.   Roger hummed happily which was all you needed to hear to feel happy too. He let out a tired exhale and seemed to still. You listened as his breath evened out into a shallow rhythm, and struggled to keep relaxed in his embrace. As far as you could tell he was asleep, though his hand seemed to come to life. His fingertips trailed over your skin, coming to rest on your chest. You tried to remain quiet but struggled not to moan as his hand cupped your breast and squeezed it. In response he moved slightly, though still slept on, his cock changing angle within you by a hair's breadth. In your state of heightened arousal it was enough to have you clenching again, trying not to wake Roger in case he got mad.  

There was a soft laugh from behind you and Roger mumbled, “C’mon Dummy, you should sleep too.” And then he kept talking, telling you how you’d still be horny when you woke but you’d have control of your brain again, you’d be back to his beautiful, intelligent partner. It sounded like nonsense (what did intelligent even mean?) but something about the way he spoke made your eyes droop and close. There was a small tap on your forehead and you awoke, disorientated by being brought back to the real world so soon.  “How do you feel, love?”  Roger asked and you twisted in his arms to try and see him better. You were pleased when you heard him groan at the change in your position.   “You’re a fucking tease Roger Taylor.” you half laughed, trying to sound less amused than you were.  He laughed too, clearly pleased with his little game, as he released you and withdrew his cock from your heat, “I told you you’d like it.”  You pushed yourself up to be more comfortable, “I don’t know that like is the word I’d use. All I feel is horny. Insanely so.”  “Do you want that fuck now?”  He was still laughing when you tackled him. 

Taglist: @labessieisallama @deakyclicks @jennyggggrrr @drowseoftaylor @hannafuckingsucks @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming @queenmylovely @ilovequeenmorethanyou @johndeaconshands @borhapbois @stardust-galaxies @cherries-n-rocknroll @rogersslave @scorpiogemini

[imnotasuperhero]

I would lie and say you’re not in my mind.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Stark!Reader

Type: Angst.

Summary: Reader finds herself alone, with no explanation as to where Wanda went. And life without her was a true nightmare she could only scape with not-so-nice coping mechanisms.

Wordcount: 2644

Warnings: Drug abuse, one suicidal thought and depression.

A/N: This is my submission for @jbbarnesnnoble writing challenge! I’m so sorry for the delay. Life and work got in the middle, leaving me drained to get some actual writing done. You can search this and other works with the tag #JBBNNMHAMChallenge which deals with different types of mental healt, as to raise awarenes about it.

A/N 2: Since it’s inspired in real events, I decided to twist this and give it a happy ending. People need to know there is hope. No matter how hard life becomes, you’ve got this and you shouldn’t suffer alone. Fight your fear and seek for help. I promise, life is worth living.

A huge than you to @marvelfansince08love for enduring her patience with my rants and mini meltdown about this monster. I could never thank you enough for puting up with my dumb ass, boo. I owe you a lot! <3

If you guys want more, I might have a plot for some kind of spin-off for this story. Just let me know. Also, criticism is welcomed.

"Miss Stark," one of the executives called your attention. "Your nose is bleeding."

Automatically, your fingers found your nose and yup, it was happening. Fucking hell.

Excusing yourself, you left the conference room with rapid steps to the closest bathroom, dismissing whoever you crossed on your way. You weren't new to this, after all.

Once you got the bleeding under control, you inspected yourself in the mirror. The reflection staring back at you was nothing like your old self. The circles under the eyes needed much more concealing and your smiles were forced. But at least you picked a black blouse today, which it'll do until you got a chance to go back home and change.

"Are you sure you don't want to go home?" Julia asked sheepishly.

"No. I'm capable of handling the rest of the day," you mumbled as you finished the last touches to your make-up.

"Mr. Stark could find-"

"Mr. Stark will find out shit," you cut your assistant. "This is just a sneeze that caused a vein to pop. Understood?" You could see how the woman in front of you shivered slightly and you almost laugh at it. You've become so pity.

"Y-yes, Miss. Is there anything else I can do?"

"No." You inspected yourself in the mirror once again before walking out. "Go over the rest of my day and make sure you send the informs to Stewart."

Fortunately, the day progressed smoothly with very few bumps. And none of them were about you, so you took it as a victory.

Kicking your high heels after closing the door behind you, you started to strip while walking towards the bathroom. The weekend was finally here, which meant you could wind out and enjoy your own company. After the latest events on Beto's, you made sure to lay low for a while. You didn't need another clingy bitch hanging from you all the time. You were just a gal wanting to have some release. Nothing more, nothing less.

In the middle of your calming bath, the sharp razor you kept for emergencies caught your eyes. 'God, it'd be so easy.' You thought to yourself. Just a little line in the right place would do it. The consuming pain would disappear and you'd be free. Hell, maybe you'd find her again in the afterlife.

Before you could continue the line of thoughts, your phone rang with your dad's personalized ringtone. Something you made sure of for when you were doing not-so-nice activities.

"Hey, dad." You absentmindedly sank deeper in the tub. The bubbly water covering up to under your jaw.

"Hi, Peanut." Tony's voice soothed your damaged soul the littlest bit. "It's been a while. How are you?"

"I'm fine," you answered nonchalantly. Lying has become second nature by now. "Living the life. How are you guys?"

"That's what I called you about. Pepper and I want you to come to spend the weekend here. We barely see you outside work so we thought it'd be nice to take advantage of the long weekend. Pleeeeaaase? With a cherry on top?" He finished in a child's voice and you felt your heart squeeze itself.

Truth was, you were tired of lying all the time. You were tired of faking and saying you were okay when you weren't.

"Okay," you sighed. 

"Yay!" Yup, he was a child. "We'll get your room ready. We'll have your favorite."

You didn't know the exact moment you started crying, your dad going a mile a minute talking about his latest invention and how he'd love for you to help him figure out the last touches.

Hanging up, you finally let out the awaiting sobs. Memories of an easier -and happier- time plaguing your mind, making it harder and harder to breathe. Life without her sucked balls.

After drying yourself and throwing on a fresh pair of pajamas, you quickly fixed your bag for the weekend, knowing fully well you'll wake up with just the right spare time before you had to leave for your dad's.

The next morning, you woke up before your alarm went off, which would be fine if it weren't for Wanda appearing in your dreams. Promises of a better life and reaching milestones together, fanning the painful fire in your heart.

Walking to your stash, you retrieved the white powder, forming three consecutive lines on your nightstand. A small straw between your fingers ready to be used. You wouldn't be able to consume when you were at your dad's, so you better took your chance before it was too late. Odin knew you needed the boost.

Stopping at a random café a few blocks from your home, you quickly got yourself a black coffee and a muffin before hitting the pedal once again, changing the playlist to something more upbeat. 

Soon enough, your mind drifted to the impromptu road trips you'd do with Wanda. Sometimes even a week-long trip. Just the two of you apart from the chaos of your lives. 

Out on the road, it was only laughs, music, and fast food with the occasional make-out sessions. God, if you could, you'd live in the past forever. 

Stepping out of your car, you couldn't help the smile that broke your face. Working in the same place as your dad didn't mean you've got to see him every day. And being honest, you were happy he offered you scape from her curse.

"Hi, dad." You answered once you reached him, returning his hug. And boy, didn't you felt safe in those strong arms. They never failed to soothe you.

After what seemed like hours of walking around your dad's property, you and Pepper came back to the house ready for a refreshing iced tea. But any trace of a nice calming bath dissipated away when you say your dad standing in the middle of the living room, his face stoic.

"What's this?" The quietness of his voice freezing your blood.

"I'm waiting, Y/N." 

You cringed at your dad's voice. The disappointment showing in his eyes made you regret not checking before you grabbed a random bag for this trip.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me this is not what I think it is," he begged, showing you and Pepper the almost empty baggy between his fingers. And you ignored him. He already knew the truth, after all. "Say it," he growled.

"So the bleeding nose-"

"Screw you," you muttered, cutting Pepper mid-sentence.

"Hey! That's no way to talk to her,"

"You know what?" You walked to your dad, looking up to his eyes. "Yes, I'm an addict. Good job, Sherlock. Now you can get rid of me as you did with my mom. After all, you never wanted me in the first place, so why should it matter." You snapped with burning tears in your eyes. "There's no need to keep faking it anymore." You walked away, leaving them mouth agape, trying to process your words.

Plopping down on your bed, you couldn't help the feeling of failure igniting inside you. The tears in your eyes burning your eyes as they appeared, flowing down your cheeks as the sadness and emptiness became just too much to handle.

You didn't remember when was the last time you were genuinely happy. And it sucked that it depended on someone. It sucked and you despised it more than anything. But then again, Wanda was everything you'd need to live in this world. Always positive, with a smile so bright that could light up the darkest room. Her eyes? God, you loved losing yourself in those green orbs of hers in the afterglow. And now you had to live without all these little things that made you happy. All the little moments of joy were gone, tuning you into this sack of bones and flesh, with no expectations for life.

It wasn't till much later that night that you left your room, after ignoring your dad's callings.

Padding your way to the bar, you served yourself a whiskey. The burning on your troat a welcomed feeling. Your mind going back to her, as it was the normalcy since she dusted away, leaving you with thousands of questions and a hole in your heart that you knew well you could never fill again. How could you, when you knew she was it? how could you even try to patch it up, when you knew there was no one else like her?

One whiskey turned into 5 and you didn't know when you started to cry, considering you thought there were no tears left after all these years. But the strong hand on your shoulder made you snap from your pity party, hurriedly drying your tears. Crying was for the weak, and boy were you weak.

"I'm sorry," you drowned the last of your drink before looking up, mustering the best stoic face you could.

"You don't need to fake around me, Peanut. We're family," your dad poured you another drink as he got one himself. 

"Look, what happened with your mother has nothing to do with you." He continued once he sat beside you. "And I would never leave you alone, Y/N. No matter how many headaches you give me." He joked but composed himself when you didn't react to it. "I- Pepper is pregnant. And we really want you in the baby's life. But.. Look, if there was a way to bring her back, I would. In a heartbeat. But Y/N, you have to understand, she wouldn't like this version of you. If not for yourself, do it for us,"

You wanted to speak, you wanted to answer him. But the lump in your throat was too big to swallow and the knife in your heart twisted when you saw your dad's eyes tearing up. And fuck did it hurt. To see him cry -for the first time- pained you like hell. And knowing you were the cause of those tears made you feel like you were the worst person alive. 

"I-," you paused to gather your bearings, but your dad beat you to it.

"I know, Peanut," his arms surrounded you in that way that only him could.

"I promise you," he continued once you broke away. "One day, it will get easier. Those feelings will never fully go away, but it will get easier." He dried your tear-stained cheeks softly. "You are not alone. And she'll always be with you,"

 And despite the grief eating you from the inside, you knew you had to live. For them. For her.

The next few months had been a true rollercoaster. You didn't know the abstinence would affect you so badly. And while others would have it much worse, you couldn't help the change of moods and the few tears you caused to those around you. Not to mention, the significant drop in your moods. But you also knew better. You've kept your word, and you hadn't touched it again. 

Under Natasha's supervision, you got rid of every secret stash you had at both, your apartment and your office, and you deleted the number of your dealer. And even if sometimes it seemed like hell would manifest itself as Nat was your watcher, you couldn't be more glad because, admittedly, the woman had balls and she did knew how to bribe you, to the point that you'd even quit drinking even if it was more of a social addiction, in your case. That, mixed with Natasha's friendship and support -as well as those around you- and the birth of Morgan, your little sister had you believing once more, even if you knew you'd never get to be the same person you once were. 

The little bundle of joy had come to this world with a few rays of sunshine for you, finally opening your eyes and making you realize that there was hope. Even if you never saw her again, life was worth living and you'd live it for her at your best capacity. 

So when Pepper asked you to babysit Morgan for a few days, considering she couldn't bring a 2 months old baby with her, you accepted in a heartbeat.

But as you were awoken by a fussing Morgan, after an eventful night in which you barely slept, you realized this might've not been your brightest idea.

Inhaling deeply, you got up and walked to her room, picking her up from her crib and rocking her as you made your way to the kitchen. Babies were a fucking clock. Which only served to add to your decision of never having kids. 

If you were on the verge of tears most of the time, wishing deeply for her parents to come back so you could have time for yourself, you knew you'd be mental if you had to live through this for the rest of your life.

Your ears catching the front door opening made you stop mid singing, turning around as you walked to the hushed words as you feed a calmed down Morgan just to stop dead in your tracks when you saw her. The only reason you stood still, was the baby in your arms. 

Your eyes scanned the room, looking for a sign that this was just a dream. That the image of your girlfriend was just a projection of your mind, like so many other times before during these 5 years since she disappeared from your arms. But the silence surrounding you all and 8 pairs of eyes inspecting you made you realize that this wasn't a dream.

The cries of Morgan took you all from your reverie and soon, Pepper was by your side, taking the baby from your arms before kissing the top of your head, something she always did whenever you felt unsettled.

"Peanut-"

"Is she real?" You questioned as you scrutinized a fidgety Wanda, who stood by the door, ready to run away if needed.

Natasha could sense your turmoil growing with every single second that passed and soon enough you felt a strong pair of arms supporting you, ready to catch you if you fell.

"She's here, Maliska. We brought her back," she spoke quietly, making sure you understood her words.

The wild thoughts on your mind got you walking towards her. The need to touch her and prove yourself that she was back, got your fingers itching. You could feel the blood running in your ears and you shaking steps as you got closer to who you thought was gone forever, leaving you empty and moving through life like a zombie.

The choke that broke through you when your hand cupped her cheek got you smiling as tears rolled down with every erratic thump of your heart.

"You're here," you whispered, afraid of breaking the spell you've found yourself into. 

But you couldn't stay in that thought for long because an intimately familiar pair of arms surrounded you as Wanda threw yourself at you, hiding her face on the crook of your neck.

Feeling her hot breath against your skin was all you needed to finally give in and hold her with all you had, knowing that she was here; with you.

You didn't know how long you both stood there, holding each other and basking in the calmness that surrounded you. All your previous tormenting thoughts dissipated in that exact moment. Wanda was back and you found the hole in your heart start to fill itself.

"Hi, Printsessa," Wanda murmured against your neck, kissing her way up to your jaw, peppering your face with kisses before she finally kissed your lips. And boy, did your knees trembled.

After 5 long years, the lips you've got used to kissing whenever you pleased were once against yours, igniting all the love and hope and good things you got to feel once upon a time.

You can find the continuation, here (:

Taglist: @summergeezburr @wannabe-fic-reader @natasha-danvers @jumbojamba47 @rooskaya-yelena @sananabdliw @aaron-despair @username23345 @nate-the-dreamer @higherfurther-romanova

[ribbononline]

Horrible high school kids

You thought it was bonus doodles, but twas I ! another long hc post! This one is mainly about my personal HC’s for their childhoods and teenage years. Now edited to be slightly more readable! 

Also, for clarification- I’m from the Netherlands, so that’s the school system I’ll be using. I just don’t understand other systems well enough, so bear with me. We’ve got elementary school from ~4 to ~12 , high school from ~12 to ~18, and college after that. 

-Archie comes from a rather large family. His household consists of his mother, one older brother, one older sister, two younger twin sisters and one younger brother. His father used to be a sailor, but ended up in a shipwreck, never to be seen again. When he was still around, he was the one who caught a Carvanha for Archie.

 Despite his mother being a stay at home mom to take care of the children, due to being well insured and having a large network of aunts and uncles money never ended up being a problem for them. His mother did end up taking on farming on the side, mostly for themselves, but selling extra’s to the neighbourhood. Once Archie’s eldest siblings ended up getting jobs they also helped keep the family afloat.

Their house is right next to Slateport. They own their own patch of land and dock there.

-Maxie came from a pretty bad household. His mother and father didn’t meet under happy circumstanced, and his father ended up leaving the household when he was ~8. This left him alone with his mother, who fell further into a bad state. Due to not being in contact with other family members, it was just the two of them. Their house was an apartment in Mauville. They got in cheaply when the town was just partly done being rebuild. He stayed out as much as possible, preferring to explore the routes nearby whenever he could which is how he obtained his Numel. Back at home, the Houndoom his father left behind with them ended up having two Poochyena pups with the neighbours Mightyena. 

-Archie and Maxie went to the same high school in Mauville, which is where they met (around 14/15yo). Archie was the kid who passed all classes despite never even studying. Maxie was a problem child at school. Due to not having a healthy outlet, he mostly took things out on those around him, leading into him getting into fights a lot and being rather disrespectful towards the teachers.

-Neither of them really interacted until they ended up in some of the same classes. 

Due to Maxie keeping to himself and Archie already having a friend group, they still didn’t really talk to each other unless it was for class projects. Maxie didn’t care, and Archie just knew Maxie as the kid that liked to pick fights with people.

-The first real talk they had was when Archie ended up in detention due to being late with an assignment. Despite liking to act tough like any teenager would being put in detention for the first time kind of freaked him out! Maxie who also happened to be in for detention ended up striking up a conversation with him before the teacher came in.

They mainly ended up talking about Pokémon a bunch, and ended up promising each other a battle once they both weren’t stuck here. Archie assumed that meant once detention was over for the day, but Maxie decided he didn’t feel like sitting around there for an hour and left trough a window, leaving Archie to explain to the teacher what happened there.

(Due to always picking fights and never really turning anything in on time or being on time, Maxie was more or less in detention daily- or at least supposed to be. More often then not he didn’t feel like going, or left the moment the teacher stepped out of the room. He was kind of the personification of a problem kid.)

-After that, they did in fact have their battle later that week which ended in a tie, and they started talking in the hall sometimes. The year after their shared classes didn’t include any of Archie’s other friends, meaning they ended up sticking together more often as they gradually got closer. They started hanging out more after class, and kind of became an infamous duo- mainly thanks to Maxie- around the school.

Archie wasn’t quite as hyped at the idea of his mom being called about bad behaviour though, so he did his best to make sure they didn’t get in too much trouble. They butted heads over it sometimes, but overall kept getting closer.

This was also around the time Maxie got invited over to the Aogiri’s household more often. (Yes, I’m just using their japanese names as their last names, I don’t trust myself to name anything so this is just what it’s gonna be)

-From the way Maxie never invited Archie over to his house/the way he avoided talking about his home situation and family, Archie eventually figured something was up. After some awkward attempts to talk to Maxie about it (that mainly ended up in Maxie going on the offensive and yelling a lot) he one day showed up to Archie’s house crying and talked some about it. After that Archie became the only person he ever really confided in and even then not that much- preferring to talk about other things. Archie did his best to support him, but as a teen himself with his own issues it admittedly did take a toll on him as well.

-Somewhere during this time friendship turned to dating! It ended up being natural progression more then anything so it wasn’t the biggest change- they were already all over each other at that point anyhow. Now they just could be slightly more obnoxious about it PDA wise.

-Archie’s mother ended up noticing some things off about Maxie’s home situation over time as well, and after Archie explained some things to her, Maxie ended up being invited over even more. The Aogiri’s did their best to let him know he could stay here whenever, and he ended up being really close with all of them.

-Maxie started eventually doing a lot better in school with the support of the Aogiri’s. He mellowed out a lot and started getting better grades too. Despite trying harder in class, doing well in them never came as naturally to him as it did to Archie, so Archie ended up helping him majorly when it came to studying. That said, Maxie would never ever admit to that.

-At 16, Maxie officially stopped ever coming back to his own house. Most of his stuff was already with Archie’s family anyhow. He took the two Poochyena pups they had at home and his Numel and took off. His grand master plan was mainly just to live either outside or stay in Pokémon centers nearby- with all the 10yos running free in the world, it wouldn’t look that out of place. He figured he’d just keep himself monetarily supported by battling.

-As it turned out though, that was a lot easier said then done. Archie and his family however knew Maxie was on his own now, so they ended up being the ones providing for him. At that point there already was always a mattress laid out in Archie’s room for him and he had a corner of it to himself for all his stuff he couldn’t carry on him, so it worked out. They invited him in to officially live with them, but the anxiety of living in a house with others again was hard for him to deal with. So to keep his peace of mind he ‚officially’ stayed homeless. That said, he stayed there more then half of the time, and Archie’s mother always joked about how Archie was the first of her kids to bring her a child-in-law.

-Maxie ended up helping Archie’s mother on her mini farm a lot. He really enjoyed the work, and she appreciated the extra helping hand.

-Archie meanwhile ended up feeding stray Pokémon around their house a lot. This meant more and more would show up there each day, especially once his younger siblings started joining him. His mother wasn’t the happiest about it, but as long as they caused no harm saw no reason to stop them. It’s where he met his Zubat!

-Maxie met his Zubat when off on his own once in one of the school vacations where he ended up exploring a cave. 

-Despite Archie trying very hard not to let it be noticed, and not even being entirely sure himself why, somewhere in high school he ended up first getting kind of depressed and feeling down. Due to having the support of his family and Maxie, it never ended up getting too bad, but he refused to truly confide to people about it, so it never truly left either. He did his best to ignore it and hoped it’d eventually go away on his own. (it didn’t)

-Once the kids turned 18, the Aogiri’s ended up helping fund his college education. Unbeknownst to anyone else, he also ended up sneaking back into his own parents house and stealing a large sum of cash from them to help with that. 

-Despite having a rocky childhood, the support shown to him by so many different people throughout the years made Maxie grow very fond of community and humanity. He didn’t really have any big grandiose ideals at these ages, but it helped lay the groundwork. 

Archie always kind of felt the opposite, being upset that the system led down his friend and worrying about what would have happened had his family not been there. 

-While Archie and Maxie ended up getting different degrees- Maxie in Geology, and Archie in Marine Biology, they got an apartment together where they lived together pretty happily! It was mostly a calm time for the both of them. They both had some odd jobs on the side to support themselves, still looking for the actual dream job they wanted to end up in after graduating.

And from here on out it’s to be continued for whenever I finish the next HC post about their Rocket years! ＼（°▽°）／

[crqstalite]

do it for them. [mind blind]

I sincerely apologize for any emotional pain I caused with this one. Kind of.

warning for suicidal thoughts on carmen’s part. it isn’t a large part of it, but be aware if you’re sensitive to that kind of content.

tagging @tayareum.

carmen wiseman (they/them pronouns) + nick wiseman. pre-game + chapter 4 spoilers. words: 4,083

-

There’s still dried blood on their knuckles from where they’d hit them. The rainwater hadn’t gotten rid of the evidence. Carmen turns their hands over, flicking the red spatter off of it. The office chair is hard, but they don’t complain. Nick’s stare of disappointment would be harder.

The bully in question has an ice pack over his nose, glaring at them and still sniffling something fierce in the chair opposite to them. Broken, probably, if the crack they’d felt when their fist connected with his nose meant anything. He deserved whatever came to him, tormenting them would get Benjamin nowhere. Their mind might be an unfenced daisy patch, but there was nothing in the rule book that said they couldn’t defend themselves. Sally wasn’t here to do it for them (Carmen was getting sick of the girl, she was everywhere. She was kind, but sometimes Carmen wanted to be alone. Sally didn’t know their personal space boundaries and their parents determined that Carmen would always be safer with her without even consulting them first) so they took matters into their own hands. At most, he’d left a few bruises from where his fist had connected with their chest.

It’s numb. They don’t feel it. They don’t feel much of anything these days.

Well, their parents would have some words for them over a phone call or something. That much they knew. They didn’t much care, but they knew.

The clock keeps ticking. The office secretary had said that Nick would be here soon to come and get them, and the principal would speak to him when he got here. Carmen’s loosely aware that means that he was probably in school when the school called their parents. Good for him then, they might as well just trudge home.

Another ten minutes pass. Benjamin’s mother is here now with the big heels that click and reverberate through the front office, glaring something fierce at them while on a call with her partner. Carmen’s eyes stay pinned on their hands, not interested in much else. Their phone is cracked to hell, it’d been in their back pocket when Benjamin had swung and they’d fallen back to the ground of the courtyard. The corpse sat in their bookbag by their feet. If they knew better, John would buy them a new one within the week. He was playing a losing game of earning Carmen’s trust back after leaving last year. Maybe he’d even buy them one of the new models.

Five minutes more, and Nick’s Aeon uniform passes by the office window. The door clicks open when the knob turns, and Carmen raises their head to look at him.

What happened this time? He asks silently, his matching grey eyes pinned on them. Relief floods through his body once he’s seen them, before frowning. Disappointed, but not angry. Worried. You’re not hurt then, thank God. Don’t tell me you started another fight for no reason.

Get out of my head, Nick, Carmen glares at their older brother, annoyed with the intrusion. He should know better by now, it isn’t as if they’ve been broadcasting how much they hate having him there, And it wasn’t for no reason, FYI.

Alright then, I believe you Carmen. I’m in your corner, you know that, He responds, giving them a soft halfway smile that tugs the corners of his lips up, We can talk about this when we get back home.

Carmen is a little taken aback that he doesn’t even sound exasperated with them. They would’ve expected it at this point, considering how many times they’ve been in this situation. This is just the first time since John and Hope left for Milwaukee, and the first time a kid had gone tattling to a school officer. Usually they got away with this, and Nick didn’t ask questions as long as they didn’t come home with a broken bone or something. Their brother is too good to them, and it stifles Carmen sometimes. It doesn’t make sense.

Another five minutes of Nick talking circles around Benjamin’s mother (who is stoically referred to as ‘ma’am’ by Nick. Carmen themself would have a much stronger word in mind), with occasional mind prods by everyone in the room but Nick. For once, they’re thankful he doesn’t use that power to make them even more uncomfortable than usual. Trampled over enough times, picking their brain for every little bit of information that they can pluck out of there (mostly on Benjamin’s part. Carmen should sock them in the nose again for good measure to shut up his nasally voice) until there’s nothing left Carmen can even say to protect themself.

It only reminds them that their mind has never been their own. They’re beginning to curl up on themselves again. They want to go home, they want these people out of their head. Ments have always been trouble, and today was no different.

Their hands start to shake in their lap as people talk over them, curling their form in on themself. It’s cold, the beginning of winter with the heating unit barely doing anything for the rapidly decreasing temperature in Chicago. Nearly Thanksgiving. The first one they’d spend without Hope or John. Just Carmen and Nick.

All because of them. The catalyst of everyone’s problem. Designated the problem child. And here they were again, in a school office, head thick with thoughts that they can’t control. 

What they’d give for two seconds to be normal. What they’d give to feel safe in their own home, in their own skin again.

Carmen doesn’t quite realize they’re quaking until Nick puts a firm hand on their shoulder, grounding them back to the present. His worried grey eyes are on theirs when they look up to him. Benjamin’s mother has her hands crossed over the chest of her obnoxious yellow pantsuit. The principal has his hands steepled on his desk. They hadn’t been paying any attention, it was easier not to when people could just read their mind.

They’re asking for you to apologize to Benjamin, Nick fulfills their question, maybe aware they’d zoned out as soon as they got loud, I know you don’t want to, and you shouldn’t have to for what he did, but you’ll sooner be home when you do.

“Sorry.” Carmen clips, not bothering to look at the pair. They aren’t sorry, he had it coming and they just delivered it. Benjamin had been bullying them since high school started, he was just the latest victim in a list of tormentors since middle school.

“Sorry for what?” Benjamin’s mother snaps. Carmen doesn’t know what the woman wants from them, other than to lie down and take whatever her son was dishing out, “I could sue, you know.”

“But you won’t. Because Carmen acted in self-defense, ma’am.” Nick retorts, “The only foul play was your son attacking them first. He’ll be fine, at worst he has a broken nose. That’ll heal.”

“I-” She stutters, before recomposing herself, “Just because you’re the Wiseman children doesn’t mean you can just get away with doing whatever.”

“We’re aware,” Nick glares back at her, as if asking her to challenge him again, “Again, Carmen wouldn’t have broken his nose without good reason. And from their testimony over the last few months, your son hasn’t been much better to them.”

She purses her lips into a line before gesturing to Benjamin, telling him they were leaving. Benjamin makes a show of being injured and struggling to pick up his backpack as the pair shuffle out the door. It clicks shut, and the tension flows out of Carmen’s shoulders. The principal and Nick exchange a few more words (probably a threat of suspension again. They skirt suspension every couple of months, at worst it’ll be another detention), before they’re able to leave the office.

Their knuckles had split upon impact. They only notice when they feel a twinge of pain spark up their hand when they throw their bag over their shoulder. It wasn’t Benjamin’s blood then (or not much of it), it was beads of their own that their skin was trying to scab over. 

It had started raining again as they trek out to Nick’s car. They choose not to stand under Nick’s umbrella, rain soaking them and their hoodie through. Blonde hair plastered to their face when they climb inside the small car. It isn’t until the doors are closed and Carmen is able to breathe again that he sighs, running a hand through his hair, “Button-”

“Don’t. Don’t use that damn name with me,” They snap back, their voice still quivering. He knows that they hate it, “I know John and Hope will be mad. I don’t care. They could come back down here if they want to, but I don’t owe them anything.”

He winces at the use of their first names, but presses ahead, “They never said what that kid did to you. I know you wouldn’t have done anything without reason, and I wanted to hear your side of the story.”

“I was thinking it, wasn’t I? You could’ve just plucked it out of there,” They pull their legs up to their chest, wrapping their arms around them, “You do it a lot anyway. It doesn’t matter what I wanted.”

He doesn’t meet their gaze for a moment, lapsing back into silence. Most likely internally berating himself all over again. Good, that’ll teach him not to go rooting around in their head without permission. That’s not unusual, hopefully he starts up the car so they can just go home.

He doesn’t and Carmen inwardly groans. They hate having these conversations with Nick. Their older brother wields guilt like a battering ram, and Carmen’s having enough of a time dealing with their own problems without Nick adding this on, “I know things have been difficult since mom and dad left. And I’m sorry if I haven’t always been here for you, I’m trying my best. No matter what, we’re family,” He hesitates, but gently reaches over to touch their shoulder. Carmen flinches away from the touch, and Nick retracts his hand with a disparged look. Hurt glances off his grey eyes, and guilt roots itself in Carmen, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here for you when you needed me.”

“No one ever is. I don’t need everyone treating me like a child, Nick. I’m not stupid, and I’m not weak either. You and Sally are determined to think that I am,” Carmen responds in protest, their voice cracking, “One of these days you’re going to realize that, and you’ll back off. You can’t protect me. I might be a zero, but I’m not incapable.”

“No, you aren’t. I just don’t want you hurt, Carmen. You can’t punch everyone that...” He trails off, maybe thinking again, “Takes advantage. I know you can protect yourself, but who’s to say there isn’t another Alan Chung out there? I don’t know what I’d do if...”

He doesn’t quite look at them, but they get the idea. A shiver runs up their spine at the thought. Nick is right, there were Ments like Alan who were far more sinister that wanting them to shove a pencil up their nose. Carmen would be a fool not to acknowledge that.

“I know, Nick.” Is all that they answer. They know their older brother toils over that, especially after he found out. It’s an experience they never want to relive again, nor Hope’s...incident. 

27 minutes. Exactly 27, and they remember every excruciating detail of the ordeal. The thought of that happening again with someone that wasn’t Hope is the terrifying bit, being left for dead somewhere that their family couldn’t find them. Nick had been there though. He’d been the person they regained control to. They still remember the cold floor once they could feel again, and the tears that streaked their cheeks that Nick carefully brushed away. Even though they’d run away to sleep after that, he’d still been sleep outside the hallway in the morning -- in case they needed him during the night.

Deep down, they know that he cares. And that’s the only reason that he holds so tight to them. Their family was torn apart, and Nick and is the only person they have left. But Carmen can’t keep living in a world where they live in metaphorical bubble wrap in the form of their older brother and best friend. Independence is what they strive for, not codependence on someone else.

At this point? They wouldn’t mind if Gray stole him for days at a time. The guilt that Nick has thrown away what he could’ve had for them is probably the reason they’re so bitter. Or at least that’s what their therapist told them. How right they are depends on the day and just how introspective they feel. The therapist had once asked whether they actually loved Nick or not. That it was okay not to have feelings for him, or possibly ones that weren’t entirely tangible. 

Carmen knew their answer. It was harder to say it with the guilt scratching at their throat. Harder to even pronounce the words without remembering just how much stress he was under at Aeon and dealing with them whenever he came home. They weren’t the easiest person to deal with.

Somedays Carmen wonders if they just disappeared, whether Nick would be happier. He could live with their parents again, and they’d be a happy family of Ments. Without them.

Somedays they just want the pain to finally go away. That ache in their heart for normalcy never quite fades. Dull, always pounding away until Carmen can’t take it anymore.

Static fills their ears.

They wonder if the world would be any better if they weren’t in it. Sally could have other friends. So could Nick. That damn principal wouldn’t see them every other weekday.

“Button?” Nick pulls them back into the present before they can spiral. They’re thankful. They don’t need to start crying, not in front of Nick.

Carmen shakily sighs, regrounding themself in the car, “You hold so damn tight. I know why, but I don’t want to suffocate. I’m my own person. Seventeen years. I’m not a baby, don’t treat me like one.”

Nick smiles softly, if not also sadly, “You’ll always be my baby sibling, you know that. I can’t just turn that off, Carmen. No matter how determined you are to push me away, I love you. I always will.”

Carmen finally looks at him directly, resting their head on their knees, “I know. I-” heir breath catches, before they find their words. I love you too. They think it louder than they mean to, and Nick smiles upon hearing it, “And that’s what makes it so insufferable sometimes. I want to live for once, Nick. You shouldn’t have to hang onto me so much. I wouldn’t push if you didn’t force this.”

“Yeah,” He answers, shaking his head as he resigns to looking out the windshield, “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

They fall into silence again as Nick starts the car, the rumble of the engine drowning out any remnants of their conversation. Carmen unfolds themself enough to fasten their seatbelt across their body, propping their head up with their hand to look out the window as they pull out of the school parking lot. 

“Gray’s not over today,” He offers as a white flag when they’re halfway back to their home. Carmen is nearly happy to hear the news, “We could make cookies, button. Snickerdoodles.”

Nick has, inevitably, caught their attention. Probably exactly what he wanted to do. They hadn’t eaten today, not with the vultures of their high schools swarming around just waiting to get the drop on them. And cookies sounded far better than the cold eggs and hot sauce in their lunchbox, “Don’t you have to go back to school?”

“Classes have been out since I came to come and get you. I was thinking I could drop you off at home and then I could go shopping for this week,” He muses to himself, mood lifting, “It’s nearly Thanksgiving again. I have an excuse to make an ungodly amount of snickerdoodles, and not have dad asking questions.”

Carmen knows what he’s doing, by rattling off every cookie in existence and they roll their eyes. Considerate of him not to invite them to the shopping trip after the day’s events. Nick always makes cookies when he’s stressed, or he knows that they’ve had a bad day. 

Maybe it’s a mix of both today. 

Carmen’s altercations stagnate after that event. And every time, Nick is always there for them. Sometimes they talk, and sometimes they don’t. This time, they do. But he drops the subjects once they’re inside the house and away from the rain. They shake their heads like wet dogs. It nearly makes Carmen smile. 

He hesitates by their room once they shuffle their wet articles of clothing off and onto the hooks by the front door, “You should really get a shower. Or maybe bundle up, you’ll get sick.”

“I know.” They say, unzipping the sides of their boots and stepping out of them. The blanket that he’d bought them for Christmas last year has their name written all over it. They intend to climb in and hibernate for a bit. At least until the snickerdoodles are done. Maybe call Sally. They acutely wonder where she had been all day -- not that they could blame her for what happened.

He bites his bottom lip out of habit, before extending his arms to them in a silent invitation for a hug with a crooked smile. As if to say, ‘Please?’ with his eyes.

Carmen wants to retreat. They don’t like physical affection from anyone, especially with wet clothes as the cold seeps into their bones. Nor do they really want to hug Nick of all people.

His hands fall to his sides with a ‘Oh well’ sort of look, though the hurt still shines through as bright as a beacon. Before he can turn, they carefully put their arms around him, pressing their head to his chest. Startled, he doesn’t respond for just a moment before leaning his head against theirs and wrapping his arms tight around their form. Just for second, long enough that their shirt is clearly stuck to them and they pull away without a word.

Their brother is holding back a smile as he looks at them, then turning over his shoulder, “Let me change, and we’ll have a batch of snickerdoodles in no time, button.”

Carmen stands there for a moment, watching until his retreating form disappears into the rest of the house. They drag themselves back into their room, closing the door behind them with a soft snck. 

Now alone with their thoughts, it’s impossible not to slide down their door to curl up again, knees pressed to their chest as hot tears well up in their eyes. What they would do without Nick, they aren’t sure. They don’t know anymore. No one knows what lies ahead for Carmen, not Nick, not Sally, not John, not Hope, no doctor on the planet knows. All they know is that they’re a zero, that they’re powerless and they need to be protected. They’re loud and need someone to quiet them. 

They want to feel alive again. Crawling their way out of the hellhole that is their mental state these days proves more and more difficult. Ending it all seems like the clear choice. Putting Nick through that pain is what keeps them around. They couldn’t live with that.

Carmen flickers their cracked phone screen on after a moment, the light nearly blinding them in the dark and cold room as they sink into their hoodie, turning the brightness down. Six text messages from Sally in the last day, all some variation of her being worried about them. Another one vibrates their phone,

sallymeister (17:30): nicholas says ur home now. hope he gave a verbal beatdown to that ben kid n his mom. kinda hope you gave him one too 😤 sallymeister (17:30): wanna get on a call? its 2 quiet w/o u around

A pause,

sallymeister (17:31): or not. up to u. just want 2 make sure ur ok wisefry

Carmen fishes their earbuds out of their soaked bag, sighing at the use of the nickname. Once the call connects, Sally launches into a retelling of her day (nasally -- she’d been out sick). Carmen is nearly happy to hear her voice on the other end, filling the silence and encroaching thoughts in their mind. Her cheerful story at least reminds them that Sally cares. Even if they don’t want Sally to be the only person around, Nick calls them for the cookies an hour later, their eyes still burning, but now dry of tears.

Carmen passes by too many photos of their family on the way into the kitchen, the eyes they share with Hope following them around wherever they go. The room smells heavenly though when Carmen steps in, Nick already with a cookie in his mouth before silently shoving the plate of still warm snickerdoodles over the counter. He leans against it after untying his apron.

“I thought you were going out for groceries.” They say, carefully picking one up as it starts to fall apart.

“I was, but that can wait until tomorrow,” He answers, “That storm isn’t going anywhere.”

Carmen makes a noncommittal noise, chewing on the cookie and pulling themself up into a stool on the island. There isn’t much they can say, not when they were considering the unthinkable only a few minutes ago. What Nick would say if they told them exactly what bounced around in their head all the time, they don’t want to think about it.

Carmen doesn’t remember if they’ve ever seen him cry.

“Want me to redo your hair?” He asks, swiping another cookie off the plate, “Your roots are showing again.”

“Maybe.” They answer. They hadn’t realized. They hadn’t really cared either.

“Going for a different color this time? We could do orange. Or neon green.” He offers, chuckling to himself. The thought arrives anyway, as much as Carmen grits their teeth, Are you going to be ok, button? I heard you all the way in here.

Great, so I’m still loud? They ask, glaring back at Nick but too tired to put up a real fight.

No. I’ll always worry, it’s my superpower, he slides his hand across the counter, offering it to them with a smile, Let me be here for you.

After a moment of hard deliberation, Carmen accepts, slipping their colder, smaller hand into Nick’s warm and inviting one. His fingers intertwine with theirs’, squeezing, I love you button. Even if you don’t me, I always will.

-

Their backpack is by their feet again. A different one. 

They’re the one in the Aeon uniform now. They’re hunched over, they can barely breathe in that stupid hard chair by the bed. They wanted to leave, they don’t even want to be in this stupid cramped little room.

Their phone is cracked again, scars running up from the impact point. Fallen from a balcony, shattered the screen. For some reason, they feel like John won’t be buying them a new one. It wouldn’t be his priority at least. Carmen isn’t sure they mind. The phone doesn’t matter right now.

Their hands are shaking in their lap again, their body is so tensed that they feel like they’re a rope pulled taught -- just waiting for it to snap.

They’re the one reaching for Nick’s hand this time. 

It’s too still. These were the hands that hugged them, that made them cookies, that made them lunch every damn day. That had this morning, even though they turned it down.

That ventilator’s wheeze punctuates every moment they sit there hesitating. Every moment that they hear their heartbeat in their ears, knowing that if they tried, they wouldn’t be able to feel their brother’s.

Nick, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.

They can’t believe their last words were for Nick to just leave them alone. Their throat is closing up as tears bubble up at the corner of their eyes, threatening to spill.

Nick, I love you. Please. Don’t do this. I love you so much.

I need you.

Carmen intertwines their fingers with Nick’s, holding him so tight. His hand larger, but their hand fitting like a glove.

He doesn’t squeeze back.

[sylvain-writes]

Guarded Hearts and Safe Houses (Leonardo x Reader) Chapter 7/9

Rated: T

Gender Neutral Reader, canon typical violence/injury, light angst, strangers to lovers, supportive family.

for @melodiousmelodrama 

The blood drains from your face. You feel light-headed and unsteady on your feet. “Are my… are my…”

Donnie’s eyes lock on yours. “Raph’s there with Mikey. Everyone’s OK,” he says, but it brings little relief. “Your parents were at a charity function for the hospital.”

“And Gram?” Your throat’s gone so dry, you can barely get the question out.

“At the neighbors’.”

A shaky breath passes through your lips as you wrap your arms around yourself.

Leo stalks the mat as he thinks aloud. “This was a targeted attack. Their numbers might not be what we projected. But they didn’t get what they came for - hostages or us. They’ll be back. We have to get the humans to a secure location.”

Your thoughts extend beyond the safety of your family. “You have to protect the apartment building.”

“Yes.” Leo gives a sharp nod. “We have to defend the city. They’ll strike the building again. We can set up a base of operations somewhere close. Keep a lookout.” He whips out his phone and calls his brothers. “Mikey, sweep the area for somewhere to set up a base. Prepare for another attack.”

Mikey’s voice carries over the speaker. “You got it, bro.”

“Donnie,” Leo commands, “get us ready to move out. Whatever we need. Devices to track their signature, that new bo you’ve been working on. Anything else you got that might help against these guys. We’ve never been up against something like this before. We’re gonna need every advantage we can get.”

“The new weapons? But I thought you said...” Donatello rises to his full height at his brother’s nod of approval. “Of course, Leo. It’d be my honor to supply the team with new hardware. To be used in tandem with our traditional weapons, of course.”

Leo urges him, “Go!” and Donnie heads out at a sprint.

When Leo turns to you, you’re having trouble catching your breath. Tears cloud your vision and the lump in your throat makes it hard to speak.

“This is my fault,” Leo says by way of apology. “I shouldn’t have let my feelings distract me. Your family should have never been in danger.”

You understand now. How being a distraction to him is dangerous. The world depends on him. Tending to you, indulging you, led to this.

You believed his fears and insecurity about being vulnerable, showing weakness, were baseless. But leaving the city open to attack, leaving your family at risk… it isn’t worth whatever feelings stir in your chest when you think of him.

You’d rather have him and everyone else safe, than to be selfish. This isn’t him choosing to ignore you, this is him choosing to save the world.

When you return to your family home, Leo kneels before your parents and Gram. “I have dishonored you, failed you. I know my words are not enough, but I hope you will allow me to defend you and your home. I will not fail you again. On my honor. On my life.”

Your father, filled with fear, sputters before leaving the room. You know him, he doesn’t put the blame on the turtles, not really. But he doesn’t have anywhere else to direct his feelings of anger, fear, and confusion. Not yet.

Leo appeals to the women as they remain. “I allowed my mind to be clouded by distraction. It will not happen again. I devote my life to ninja and to your protection.”

His apologies hurt more than you thought they would, know you’re the distraction of which he speaks. Though you came to that same conclusion less than an hour ago, hearing it from his lips ties your stomach in knots.

“It’s time for you to go,” you find yourself saying. “You being here puts a bigger target on us, doesn’t it?”

Leo nods and stands.

“Then, go save the city, Leo. We won’t stand in your way as distractions anymore.”

Leo’s face twists in pain before his emotions slip behind the wall he builds so well. He heads for the window and you close it behind him with more force than necessary.

Once he’s gone, you try not to think of him. Your family needs you. They’re shaken and confused. And you don’t have all of the answers, but you have faith in the brothers. You have to believe they can fight this threat to the city. You have to believe they can win.

The Krang don’t attack again that day. Or that week. And a lookout returns to the roof. But it’s Leo and you won’t go up there. You don’t want to talk to him and it’s clear he doesn’t want you around.

But being in the apartment, unable to spend time on your rooftop escape, is making you stir crazy. You do get little drop ins from the other guys, sometimes right before their patrol.

Raphael will stop in to see Gram, ask about a new stitch he’s working on for his latest yarn project - a blanket for Mikey. A birthday present the young turtle isn’t supposed to know about.

Donatello dropped in to give you a secure phone so you could contact them in case of an emergency. “Or, you know, if you ever just want to talk about life, the universe, and everything.”

Mikey leaves you horoscopes, but it’s bittersweet. He doesn’t stick around to explain what he thinks they mean.

You convince yourself you’ve gotten over Leo, that the reason you spend more time looking at his horoscope than the others is because he’s the one perched on your roof and if the horoscope is predicting bad news for him then that translates into bad news for you, for your family, for your building. And you need to be prepared. You are absolutely not looking for any clues in regard to his feelings for you, any clues as to when you can expect him to knock on the window and apologize for pushing you away. When you can expect him to announce he’s come up with a way for you to be a boon to their cause instead of the distraction he’s determined you to be.

When the Krang launches an attack on Times Square, it’s all over the news. People are frantic. The city is in chaos. And you don’t know what to do. There’s no way off the island - and though you’d like your family to get to New Jersey, to get somewhere safely out of the way, you don’t even think of leaving yourself.

You and Leo haven't spoken to each other in over a week and you have no idea how he’s been handling everything. The guys haven’t given many clues. Mikey’s horoscopes are too vague to understand without his interpretations.

You know Leo holds so much inside, not wanting to burden his brothers with more than what he thinks they can handle. Why doesn’t he realize that if he trusted other people to share the burden, it’d be easier for everyone to carry? His brothers wouldn’t be as worried about him and all four of them would be better prepared to handle whatever dangers are to come.

You kiss your parents and Gram goodbye and head south toward Times Square. They know where you’re going. They don’t try to stop you. Mother straps a pack full of medical supplies to your back and squishes your face before you go. “I would be right beside you,” she says, then casts a meaningful look at Gram and Father.

The city is madness. The streets, which you thought would be teeming with people running for cover, are empty. Everyone who could find shelter has found it. Those who couldn't, well, they don't need shelter anymore.

You charge through the streets on foot, sure the subways are out of order. There are no cabs to take you, no clear streets to drive through even if there was a vehicle to drive.

You duck behind an abandoned news stand as a disembodied brain alien floats past. You peek through the rows of magazines to see it's not the only one. There must be a dozen krang moving down the streets. They don't seem to be looking for anything, led by an unseen force.

You startle when you feel a large, cool hand close over your mouth and nose. "Don' scream, a’right?" You'd recognize Raph's voice anywhere.

The tension in your shoulders eases up, but only a little.

"Your supposed t’ be hitchin’ a ride with Don. Gettin' the hell outta here with Gram and ya parents."

You pry Raph's hand from your face and gasp for air. The dude really doesn't realize just how massive his hand is. "I'm not leaving. I can help."

You notice the gash on his arm, and without hesitation, you swing your backpack off of one shoulder and around to your chest. It takes only a few seconds for you to fish out antiseptic spray and a roll of gauze. You patch him up efficiently. And Rapahel grunts. It's about as much thanks as you could hope to get while he's focused on the fight.

"Told you. I can help. Get back out there. Is anyone else hurt?"

"Bout a few thousand New Yorkers." Raph’s brow furrows and his eyes look haunted. It only lasts a moment before he shakes his head and shifts his frown to a grimace. “These slimeballs fucked with the wrong city.”

You look around at the First Responders on the scene. "What about your brothers?"

"Why dontcha ask 'em yourself?" he asks as he scans the area for any sign of those things .

You grab the secure cell from your pocket and dial the open line to the turtles. "Mikey. You alright?"

"Hey! What's shakin'?" Mikey’s greeting is casual and bright, even amid bedlam.

"You sound winded."

"I'm kinda in the middle of something,” he explains, and you can hear the thuds and shuffling of a brawl. “Can I call you back? Later? Oof. A lot later? Yow! That's my good side, dude!"

In spite of everything, he manages to make you smile. "Where's Leo?"

A gruff voice joins the line. Deep and calm. “I’m right here.” Mikey’s channel cuts out and the background falls silent. Leo has found somewhere quiet to talk. "Where are you?"

Raph leans toward the phone to answer for you. "Wit me."

There’s shock in his voice, confusion and concern. "You're supposed to be with Donnie."

"Well, I'm-"

"Helpin', alright?” Raphael defends. “Got a little banged up over here. Glad I had someone on my side t' patch me up.”

You smile at him and he shoves your shoulder a bit before smiling back. And you were wrong, your first impression of him… that his snarl couldn't be improved by a smile, because when Raph smiles it really does light up his face. Softens his edges.

It's like the rare occasion when Mikey lets himself get lost monologuing about his interests - before he catches himself and hopes that you aren't upset by his enthusiasm.

You've only seen Donnie smile like that once. Carefree.

But you've never seen Leo wear a carefree smile. Not ever.  Maybe something tight lipped. Or something fond. Sad. Leo’s smiles hold secrets and burdens. His shoulders hold responsibility. There isn't a carefree bone in his body. He holds the weight of the world on his shell. And try as he might to hide the toll it takes on him, his brothers can see he can’t do it alone.

"Fine,” Leo concedes. “Stay with Raph."

"We're comin' to you, brutha."

"Wait where you are- No!" There's a thud and a gasp and Leo gives a shout of pain before the line goes dead.

[aminiatureworld]

Hypnos

Ship: Geralt x Jaskier

Warnings: None

Premise:  Jaskier realizes how unbearable sleeping next to one's unrequited love can be. Luckily that setup doesn't last forever.

Author’s Note:  What was supposed to be a short fic went into the wee hours of the night, and since I wrote another fic (putting today's word count since midnight at above 3k) this isn't actually all that proofread, apologies in advance.

Hope you enjoy and thank you to all 33 people who liked/reblogged my last one. I’m eternally grateful to you all for being so kind!

           Jaskier was beginning to wish that he’d just agreed to sleep on the floor. It was high summer and a bit of a dry season for Geralt. Jaskier had joked once that perhaps the heatwave was too much for the monsters, that they were probably all off on vacation in the north, and honestly he was beginning to believe his own joke more and more, for not only was the coin scarce, but half of the time the bard wondered if his boots weren’t one day going to simply meld to his feet, and he’d never be able to take them off again. The humidity didn’t help his singing much either. Not only was his voice not appreciating the sudden spikes in temperature, dreadfully hot in the beginning of the night and cool enough in the morning to cause complaining in his throat, but his lute was also suffering, as the wood kept swelling and throwing off the pitch, the pegs constantly sticking and refusing to turn. This certainly didn’t help in terms of funding, so when Geralt had suggested they’d share a bed to stave off sleeping under the stars, this town didn’t seem to have a nice patch of grass within ten miles of it, Jaskier had readily accepted, as the floor was terribly splintered and had a suspicious stickiness about it that kept them both with their shoes on.

          Now however he wondered if it wasn’t worth getting a mysterious illness for a little bit of sleep, for sleeping next to Geralt seemed in the moment like the most difficult task Jaskier had yet to attempt while following the Witcher around, for although it was indeed frustratingly hot, although the bed was indeed small and cramped, and although the open window indeed let in more stench than breeze, none of that was comparable to the anxious feeling that was bubbling up in Jaskier’s stomach, or the tautness of his senses, as he now seemed to be aware of every little movement that came from the sleeping man next to him.

He kept his back to the Witcher, hoping that would ease the anxious feeling in his chest, the sweat running down his chest, half due to the heat, to his nerves. Whether it was indeed better than facing Geralt, Jaskier couldn’t tell, as it seemed every little movement he made caused such an obnoxious creaking that flipping over was quite out of the question. His every nerve seemed to be begging for sleep, his eyelids kept sliding closed, yet quickly he’d open them again, for his mind kept racing with all sorts of scenarios where he accidentally kicked Geralt, or got too close or, gods forbid, found himself tangled with the Witcher. Not that he didn’t want that of course, indeed Jaskier sometimes felt he wanted that too much, for being around Geralt had the sometimes unfortunate side effect of cause such a tightness and fluttering in his chest, as well as, well, other things. Still it was a lot easier to temper that with occasional flirting, which Geralt never seemed to pick up on; references in songs, also unnoticed; and a bit of secret staring, Jaskier was glad that hadn’t been found out yet; than to deal with the very immediate consequences of being stuck in bed next to the man that Jaskier wouldn’t hesitate to throw his heart at, if he thought Geralt wouldn’t catch it and toss it out the window. Straining his eyes to stare at the window, Jaskier wondered what decisions he made to get here and, accepting sleep was going to be in short supply that night, prayed to whatever god was listening that he’d never have to deal with this situation again.

          Unfortunately whatever god was listening must’ve had a tight schedule for it was barely a week and a half before the situation happened again. Geralt had apparently felt nothing from their previous bed sharing, so when they’d landed in a particularly crowded inn he’d simply looked at Jaskier and said “I guess we’re sharing again tonight.” Jaskier had simply nodded dumbly, hit with such a wave of panic that he’d not managed to think of any sort of good excuse, and now here they were again, and here again was Jaskier wondering where it’d all gone wrong. It was a cooler night at least, though cooler was hardly the same as comfortable this year, and his nightshirt still stuck to his back, drenched in sweat. Somehow the bed seemed even tighter than the last one, and though Jaskier had managed last time not to run into his companion, he wasn’t quite so sure about this time around. Half of him wondered if the night wasn’t simply better spent in front of the window writing music by moonlight, but they were simply passing by this village, and tomorrow was going to be spent on the road, so sleep was a desperate need. Scooting slightly more into the bed, at least it seemed to be less creaky than its predecessor, Jaskier felt his back touch the Witcher. So that was how much space he had. Silently cursing the inn for only having two pillows per bed, Jaskier’s standard was usually closer to five, Jaskier lay shifted so his left arm wasn’t completely pinned underneath him and, praying that this would be another uneventful night, drifted off into a fitful sleep.

          Jaskier woke up in darkness. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was, having been in the middle of an incredibly odd dream featuring a bunch of random schoolmates and a series of differently colored doors, also was there a war going on? Shivering slightly, it was awfully cold, Jaskier groped around for some sort of blanket. Unfortunately those seemed in short supply, and, quickly growing too tired to continue the search, Jaskier simply saddled up to the source of heat next to him and, vaguely thinking this was quite the odd pillow and had he simply not woken up, drifted off back to sleep.

          The room that the two men had rented faced the dawn, and thus the sky was still slightly purple when Jaskier woke up. Blinking heavily a few times, the first thing that hit Jaskier was the freshness of the air, the second thing that his him was the pair of arms around him. A more efficient alarm there never was, and as Jaskier was aware of that he also became exceedingly aware of the fact that, during the night, his sleep ridden mind had apparently decided that wrapping ones arms around and nuzzling ones face into the chest of one’s unrequited love was a perfectly reasonable and sane thing to do. Now however Jaskier was discovering, indeed, that wasn’t the sanest or most reasonable thing to do. He wondered how he might get himself out of this situation without waking the Witcher when he heard a sleep filled “Jaskier” come from the lips of the man who he’d wrapped his arms around. Looking up at the sleepy Witcher, the sleepy Witcher who’d evidently not processed the situation, Jaskier felt the familiar burning in his heart and in his chest, the bittersweet warmth of falling in love, for at this point it most certainly wasn’t simple infatuation, with someone who’d never return the feeling. For a moment he felt a pang of jealousy, jealousy towards anyone who’d the Witcher had let into his heart, for sometimes Jaskier couldn’t be sure what his place was in that sense, whether he lay outside the walls of Geralt’s defense or not, but that quickly faded, replaced by the familiar tenderness the bard felt. Geralt was too good for that kind of jealousy anyhow.

          Moments passed and Jaskier waited for Geralt to do something, to grow embarrassed or some such thing. But though his face turned an interesting glow of red, Geralt had yet to react, and for a moment time seemed to freeze, neither party making any move to break the odd spell, the situation they’d landed themselves in. Finally Jaskier made a half hearted move to go, but though Geralt slackened his arms around the bard’s neck he made no move to untangle himself. Finding the entire situation more and more unbearable by the moment, Jaskier felt the tension rising by the second. Finally a sort of desperation came over him and, seeming to realize at the moment how terrible an idea this was, Jaskier lifted his head and gave Geralt a quick kiss on the cheek.

          If nothing else that certainly did the trick. Geralt’s face grew red as an overripe tomato, and he quickly lurched up to a sitting position. Jaskier did too and, realizing that he’d probably just thrown their whole relationship down the drain, began a string of apologies. “Geralt, I’m so sorry. You don’t… I don’t… we don’t have to go down a path even intersectional with that. I just, I suppose it was just that you’d made no gesture to move, and, well, I’ve kinda been wanting to kiss you for ages and ages now, but I really value your friendship more than anything like that, so we can just pretend that it didn’t happen if you want and I’m so very sorry!”

          Geralt up to this point had made neither to move nor to speak, only sort of staring at Jaskier in what the bard supposed was a shocked sort of expression, really Geralt had such a hand on the reins of his facial expressions it was hard to tell, but seeing that the bard was at least pausing for breath he leaned closer. Immediately all thoughts were dashed from Jaskier’s brain. He felt a sort of disbelief that the Witcher hadn’t simply left yet, a disbelief that grew intensely when instead Geralt made to cup Jaskier’s cheek with his hand. Leaning slightly into the touch Jaskier still shook his head slightly. “I, I don’t understand.”

          “May… may I show you?” Geralt gazed down at Jaskier, moving closer so their faces were inches apart. His mind working overtime, the situation finally clicked in Jaskier’s mind, and at that moment he felt such a lightness and joy that it seemed to completely black out the rest of the world.

          “Yes please.” He breathed out before Geralt brought his lips to Jaskier’s and all else was immediately forgotten.

            It had taken a much longer time for the two to get on the road than expected, though Jaskier, feeling delightfully spent, didn’t mind the disruption, and thus by the time night fell it was abundantly clear that they’d be camping, for the next town was still some miles away. As Jaskier began rolling out the beds he placed the two right next to one another, smiling devilishly at Geralt, who beamed fondly back. Jaskier’s smile also softened into an affectionate one, and he joined his companion who was currently focusing on building their fire. Plopping down next to Geralt, Jaskier began playing a soft theme, the kind that didn’t bring attention to itself while still being beautiful enough to be worthwhile.

          “Sooo.” He spoke up. “Might I ask now about your affections towards me, I know I’m quite irresistible of course but I’d still like to hear it, and why you’d been so reticent about it?”

          “You said nothing.” Geralt pointed out, but there was no attack in the words, only a sort of fondness. “And, well, people connected to me are always cheated by Fate. Everyone I’ve met who I’ve, well,” he threw his hands up slightly, “they’ve all met bad ends. I didn’t want that again. Not for me, yes, but not for you.” He gazed softly at Jaskier. “You deserve better.”

          “Nonsense,” Jaskier replied softly, “I deserve only you, perhaps not even that, perhaps I’m not even good enough for that. But I’d still have you, if you’d have me.” He paused.

          “I thought I made that quite clear.” Geralt replied softly, and, arms sliding around the bard’s waist, who in turn threw his arms around the Witcher’s neck, made to prove it.

[fleckcmscott]

Bewitching Hour

Summary: October has been a blissfully busy month. With Halloween around the corner, Arthur and Y/N have some planning to do.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 4,665

A/N: Special thanks to @hhandley80​ for this request! You've been so supportive and sweet. I truly appreciate you and hope you enjoy it!

On a side note, my oneshots will be more sporadic. I'm still writing but life has been life. Also, I've finished the first draft of another multi-chapter featuring Arthur and Y/N. It's going to take time to rewrite the subsequent drafts and edit, edit, edit. The chapters will go up once the story is ready. Thanks for your patience and support! 🙂 I heart you all!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask! 

Arthur's suggestion that they make plans to celebrate Halloween should not have been a surprise. He loved starting traditions with Y/N, and she prized adopting them with him. "It's been awhile," he'd said as they'd walked arm-in-arm to the laundromat. "I think it'd be nice."

Holidays had been a source of merriment most of her life. The beauty of red and green decorations at Christmas. Turkey and mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving. An egg hunt and chocolate rabbit at Easter. The togetherness of family during them all.

Halloween, though, wasn't a favorite.

As a child, she'd had fun trick-or-treating, riding her bike from house to far-flung house. And she hadn't minded escorting her little sister as a teenager. Y/N's homemade witch costume had been passed down. She could still recall the sleekness of the ribbon between her fingers as she'd secured the pointed hat under Mabel's chin.

But the magic had fallen away. When married to Jeff, she'd had to attend his boss's annual party. After receiving an apologetic shrug and kiss, she'd be relegated to hanging out with the other wives. They'd included her in their recipe swaps, in their exchanges of mild gossip. Her natural friendliness made chit-chat easy, far easier than having a good time. Those evenings had been spent nursing a glass of wine and willing the clock to go faster.

During the period she'd cared for her father, she'd tried to hand out candy. She liked being a good neighbor and imparting kindness in the form of bite-sized sweets. As his health had declined, the porch light had gone dark. Random rings of the doorbell would result in shouting and swearing. Repeated attempts to explain the door's lock wasn't broken. Festivity would transform into drudgery. It hadn't been worth the trouble. Instead, she'd watched terrible TV specials while her thoughts wandered to a future far from Boonville. A future she'd doubted would ever be.

"I don't know if it's your thing," Arthur had continued, bringing her back to the present. "But you might enjoy it with me." The response he longed for was evident in the worrying of his pocket, outlines of his knuckles visible through the tan cloth.

Everything they'd experienced together had soothed the sting of those wasted years. The hesitancy lurking in her was silly. Unwelcome. Less than either of them deserved. She'd met his keen eyes and half-smile. The sudden mental image of him dressed as a cowboy or pirate, eyepatch and all, prompted a laugh. Convinced her as she dug out her dry-cleaning stub. "It isn't my thing," she'd said. "But you are."

Relief had relaxed his wrinkles, save for his crows feet, which had deepened as he'd returned her happy expression. A slender arm wrapped around her waist, drew her against his solid frame. Once the clerk disappeared through the swinging doors to retrieve their clothes, Arthur grasped her chin and kissed her. The tender explorations were soon sloppy, and she'd giggled, his enthusiasm becoming her own. Their noses had met, his lashes resting on his wide cheekbones. "I think you're the sweetest treat, Mrs. Fleck."

Currently, Donahue's Department Store, Gotham's number one retail emporium (if the ads were to be believed), was bustling with last-minute shoppers. Weary mothers escorted their babbling children through the aisles. Clerks swapped out displays for the changing blue light specials. Lines went for yards. Patricia and Y/N sought refuge at a corner table in the café on the top floor. The warm glow from the pendant lamps provided a relaxed ambience, one that matched the hot cider and pumpkin spice cake they were savoring.

"I've got my grandson on Sunday," Patricia said between bites. "My daughter's going to a party with a medical records tech from Gotham General. Met him when she missed the bus. They split a cab and hit it off." Chuckling, she lifted her mug. "Speaking of, how's married life been so far?"

Memories of the past week quickened Y/N's heart, until she thought it might stop. How Arthur had gripped her replacement Social Security card, just to read her new name. The way he'd grab her for a twirl whenever they were in the kitchen. The reverence in his gaze when they'd lay together after sex, a look that both thrilled and made her blush. "The bills for his medication and appointments will no longer make us cringe," she deadpanned. She lowered her fork. "When we met, I was kind of blindsided - I'm not the type to fall in love quickly." The corners of her lips tugged up. "Being married to Arthur feels like a habit. A habit I should have learned twenty years ago."

"I'm glad you found each other." Patricia reached across the light brown table and covered Y/N's hand, gave it a squeeze. Then she wiped frosting from her mouth and nodded in the direction of the escalator. "Now let's find a costume that'll drive him nuts."

Beyond the colorful cosmetics and pungent perfume counters, they sorted through racks of vinyl smocks and plastic masks. Pop culture icons and princesses. Vampires and spooks. Knockoffs of classic movie monsters. Most were poorly made and decidedly uninteresting. Y/N pawed through accessories in a nearby basket, a cigar here, a patched hat there. "How about a hobo? I could steal Arthur's tie."

"This was his idea. Give him something a little exciting." After a roll of Y/N's eyes, Patricia held out a plastic display bag. "Found it."

The white font on its blue label declared she should "Create a unique look!" A woman in a leopard-print leotard and bow-tie wore black cat ears and a tail, the only two items included in the set. Y/N's nose wrinkled. "I don't think so, Patricia." She rummaged through another bin and examined a hockey mask. "I don't show a lot of skin."

"You show Arthur." Patricia ignored Y/N's glare, continuing to shove it at her. "Every man loves a woman dressed as a cat. Our next lunch is on me if I'm wrong."

Patricia could be relentless, but Y/N had to admit she was usually right. She arched a brow as she eyed the costume. Maybe she could find a solid body suit instead of animal print. The kit was only $2.98. And her friend had made it a challenge. "You're on. But I'm not wearing a bow-tie." She crossed her arms across her chest and tapped her mouth. "Your turn. Would Robert like you as a French maid or a go-go dancer?"

~~~~~

It was a busy season for performers. Arthur remembered HaHa's talent agency being booked solid for October by the end of August. Myriad functions at nursing homes, parties, and children's organizations took place throughout the city. Amusement Mile had a series of special events, allowing Arthur to work extra hours before the slowness of winter dragged in. Once the holiday was over, he'd buy make-up and props on clearance.

He'd always assumed he would like Halloween - if he'd had the chance to celebrate it properly. It was about connection, something he'd never managed. The customs gave him a pretense, a template to meet people, rather than leaving him wondering how to go about it. Provided a hiding place for his seeming inability to act normal.

Recollections of the day were few but vivid. When he'd been around eight, there'd been a party at school. The teacher had made brownies and given the students a half-hour respite from lessons. (A welcome relief, since he wasn't very good at most of them.) But he hadn't had a costume. Hadn't known how to reply when the other kids asked where it was. Not wanting to be left out, he'd pocketed a watercolor pallet and sneaked to the bathroom.

The teacher (he wished he could remember her name) had walked in as he'd smeared green and blue on his face, a pathetic attempt at a turtle. Fear of punishment had caused his laughter. But her kindness as she knelt, wiped away tears and pigment with a scratchy, brown paper towel, had calmed him. "Wait here," she'd instructed. It had taken all his courage not to run home.

After some minutes, she'd returned, an old white sheet in one hand, black marker and pair of scissors in the other. "The nurse won't miss this." She'd traced eyeholes, helped him cut them out. She'd asked questions. About his mother and what it was like at home. Questions he was at a loss for how to answer. Finally, she'd draped the cloth over his head. "There," she'd declared. "Gotham Elementary has its own ghost."

Even as he'd gotten taller and the sheet no longer went beyond his knees, that costume had remained his go-to. He'd venture out to the rest of his building, knocking on paint-chipped doors and pushing broken buzzers. Having learned to stay away from doors that yelling or funny smells emanated from, he hadn't gotten a lot of candy. What he had collected he'd shared with Penny. The wax lips became a free toy. He wasn't sure his memory of startling his mother and being tickled until he couldn't breathe was real or imagined.

At twelve, he was told he was too old to go trick-or-treating. He'd starting scrounging for change to buy hard candies at Helm's Pharmacy. They weren't particularly appetizing, but they'd been what he could afford. Only a few kids rang, a number that dwindled further every year. Most neighbors kept their distance, likely aware he was troubled. Cinnamon discs and butterscotch drops had loitered around the apartment for months. He'd sucked on them in an attempt to cut down on his smoking, just to save money. It hadn't worked.

Y/N hadn't spoken about the holiday, not the way she had other special occasions. At first, he'd thought it had slipped her mind. Work, planning their honeymoon, completing the red tape required to meld all aspects of their lives had taken up much of their time. But, given her reluctance to talk in detail about her past heartache, he'd come to assume her Halloweens had been unpleasant. He was certain he could change that.

Sitting on the dingy, dark green plastic seat of the train car, he giggled to himself, chest puffing up as he straightened. They'd been man and wife for eight whole days. Movies and songs said love was supposed to be somewhere between serendipitous and fated. A happy accident that was meant to be. Lying awake at night, he would find himself wondering where they were on that scale. If the emotions swirling through him - the excitement of belonging, the fear of fucking up - were what every newlywed felt. Then Y/N would snuggle closer in her sleep, murmur nonsense into his skin, and for a few minutes he'd be at peace.

Years had been spent trying to figure out who he was. Trying to find an identity, his role within the world. While he was still searching, it had been far easier to become accustomed to the role of "husband" than he'd dreamed.

Teaching his wife about events across the city had been a delight. Gotham Village's Annual Costume Extravaganza was a parade that went all the way to Gotham Square. He'd participated a couple of times, never formally registering but slipping into the clown section. It had been exhilarating. Had allowed him to pretend, for a little while, that he was being seen. That the crowds lining the sidewalks were cheering for him. Signs for extravagant balls were plastered on billboards and lampposts throughout the streets; he'd have gladly attended and shown her off. A haunted house was being held in a building in his old neighborhood, a fundraiser for the orphanage. He hadn't brought that up.

In the end, once he'd explained trick-or-treaters went from apartment to apartment, they'd decided on a cozy evening at home. The details had been left to her. Whatever she'd plan, he'd love it. He wondered what she'd disguise herself as. Would she be a sexy devil or nurse, like he'd seen on a sit-com? The notion sparked a fire in his cheeks.

Given how busy he'd be, he'd stay dressed as plain, old Carnival. Part of him regretted accepting two gigs, especially on a Sunday. He would have preferred her company. But he wanted to put the money towards the wedding band he'd put on layaway. (Even though they had one account, he wasn't going to let her chip in for it.) He should already be wearing it for all of Gotham to see.

The lurch of the subway prompted him to rise and grasp the pole grip. His stance widened as it came to a halt, knees bending with the instinct of a man who'd ridden public transportation since he was a boy. As soon as the graffiti-covered doors parted, he stepped out onto the platform and ascended the stairs, eager to share his new insurance information with Dr. Ludlow.

~~~~~

Scratchy violins and the hum of a theremin. Shrill shrieks and cracks of thunder. A cackle resounded, then a pipe organ, playing a melody in a minor key.

There was no doubt about it. Halloween spirit had saturated 4A.

NCB's Movie Marathon Mayhem had begun at 10:00 AM. Y/N had had it on since getting out of the shower, hoping to catch a horror classic while she decorated the apartment and prepared Bloody Mary mix. As she hung cotton batting between the television's rabbit ears, creating a long, narrow spider-web, she realized they were only playing cheesy B-movies. Giant insects threatening buildings. Science experiments gone wrong. Alien invasions. Oh well. At least she wouldn't have to pay much attention to get the gist of the plots.

The orange plastic platter, black bats along its edges, had been an impulse buy. She thought its array of sugary skeletons, candy bracelets, and Jolly Jack chocolate bars would be well received. But having seen only one or two kids in the lobby, she had no idea how many children lived in their building. She hoped she'd bought enough.

The cardstock window decorations she'd found were festive and matched Arthur's sweet nature. One portrayed a warted, green witch flying on a broom past a full moon. On the other, a ghost and mouse shared a pillowcase of candy and wished a "Happy Halloween." She held the tape dispenser between her teeth as she stuck them to their white front door.

Just then, the elevator dinged. Glancing to her left, she saw Arthur stroll down the cheerfully lit hallway. Buoyant expression on him, despite his white, blue, and red make-up being streaked from sweat. Striped prop bag on his shoulder and carved pumpkin cradled in his arms. "The store owner was going to throw it out," he explained with a half hug. "But he let me have it as a tip."

Classic, triangular eyes evoked the annual carving contest her parents had taken part of back home. Her father had been well-known in the community, being the town's only doctor. Entering the competition had been expected. They'd never won but enjoyed it all the same. Y/N had picked out the patterns and scooped out the squash's slimy innards. Her mother had baked the seeds. Peals of their laughter echoed in her ears, and a lump formed in her throat.

She swallowed hard against it. Dammit, Y/N. Get it together. This was supposed to be a special night for Arthur and her. She needed to distract herself. One of his curls peeked out from under his bald-cap and green wig. She twirled a strand around her finger. "With that toothy grin, it just might be your twin," she said. He pecked her temple, the kiss sticky from greasepaint. She lit the half-melted candles using his red lighter and put the jack-o-lantern just outside their door.

While he freshened his paint in the bedroom, she slinked into the bathroom to change. Arthur's and her routines were closely aligned; keeping her costume hidden had not been easy. The headband holding the furry cat ears was quite stiff, its teeth a tad sharp on her scalp. Once it was in place, she hid it under her hair. The lint on her form-fitting stretch top and leggings reminded her why she rarely wore all black. She retrieved her brown eyeliner from the nearby shelf and started in on her whiskers.

Arthur's footsteps neared, heavy due to his clown shoes, and Y/N turned to lean back on the sink. His thin lips parted as he scanned her body, forehead furrowed in pleasant surprise. His reaction planted a seed of bliss in her belly, one that bloomed every second they regarded each other. The lunch she'd have to spring for was well worth the pink shells of his ears. Eventually, she held out the fluffy, wired tail and a safety pin. "Would you pin this just below my waistband?"

Fingers grazing hers, he took it and sat on the toilet lid. He cupped her hips and pulled her closer, positioned her until the dampness of his breath hit a bare sliver of her back. "Hold still," he murmured, his voice sending a tingle through her. At his gentle ministrations, the spandex of her leggings felt snugger. "Did you- Did you read my journal?"

A faint click of metal as the pin closed. "No." She colored the tip of her nose, frowned at how lackluster the shade was. "I'd never do that. Even if I'm dying for a preview of your material. Why?"

"No reason." A soft huff, his shy smile clear in his answer. "I have an idea." He handed her a washcloth and hurried out of the room. She was patting her face dry when he returned, a fine tipped brush and pot of black greasepaint in his hand. "This'll look better."

Her brow arched. She'd only had her make-up done once; Patricia had invited her when they'd first met. Such an outing was not her preference, but Y/N had accepted, being new in town and wanting to learn about her colleague. There'd been champagne at the counter, which she'd sipped until she'd spent too much on eyeshadow and apricot scrub. The next morning, she'd put the products and a note on Patricia's desk: "I'll never forgive you. Thanks!"

The heat radiating from Arthur prompted her to close the gap between them. She craned her neck towards him, slid her palms to his yellow vest until she held him just below his ribs. His forefinger curled under her chin, lifted it slightly and angled it to the right. The cool, wet brush met her fevered skin. The dusty smell of the greasepaint blended with a whiff of stale cigarette smoke and traces of his sweat. She licked her lips.

The vibration of his chuckle was felt before heard. "I really like your costume," he said lowly. Two more ticklish caresses of the bristles on the apple of her cheek. "If you're not careful, I might werewolf and go wild."

She stretched closer to him, the fervor in his tone going straight to her center. Though he'd been growing bolder, his cocky side wasn't often revealed. She wanted it, thirsted to see more of the wild horse kicking inside him. Her touch ran over his chest, until she dipped under his black suspenders and pulled. "Are you going to gobble me up?"

Teasing strokes on her nose. "Maybe." Then his thumb whispered along her jaw and guided her face upwards. His kiss was supple, slow, a drag of his mouth as his tongue sought entry. She yielded, the simmer of anticipation bringing her to her toes. He groaned deeply and palmed her thigh, then fondled the curve of her rear-

The ding-dong of the doorbell halted them. He lifted his head and laughed, gaze sparkling. "I got paint on you."

She twisted in his arms and looked in the mirror. The whiskers caught her eye, embellished at the ends with dainty curlicues - his skill never ceased to impress her. Red brightened her lips and streaks of white were on her cheek. "It's all right. They'll just know I've been necking with a clown."

~~~~~

The sound of the bell continued. Over and over and over. More than it ever had in Otisburg. There were mummies, ghosts, a couple of skeletons. A superhero proudly displayed his red cape and blue tights, and a kid in her karate robe went on about her yellow belt. A tiny clown, too young to walk, was brought by her sister. As Arthur made funny faces, the baby cooed and tried to take his red, foam nose. Arthur parted with it gladly.

Only one member of the Wayne family appeared, slicked back hair and pompous pout making the disguise complete. The man accompanying the boy introduced himself as their upstairs neighbor and shook their hands. After one look at Y/N, he nudged Arthur's bicep. "So, she's the one keeping half the building up at night. Good on you, pal." Arthur blinked in confusion as she ushered the guy away, red-faced and muttering about his nerve.

Arthur was overly generous, giving out fistfuls of sweets while taking a few extra seconds to gather his nerves and compliment the costumes he liked best. It felt good to interact with strangers without constantly second guessing himself. Y/N would rub his arm or kiss his shoulder and tell him what a great job he was doing. "Kids are easy," he said, refilling the candy dish. But he reveled in her praises, anyway. And the knowledge that meeting the neighbors was going well.

Clean-up required little effort. The jack-o-lantern sat on their kitchen table, flames flickering as the wicks burned away. The door decor was packed safely for use next year. His plaid blazer was slung over the back of a dining chair and his wig was off. Y/N's decision to leave her whiskers on pleased him - she made a damn sexy cat. He pocketed the last few pieces of candy to snack on during the remainder of the evening.

The Sunday Night Special Presentation she'd picked out, a made-for-TV horror movie, began at 9:00 PM on GBC. Most of its airtime was punctuated by her tipsy snickers and legal wisecracks, which was typical when they watched something stupid. Yet, as the show went on, she grew quieter, barely speaking between sips of her third cocktail. As they sat on the sofa, her posture stiffened. Forearms crossed over her breasts. Her nails dug into her upper arm.

The change started two-thirds of the way into the show, when the plot about a doll running amok twisted into a story about a professional woman trying to assert herself against the demands of her mother. Against the expectations of availability. To fight for the simplicity of having dinner and peace and quiet. It resonated with him, which felt weird. Especially when the film cut to black, the implication being the mother would meet a violent end at the hands of her possessed daughter.

A cheerful jingle came on. Puerto Rico was a direct flight from Gotham Airport, it advertised, a flight that lasted "two hours and fifteen tropical minutes." They should get out while the weather was still good. The juxtaposition of mood broke him out of his ponderings. He flicked off the blaring television with the remote. Then he heard Y/N sniffling.

She set her glass on the coffee table, a slight tremble in her hand. "I need some air," she whispered as she rose, then went out onto the fire escape.

Arthur rubbed his thigh and pressed his lips together. He wasn't used to seeing her cry. Not from sadness. Should he follow her? Give her time? Both had worked previously, depending on the situation. But he wasn't sure what had upset her, what situation they were in now.

Exhaling sharply, he grabbed her glass and dumped the rest of the drink down the kitchen sink. Rinsed their dinner plates and put the slow cooker in the fridge. When he'd finished making decaf coffee ten minutes later, she still hadn't returned. He ambled towards the ajar glass door and stepped out.

Moonlight outlined her shapely figure and reflected off her hair, the silver a contrast to the orange glow of the streetlamps illuminating her face. Her stare seemed fixated on the street below. He followed it to see a group of ghouls and goblins spraying shaving cream on a shop window. A couple, one he'd see occasionally when out for a cigarette, walked down the sidewalk. A woman was half-carrying a drunk man towards a bus stop.

Upon clearing her throat, Y/N spoke. "I may not look like it, but I had a great time with you tonight. The movie just got to me." Relieved, Arthur sidled next to her, wrapped his arm about her back. Her head fell to his shoulder and she smoothed her hand over his stomach. "I don't mean to hide from you. Someday you'll know the details of my earlier life." She scoffed. "When I'm ready to think about them." He entwined their fingers and kissed her hairline, avoiding the wired tips of her cat ears.

Shivering, she took a shaky breath. "There are no skeletons in my closet. Only disappointments." Her voice cracked as she beamed at him, cupped his cheek, and pressed her face to his. "Knowing I'd get to have you would have made those years so much easier."

He held her tightly, massaging between her shoulders. She'd been speaking about herself, but he couldn't help thinking it was about him, too. His years with Penny. His stints in Arkham. The loneliness, the isolation, the endless anger and yearning to be more than a speck of dirt no one cared for. His journal was full of questions about where the hell his one and only was. If he'd known she'd be real, tangible instead of a figment, would existence have hurt less?

Wincing, he tried to push through those thoughts. To focus on her instead of himself. What mattered was that Y/N needed him. Perhaps a joke would cheer her. "I was thinking the other night of how easy it is to smile around you," he said. "You tickle my funny bone." Amusement bubbled in her throat, music to his ears. She released a contented sigh and nuzzled the crook of his neck.

Peaceful stillness ensued as the minutes passed. Though the breeze was chill, goosebumps forming on his pale skin, her affection kept his heart warm. His fingertips rubbed circles into her lower back, and she offered a pleasured hum. Across the way, footsteps pounded. He glanced to see a kid darting up the street, plastic pumpkin pail in tow. The boy's scream was filled with boundless energy: "Happy Halloween, Gotham!"

Snorting, Y/N took Arthur's hand and led him inside. The cheap tail she wore bounced with every exaggerated swivel of her hips. "I've behaved all evening, which your werewolf comment made extraordinarily difficult." She looped her arms around him and flashed a come-hither stare. "May I have a goodie?"

The scrape of her nails on his scalp coiled a knot in his abdomen. "Aren't you supposed to say 'trick-or-treat?'" he asked huskily.

"Your pussycat needs a petting or two." She closed the bedroom door behind them. "Maybe even a mauling."

His brows shot up on a hitched giggle. Then he palmed her hip while she started in on his buttons. Before she got too far, he traced a whisker with the pad of his thumb. Let their foreheads meet and pecked her eyelids. "Only if you give me something good to eat." He pressed into her, his enjoyment relentless, not waiting for her reply before devouring her mouth.

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​, @howdylilflower​, @sweet-nothings04​, @stephieraptorr​, @rommies​, @fallenstarsabyss​, @gruffle1​, @octopus-plasma​, @tsukiakarinobara​, @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​, @another-day-in-chuckletown​, @hhandley80​, @jokerownsmysoul​, @mrscarnival​

[unsympathetic-angst]

Janus is actually pertrified of snakes. patton loves them to death. so Patton finds out and he mocks janus for his scales causing a panic attack and he just...locks himself in his room. for four months. when he comes out, his face is all scar tissue where the scales once were. and his fear of snakes is gone. now he fears patton. ((could you please write this for me? i dont have much writing skill myself and i would actually internally die you wrote this for me. you dont have to i promise-))

ive been wanting to do something like this and i finally have an excuse too awawaa,,, also plz dont die and fun fact u should write whatever u want. just have fun with it ^^ writing just takes practice

TW: U!Patton, physical abuse, verbal abuse, implied suicidal thoughts, scars, scalpel, implied/referenced panic attacks, cutting someone, crying, loss of breathe, weapons, slight victim blaming, let me know of other things to tag !

"I'll cut your little heart out 'cause you made me cry"

 Janus was reserved as he knew any sign of weakness would be used against him. He knew how predators would hunt down its prey till the small creature is too weak to run then the beast would pounce on it and uses everything it had on the poor thing. The deceitful side isn't aware of how Patton learns of his fear of snakes, but whatever mistake he made to let the information be known to the fatherly side would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Patton is cruel and revolting. He for being the moral side shows no moral code to his treatment of dark sides. It isn't a hidden secret but the more inhuman things Patton does is only for Janus to witness and bare. Janus despised this burden; the constantly forced to deal with his fear until he passes out from hyperventilation and continuously forcing himself to drag himself to the bathroom to heal the ripped off scales made him unbearably fatigued. It had been two months and Janus lost hope one month ago. Any form of begging or pleading was disregarded like trash so he stayed silent allowing for the moral side to play with him like a doll.

The snake side grudgingly wakes up depleted. He's only been awake for a few seconds and his mind is already begging for him to just let go. Perhaps then it would be easier than dealing with Patton. Janus shakes his head and gently placed a gloved hand over his eye, a small depressing smile forming as he recalls the only semblance of himself he was allowed to keep were his gloves. Janus pushes himself and a prominent weight of fatigue that crashes into him which causes him to stumble. He uses the wall to hold himself up while he trudges to the bathroom. He opens the sink and looks at the mirror grimacing at the reflection that made his stomach turn. Janus's face was much paler, frailer, and fewer scales. He gently swifts over the scars feeling the dry patch of healing skin. He feels filthy.

Janus isn't sure when he went back to bed, time was lost in this small, cold, empty room. The deceitful side unintentionally jumps at the sound of the door clicking. He internally hopes that it's another side but he should have realized there was no hope. The smile on Patton's face sends shiver's down Janus's spine.

"Evening Janus!" Patton smiles," hope you're having a good day, mines been tiring."

 Janus doesn't speak he's learned not to.

 "Ever since you've been gone Logan been more annoying! I love Logie but ugh, he just needs to shut up! He keeps trying to logic every situation as if he knows anything, perhaps a stay in here for a bit would teach him better," Patton says lowly with a maddening smile.

 "Don't!" Janus utters," do bring Logan into this room."

 Patton turns to face him with a shocked yet intrigued expression. He slowly moves to sit on the other bed and looks at the sheets as he spoke with venom," you know, Logan does ask about you a lot. I've told him you had a panic attack and chose to stay inside. He thinks Thomas being more honest is a bad idea, but what does he know."

 "More than you," Janus hissed.

 "Excuse me?" Patton replied.

 Janus throws his gloved hands over his mouth as he internally curses. Patton being pissed was an understatement. His eyes burned with fury yet the calm exterior terrified Janus. He knew it'd be another terrible night.

 "Gloves off Janus," Patton muttered.

 He did as he was told. Patton moved to one of the snake cages and took out a snake. Janus grimaces knowing that the snake had a texture that made him nauseous and it didn't help that the snake had venom. While he couldn't die he knew Patton would force Janus through the symptoms.

 "I want you to pet him," Patton commands.

 It's a simple command but Janus deeply wants to deny it.

"Please Patton, I'm sorry. I did mean to upset you please I cant-"

 "You can and you will if you want to make sure Remus and Logan stay out of this room," Patton spat.

 He hasn't even started touching the snake and he's already crying. Patton snickers as he watches shaky fingers pet the small reptile.

 "Amusing that your fear of snakes makes you this emotional," Patton spoke as Janus pulls his hand away.

 "I'm sorry I'm sorry please I've learned my lesson," Janus please through shaky breathe.

 He can barely breathe and his vision is going in and out. Janus is sure he'll pass out soon and he wants too, he's so tired but he knows what'll happen if he does. Patton hums to show he’s thinking," hm, well I suppose you have learned your lesson but I'm not done yet kiddo."

 Patton gets up gently putting away the snake and heads to the bathroom. Janus groans knowing what's coming next. Patton comes with a scalpel and wipes.

 "Stay still or I'll cut you," Patton says with an innocent tone, but the words worked.

 Janus was still while he cried. He was slightly depersonalizing but he knew he'd feel it all. Patton gently wipes the scales. Janus holds in a breath and closes his eyes as he feels cold metal latching onto his skin.

———

 Janus's return is a shock to everyone. His empty eyes and healed skin is sight for sore eyes, and how he shivers in room temperature indicates how frail he’s become.

 "Janus is back!" Patton says warmly, wrapping his arms around the deceitful side.

 "Patton what did you do to Janus for the last four months," Logan questions terrified.

 "I just helped him a bit! He doesn't like snakes so I fixed that fear for him!" Patton answers letting Janus go. Remus quickly grabs Janus away from the moral side, shocked to see Janus gripping onto Remus tightly.

 "You ripped off his scales you monster!" Roman yelled drawing out his sword.

 Patton just shrugs," he made upset so I taught him a lesson."

 His smile sent shivers down everyone's spine.

[gaycrouton]

A Collection of Constants

msr / collection of drabbles / multi-season

This work is a huge, belated thank you to the wonderful Don'tPanicFace who was so, so, so kind to me at X-Fest! So sorry it's so late, but I hope you enjoy it and I am oh so thankful. I also went a slightly weird way with the prompt, but I hope you'll like it! Prompt: "Mulder once told Scully he liked her freckles as she was covering them with makeup, & she scoffed. He said he loved every single one, & it became a thing that he's cataloguing all the freckles on her body."

2016

“You have some new ones,” he stated, the sentence tumbling from his lips without a second thought as he watched her work. His case report on the Man-Lizard (formerly titled Lizard-Man) laid unfinished in front of him as his eyes wandered to their favorite destination.

“Hmm?” she replied from the back of her throat, not bothering to look up.

Her suit jacket had long been discarded to the seat behind her and her bare arms rested gracefully on the desk in front of her. Even from here, even with his bad eyesight, he saw a few new tan freckles littering her arms, kissing the skin gently like he had all those years ago. 

“You have new freckles on your arm,” he murmured, leaning forward to tap her arm in four different places all while lingering a beat longer than necessary.

Either the touch or its duration caused her to look up at him with a raised eyebrow as she looked back down at her arm. “I don’t know,” she shrugged, passing it off as a question when they both knew it wasn’t.

“No, you do. I’m certain,” he teased, pointing to two more on her other arm.

“Mulder,” she replied sternly, her voice a gentle warning to knock it off.

It wasn’t that she was ignoring their prior relationship, no - but every time he made a referential comment or innuendo, she put her walls back up. In his worst moments, he feared it was her wanting to shut him down before he could get his hopes up for a relationship she had no interest in rekindling. In his best moments, he thought she didn’t want to get her hopes up that he was better only to be let down. 

But he was better. Is better. And he was going to do everything he could to let her know that.

He’d spent years gaining Scully’s trust, her faith in him - in them.

He raised his hands in gentle concession. He’d listen better this time around. He gave her a small smile as he scooted forward towards his desk, picked up a discarded pencil, and started working. 

1995

It was a beauty mark.

What made a beauty mark different than a mole, he wasn’t necessarily sure, but what he did know was that impromptu shower in the high school gymnasium took off her usual cover up and revealed a light brown spot on her upper lip.

He’d suspected probably everything under the sun: a raised bump, freckle, a mole, a patch of dry skin that caught her foundation, he’d even considered it was a beauty mark, but he couldn’t guess why she’d cover it up.

They always say that near-death experiences make you grateful for the little things you take for granted, and right now he was irrationally relieved he lived through an attempted sacrifice at the hands of crazy cultists to finally find out what was on her lip.

“Mulder, why do you keep staring at me?” she asked, running her hands over her damp hair for the umpteenth time as if that alone would prevent the curls in her hair from fully forming. 

“I like your beauty mark,” he replied, lifting his hand and gesturing to her lip, resisting the urge to let his finger graze it.

She touched it in his place with the slight roll of her eyes. “Thanks,” she muttered with sarcastic enthusiasm.

“What, don’t you like it?” he asked, his brows furrowing. 

The flashes of crime scene cameras followed by their gentle whirrs created a strange juxtaposition to their mundane conversation, but Scully didn’t seem to be put off by his line of questioning and he figured she was grateful for the respite from the events of the night. “I just always have,” she shrugged, pursing her lips.

“Marilyn Monroe had one,” he offered. 

“On her cheek,” Scully corrected.

“Cindy Crawford has one on her upper lip. I think Madonna has one right where you do.”

Scully looked at him with a cocked eyebrow and he realized his attempt to make her feel better may not have been working as he’d hoped. “You sure seem to know a lot about beauty marks,” she deadpanned.

He shrugged self consciously and emitted a half-hearted chuckle. “I think they’re called beauty marks for a reason.”

She smirked for half a second before suppressing it. “I’ve always been told it looks too big for my face,” she admitted honestly.

“They were wrong.”

1997

It wasn’t like he’d never seen them before. The makeup she used might’ve boasted ‘24 Hour, long lasting, Smudge-proof wearability’, but a day in the life of Scully and a day in the life of the average Covergirl consumer were vastly different. Sometimes he’d catch her in her motel room after she’d washed her face and it was adorned with more freckles than normal. Sometimes he’d wait to say goodnight to her just in the hopes of catching a glimpse of them.

Now, he could see them all on display as she lay bare-faced and sleeping in the hospital bed. He couldn’t see himself, but he knew his face was blotchy and red, as if he’d absorbed all the color the cancer had taken from her.

His knees ached from kneeling on the hospital floor next to her, but this was a vigil he couldn’t find the heart to move from. She still hadn’t woken up, despite his sobbing right next to her for the better part of an hour. Probably a result of the heavy meds they were using to keep her free from pain, to make this all easier for her.

He felt a fresh wave of tears sting his eyes, and he looked upwards towards the ceiling to blink them away. He felt like he was trying to swallow a rock, but he didn’t want to wake her on accident. He’d rather be careful than acknowledge it’d take a lot to wake her up now. 

He sniffed as quietly as he could and looked back down at Scully. Her small frame was lit up by the moonlight streaming in through the blinds. Her dainty hand was still in his, next to the slowly evaporating, large wet spot where his face had just lain.

The occasional flickering behind her eyelids and the gentle rise and fall of her ribs were his only indication she was alive. She is alive. His throat tightened back up as the world blurred. 

Figuring it was a fruitless effort, he let the tears fall down his cheeks as he stared at the ghostly white version of the face he’d been looking at for four years. He let out a small breath through barely opened lips as his eyes caught sight of her uncovered beauty mark, now darker against her alabaster skin. 

There was another, much smaller, dot on her cheek - a dark freckle normally covered up by makeup, she had another prominent one on her forehead near her hairline, but without a doubt, she had the most on the bridge of her nose. Some of those were so close they almost became an indistinguishable clump of amber.

Eighty eight, that he could count, of course. And that was just on her face. Some of them were chocolate brown, others were a faint tan color, imperceivably different than her skin. He was certain that he’d seen more during their summer cases when she valued sunscreen over moisturizer and the sun had darkened them. 

His face was still hot, there was still the uncomfortable pressure at the front of his face, but the tear tracks had finally dried. The rhythmic counting of her freckles had acted like a gentle metronome to center him. He had no idea what to do, but he had a mental map of all the small details of her face, and just that soothed him ever so slightly. Even in her sleep, she could still comfort him. 

Letting go of her hand as gently as he could, he stood upright on sore legs and roughly wiped his face with the palms of his hands.

He had work to do. He had to fix this.

1999

He was bolder. They both were. This thing between them didn’t have a name, but it had a feeling. A feeling of melancholy when Friday rolled around and they hadn’t made plans yet, the prospect of a weekend without the other sounding suspiciously miserable for two coworkers. A feeling of butterflies when “Hey it’s me” was followed by “Do you want to come over?” A feeling of intense longing when body heat was shared from sitting too close on a couch. A feeling that it still wasn’t close enough.

While she was a bit bolder in physical touch, he was a bit more blunt with his words. 

“Why do you cover up your freckles?” he asked one morning when she was doing her makeup in a motel mirror. That was new too. He’d get up early just for the chance to sit on her bed and watch as she did her morning routine, usually under the guise of bringing her coffee and then overstaying his welcome. 

She turned to look at him, face still bare minus the sheen of makeup being applied to her skin. “I like them,” he followed up, seeing a few of them peeking out in areas she hadn’t covered yet.

She scoffed goodnaturedly before returning to the mirror, rubbing circles against the skin of her face. “Did you know people are less likely to take women with freckles seriously than those without?” she asked.

His brow furrowed as he tried to recollect the women in his life who had freckles. She took his silence as a ‘no’ and continued, “It makes women look young. Men don’t take young women seriously. I work in two male dominated fields, and with my freckles I look like a co-ed. Consequently, I cover them up.”

“That’s a shame,” he murmured honestly. She looked back over at him as she picked up a brown tube of eyeliner, shrugging her shoulders as if it was just something she’d come to accept. “I love every single one of them,” he smiled at her.

She looked down as the corners of her mouth quirked up. Even through the layer of makeup, he could still see her turning pink.

“Thanks, Mulder.”

He knew the thing between them wasn’t really nameless. It started with L, ended with E, and had a lot of fear in between. But he’d conquered much scarier things with Scully by his side before.

2000

Two on her left shoulder blade.

One on mid-back.

Two on her lower-back.

Three on her breasts.

One on her abdomen.

One on her outer labia lip.

He got a little distracted after that, but just like the sentiment Scully had been screaming, he knew there were more.

His hands were on her warm back as she raised up and down in time with his breathing, her own even breaths coming out hot on the skin of his neck. “The freckles on your back look like Cassiopeia,” he murmured, running his hand up and down her spine. 

“We tried a new position and you were staring at my freckles?” she teased, his theory she was falling asleep evident in her tone.

“I was staring at a lot of things, Scully,” he cooed in reassurance. As he said this he let his hand slide further down her spine so he could cup her left cheek. His spent member stirring ever so slightly inside of her.

She laughed lightly and he could feel her roll her eyes. “You’re insatiable,” she murmured.

“I think I could say the same about you,” he laughed, looking at the discarded shirt on her vanity that was now missing several buttons. He felt her nuzzle impossibly closer to him, her breast plastered to his bare chest, and it made a smile spread across his face. This was real. The warmth of her skin and the smell of sex still lingering in the air was proof enough.

He raised his hand back up the slope of her spine as he moved to press his index finger into the top freckle on her shoulder-blade, tracing a delicate line to the next until he’d created a connect-the-dot pattern on her back from memory.

“Was tha’ Cassio-peia?” she mumbled, barely clinging onto consciousness.

He gently grabbed the quilt tangled at his side and spread it out on top of them the best he could without jostling her, earning a contented hum.

Crunching his neck upwards, he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and whispered, “Yes. Cassiopeia, the Queen.”

There was no response as her breathing evened out completely. Enjoying the weight of her on his chest, he smiled sweetly to himself. He’d spent years trying to find answers in the stars and now he had a constellation lying in his arms. 

2001

“I have to be honest, I was really expecting a head of bright red hair,” he whispered, not wanting to wake the newborn on his chest. 

Scully was reclined next to him, propping herself up on an elbow to look at her boys. “He looks like his dad,” she murmured with a smile, a playful twinkle in her eyes. 

“Is that why he doesn’t have any freckles?” he asked, stroking the few brown hairs on the baby’s head into a mohawk.

Scully laughed softly at his attempt and answered, “No, he doesn’t have freckles because freckles don’t develop until the ages two to four.”

“I bet his first one will be right here,” he whispered, faintly pointing to the upper bridge of his William’s little nose.

Scully rolled her eyes, but played along nonetheless. “I’ll place my bets here,” she replied, pointing to William’s cheek, indulging just a little to stroke the soft skin.

“Oh really?” Mulder challenged playfully.

She nodded before leaning closer to him. “Like I said, he looks like his dad,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his own light beauty mark laid against his stubble.

His cheek pressed against her lips as he smiled, and he turned to catch her lips instead. This was what serenity felt like. 

“I don’t know, Scully. The piercing blue eyes, the fact he willingly wants to be near me. Those traits alone make him unquestionably Scully,” he explained.

She closed her eyes and let out a little exhale laugh through her nose before scooting even closer to him, laying flush to his side as they both stared at the little sleeping baby. “Just wait, he’s going to be towering over me spouting off conspiracy theories in no time,” she replied wistfully.

2002

“Do you know what that is, Gibson?” Mulder asked, pointing up towards the night sky. He’d been upset with himself all day and he finally convinced himself to go outside for some fresh air.

Dearest Dana.

He’d most likely put his family in danger because he couldn’t contain how much he missed them. Gibson let him go through his miscellaneous magazines and he’d come across an old “Best of the 80s” edition of Rolling Stone. He went from blissfully distracted with a Bob Dylan feature to feeling the wind knocked out of him with a picture of Madonna from her “Like a Virgin” days.

A beauty mark on the upper lip. 

She was everywhere.

“It’s Cassiopeia,” Gibson replied immediately.

Mulder glanced over at the kid who was drawing in the sand with a stick, focused on his task. “Did you actually know that or did you hear me?”

“You’ve thought about it a lot. This is the first time I’ve seen it in the sky though,” he replied pointedly.

Mulder cringed in embarrassment that wouldn’t ease no matter how many times it happened. “Sorry.”

A silence fell between them as Mulder looked back up, his eyes going to every individual star that comprised the constellation. “You’re doing it again,” Gibson muttered.

He let out a long sigh and looked at Gibson. Most middle school boy’s experience with the female form came from Playboy or Penthouse, but Gibson now unfortunately had his classmates beat, all thanks to Mulder. “Would you mind…” he trailed off, looking back to the opening of their hideout.

“Sure,” he agreed, letting the stick fall soundlessly to the ground as he turned to walk away. Mulder heard the sounds of him walking, but stopping short of the door. “It was just an email. I doubt we can be found just through that alone. Besides, I bet it meant a whole lot to her.”

He’d long learned it was useless to placate the boy by trying to agree when his heart wasn’t in it. He respected him more than that. All he could offer was a small smile and a thanks, which Gibson reciprocated in kind.

Turning back to the sky, he was reminded of his own queen. Was she safe? Was William safe? Was this as hard for her as it was for him?

He knew it was. He just hoped this was all worth it in the end.

2003

“This one is my favorite,” he murmured, kissing the crook where her neck met her shoulder.

She let out a breathy, shaky laugh as she trembled in his arms. He’d spent the better part of an hour trying to find every single freckle and mark on her body. He hadn’t taken the time to do this inventory before, and it pained him immensely while they were apart. He wouldn’t take it for granted again. He wanted to know every intimate, minute detail of Scully’s body.

She was giggling when he started the journey with his fingers, but the giggling died down when he started using his mouth. Now she had the motel bedsheets in a white knuckle grip as she lay naked with him hovering above her. “Oh really?” she panted, not succeeding in feigning interest in discussion that didn’t pertain to her impending orgasm.

“And I like this one,” he murmured, suckling the one on the underside of her left breast. 

She gently arched upwards, making the skin of their lower abdomens rub against each other. He gasped with a laugh and moved down. “And I like this one,” he repeated, licking the two freckles on her prominent hip bone lightly.

“More,” she whispered breathlessly.

“This one,” the words tumbled from his mouth as he scooted backwards so he could kiss her inner thigh with ease.

She took her turn moving on the bed and readjusted herself so that it was her dripping arousal in his face instead of her thigh. Point taken.

“Especially this one,” he growled, using his thumb to press onto the labia freckle while his mouth went straight to her clit.

She seemed to like that one too.

2018

He could look now. 

When he’d mentioned a few new markings on her arms after the Guy Mann case, he’d been shut down. Now, he felt empowered. The same serotonin rush he would get all those years ago when she’d coyly accept his invitation to his apartment was back in full swing. 

She was still nervous, he could tell that from the way she seemed to get quiet after indulging in an overly intimate comment. As if she was reflecting on if she should or shouldn’t have said it. But it was different than it was when they first started working on X-Files again. The trepidation had been replaced with something that looked like hope. It was an expression he was all too familiar with as he saw it every time he looked in the mirror. 

He’d never press her too much - the best things in life come to those who wait, and he’d wait an eternity if that meant he could spend his life with her. She’d made the first move then, and he’d correctly suspected she’d make the first move again. 

Last night the fantasy he’d been playing in his head for the past four years fantasizing about finally became real. The fact it was technically fraternizing on the job was just an added bonus. It hadn’t been exactly how he’d dreamed; he didn’t get to say all the sentiments on his mind, the lights were off, and he had to leave in fear in the middle of the night instead of waking up with her in his arms. But she had given him hope.

Come back to bed.

And less than 24 hours later, they were back in bed. Though sleeping was the last thing on either of their minds.

He’d always loved unwrapping presents. Ribbons, bright colored paper, the buttons of silk blouses - whatever it may be, as long as it came from Scully, always brought a smile to his face. 

“What?” she asked with a breathy smile. 

“I wasn’t able to see all the new freckles you had last night, it was too dark,” he stated with a grin.

She rolled her eyes and laughed at the enthusiasm in his voice. “Are you going to do that thing with your mouth again, because I think I have too many for that now,” she laughed.

“Is that a challenge?” he murmured before sucking on the bend of her neck. 

She was silent for a moment, shifting under him in an effort to rub against his appreciation for her. After a beat, she answered in a playful and lust filled tone, “Yes. It is.”

[fuckyeahscienceparty]

Writing prompt: rival teams, Engineer finds the enemy Medic injured and waiting for recovery, instead of going for the killing blow he lets him wait for the respawning medikit and pretends to have not seen him

tweaked this one just a little, hope that's ok! might post this on ao3 later, i actually ended up liking it more than i though i would :0

-

Stalemate

A moment of fear. A chance untaken. Just your normal, everyday(ish) encounter in the Badlands.

-

A chorus of bullets and rockets rang through the air as one RED Engineer wiped the sweat from his brow with his one free hand.

It'd been a rough day. Another case of RED and BLU ping ponging between capturing the same point, neither having managed to capture all 5 for least 3 hours, much to Everyone's dismay. Engie himself had had his entire nest blown up twice, mowed down by an ubercharged Heavy once, and had gone through respawn at least 7 different times.

Needless to say, it hadn't been ideal, and getting a level 3 sentry up with no dispenser at his disposal was no easy feat. (It'd gotten smashed up as soon as he started setting up the sentry. Go figure.)

But enough mulling over the past. The present was now, and presently? BLU was still frantically trying to make their 5th repush for control point #3 and he didn't want to make it any easier for them.

He scanned the battlefield for a certain friendly face, attention grabbed by a muffled, triumphant yell and the faint smell of kerosene.

"Hey, Py, you got a moment?" He called out to them, the arsonist in question turning their head when they'd heard their name.

Upon seeing Engie, they gleefully trotted over, slinging their flamethrower over their back in favor for their shotgun.

"Mrr, hurr uhr?"

"I'm outta metal and I need a dispenser but I don't wanna leave the ol' girl out here by herself. Think you could cover her for me for a few minutes?" He grinned apologetically, lightly tapping his sentry a few times with his wrench as it proceeded to murder BLU's own Pyro in cold blood. They gave him a thumbs up

"Hhur, urr hurrf!"

"Much appreciated, buddy. I'll be back as quick as I can!" He yelled out over his shoulder as he started jogging toward where he was vaguely sure the closest (and biggest) ammo box was, wrench still in hand as he made his way up the creaky wooden steps and into the barren, wooden shed.

"Ammo, ammo... where on Earth is that damn box..." Engie frowned to himself, hoping that this building even HAD an ammo box and didn't just have like... a giant health kit in it.

Yes, he knows he should've memorized where resupply points were by now, but give him a break, they'd all been fighting in the blazing New Mexico sun for hours with no end in sight. Everyone was getting pretty frazzled at that point.

He was honestly getting ready to just give up and go looking for another one, not wanting to keep Pyro waiting for too long. RED still had a fight to win, after all, and they needed as many people bullying BLU for their control points as they could get.

That is.. until he heard a startled gasp as he stepped into the last room in the building. Panic rose in him as he put his hand over his pistol, turning his back to the wall to see... a rather injured BLU Medic.

Ok, 'rather' was a bit LOT of an understatement. From what he could tell, the Medic in question had some rather nasty looking gashes in his right arm and abdomen, as well as several different bruises and cuts that implied he'd been in a pretty brutal fight. There was literally no way he had more than say... 20 health points, give or take.

And he seemed to be in the middle of (attempting) to patch himself up just as Engie had entered the room, frantically reaching over for his Crossbow and color draining from his face as he aimed it at his newfound enemy. Engie braced himself for the incoming syringe, putting his gloved hand in front of his face as some sort of shield when...

Click. Click. Click...

"...Seiße."

Engie turned back around in time to see him close his eyes and let out a wheeze of defeat, slumping against the wall behind him as both his arms dropped to the floor.

"Please, just... make it quick," He croaked, more blood dribbling out of the side of his mouth and onto his already sullied coat.

A bullet to the head and all of this would've been over. A solid wack with his wrench would've done the same job. Hell, he was pretty sure he could shoot the wall NEXT to this man and he'd just about keel over.

But something about seeing BLU's Medic so... defeated, so vulnerable, made something in him... hesitate.

So he left. Just plain hightailed it out of there, leaving a completely confused enemy healer in his wake.

By the time he was able to find a full box of ammo, he could feel his heart about to beat out of his chest. Whether that was out of fear, adrenaline, or something... else, he couldn't say.

When Pyro saw him returning, they'd waved to him, the Homewrecker in hand and a broken sapper at their feet.

"Hrr! Hurr huuf hur ffo mrrg?"

"Oh uh.. I got a little lost. All this sun is makin' my head spin. Sorry Py, I didn't mean to keep you," He chuckled sheepishly. He could feel them raising an eyebrow at him through their gas mask but they shrugged it off, getting their flamethrower out again.

"Drr hur frrr mrrd mrr?"

"Naw, you're free to go bud. Thanks again for your help!" Engie grinned, Pyro giving another thumbs up before turning and charging into the fray.

As Engie opened up his tool box and started getting his dispenser up, he couldn't help but start thinking about his... encounter with BLU Medic again, pausing only to shoot his pistol at a Scout that had somehow managed to evade his sentry's range of fire.

He couldn't remember a time he'd hesitated like that before. Even when he was first starting out, he knew his job included a rather hard and fast "shoot people first, ask questions later" guideline, it really wasn't like him to not take such an easy kill.

'It was just wanting to get back to Pyro before things got ugly,' he thought to himself. 'Wasn't good to ask a teammate for a favor and make them wait for you when they could be out causing havoc, after all.'

But deep down, he couldn't help but think it was more than that, which was a terrifying thought in and of itself.

So he pushed it aside, focusing on keeping his wits about him and his machines up and running. And if he paused every once in a while to see if he could spot a bloody blue lab coat and tousled hair curl in the sea of bullets and gunpowder before him?...

...well that wasn't anything anyone else needed to know about.

[smores100]

Yes, 100% agree with everything you said and your tags in that post about wtfock being like a group project patched together by 10 people trying to make it unique but still retain elements of the original. At this point I’m honestly just feel like I’m along for the ride and it’s not necessarily a good one but I’m here for it lmao. The two willems’ chemistry is holding the whole thing together for me. The cast is doing a great job. It’s just the writing that’s so frustrating and inconsistent.

It’s also frustrating because I feel like some of their ideas were good and had potential — I like the setting of the trip they went on, I love the whole art school thing, and I loved Noor so much and was really hoping they’d have Robbe open up to her. The flat share dynamic is so fucking cute, and I thought the buildup to the pool scene was also beautiful. It just makes me sad that they’ve gone so wrong with the drama. Idk why they packed so much shit in in such little time :( disappointing

exactly! i pretty much agree with all of this. the situation is so frustrating bc it’s not all 100% bad ideas, it would’ve been much easier to say it sucks and dismiss it completely if it was. but that’s not the case, there was some real potential here!

there have been some good ideas executed well - the flastshare ‘found family’ dynamic, for example, is the highlight of the season imo; the willems are believable to me as teens, their (great!) chemistry is what made the robbe/sander relationship seem less underdeveloped than it was, and when they’re allowed to be cute and loving with each other, they SHINE (this latest clip, for example). 

there have also been some good ideas executed badly tho - the week at the beach??? i will never understand why they waited TWO WHOLE EPS to introduce sander, the character who’s basically the catalyst for s3′s storyline - it made the first two eps feel repetitive and slow, it messed up the pacing of the whole first half of the season (first slow, then fast af when packing so much sander content all at once), it cut out one of the best things about the evak development (the slow burn! isak seeing him for the first time, the nerves when he talks to him a few days later, seeing him around school and the lowkey stalking him trying to find out everything about him and becoming even more enamoured, *more* nerves when he asks him over to his place and they spend all afternoon together getting to know each other….ahhh, lovely), and it made their relationship feel underdeveloped and rushed (an almost kiss after 6 days of knowing each other in which they interacted twice, kissing naked in a pool after a week and a half…..etc etc. realistic? maybe. good storytelling? less so). which brings me back to the week at the beach - they took away two weeks of sander, ok, at least make up for it by featuring him A LOT during that week at the beach??? use that week to focus on robbe and sander making eyes at each other, getting to know each other, talking, hanging out, listening to music….unlike all the other evaks they were on vacation TOGETHER, they were in the SAME PLACE together, it was such a ROMANTIC setting, the opportunity was RIGHT THERE. but instead that whole week was sander/britt and robbe/noor nonstop, with a bit of sad pining on top. which speaking of noor!!! yeah, the way she was introduced seemed like she could be one of the better emmas, i’ve seen people say they loved how they built up their relationship and the development they got, and like…..what a waste that ended up being?? if he’d ended up coming out to her and they’d become friends (since his own friends were being blah), then ok, i get giving them all this focus. but that didn’t happen. she ended up being like every other emma, confronting him about being gay and telling him to get out of the closet. so why did we spend so much time on her and robbe??? was it really that important to show them making out numerous times, even trying to go all the way twice….?? being gay and fighting your true self is sad, we get it, we got it watching og s3 without seeing isak force himself to make out with emma numerous times (and without lashing out at even accusing him of taking advantage of him and calling him a slur….and without watching him and even get gay bashed….and without one of his friends being homophobic to him when he came out….).

……i’m rambling. but basically, this could’ve been a good season, if only the writing was (much) better; if the writers concentrated and followed up on their original additions to the season instead of trying to stay with og’s timeline and follow its plot; and if the writers cared more about telling a good, hopeful story than they did about doubling down on the drama. s3 had enough drama without all this extra stuff, it didn’t need more! there needs to be a good balance b/w angst and fluff, and wtfock just didn’t have that this season. and again, it’s not *all* bad, and i do get why so many people are going gaga over robbe/sander - they’re pretty together, they have great chemistry and ust, and they’re super cute and fluffy with each other! but the writing, man…..i just can’t ignore it? if this were any other show, i probably could, lord knows i’ve watched (and still do tbh) shitty shows just for that one cute couple i loved and believed deserved the best. but it’s not just any other show, it’s skam, and og s3 was SO MUCH MORE than just a love story b/w two guys. there were so many layers, so much depth and symbolism and big themes throughout the season, the cause and effect and how everything that happened was important and everything was connected and had a big effect on isak’s story (e.g. the isak and sana friendship - apparently some people think robbe’s and yasmina’s friendship is better bc it wasn’t based on the weed plot? which is….listen, they’re hella sweet together and it’d have been nice to have seen her more this season, but *none* of the remakes have managed to fully recreate this friendship, bc *all* of them have failed to understand what was so great about it - i could write an essay on this, honestly). ANYWAY, my point is - i get why people are loving robbe/sander, they’re cute and sweet. but the writing hasn’t done them any favors (in fact it’s done more wrong by them than right and it’s really the willems holding all of this together, so good job boys!), and even if it’s all perfection from now until the end, it just feels like too little too late for me, like, the damage has already been done. i’m keeping up with it bc i’m curious to see how it ends, but it’s not what i was expecting and i’m disappointed. and to each their own ofc, but i can’t say i’m not baffled when i see people saying they like robbe/sander better than evak or how this season is much better than og s3. i just don’t see it??? especially the latter (the former is more of a personal preference, i suppose? but like i said, the writing for evak >>>>> the writing for them, so), which is to me one of the best seasons of tv EVER. it’s literally flawless. there’s not a single thing i would change about it (force me and i might change a couple of things, but nothing *too* major). but again, to each their own! 🤷‍♀️ just don’t disrespect the og when praising your favorite remake, and i’m good, idc. it’s when i see people disrespecting/belittling/diminishing etc etc og that i get into Fighting Mode, otherwise agree to disagree!

[pinayelf]

@rebelvakarian​

Hey! Sorry for the late reply this is going to be long lol so I wanted to be on PC so I can put it under a cut!

In short, DA:I is a little more frustrating to mod mostly because you can’t add new meshes to the game you can only replace them (although there’s been a lot of new developments lately but I’ll get to it later!). So most mods are replacements of existing things in-game so if say you want two hairs but both of them replace the same mesh you can’t have both of them (boo).

Also in DA:I you can’t just copy and paste mods into an override folder you have to use either DAI Mod Manager or Frosty Mod Manager . Both of these are different and will only load different file types individually but they can be used together (I will show you how you how later onto this post)

Using DAI Mod Manager

Most mods for DA:I are daimods which means you use DAI Mod Manager to load them. 

First, install DAI Mod Manager. If you use the link I gave you, install the Tools Suite then you can download and boot up the manager from there.

Then, make a folder somewhere where you will put all the mods for DA:I. You can name this anything you like. I name mine’s “DAI Mods” lol

You download it and if it’s a zip/7z/rar you extract it (7z and rar files can be extracted using 7zip).

Open DAI Mod Manager and it will ask you for the path, so that’s where your DA:I game is located. For me it’s in C: > Program Files > Origin Games > Dragon Age Inquisition. If you use Origin it’s most likely there. Then select the game:

Once it’s loaded, it will ask for the mod path so select the folder you extracted all your files in:

The mods should all load and then hit merge! It’ll tell you if any conflict and if it does you can disable the mod the conflicts with the other. 

Again most descriptions will tell you what will conflict with what so you’ll know before downloading. 

If you want to change mods you have to disable the one you don’t want and re-merge again before loading that certain playthrough or starting the game. 

So if you have multiple quizzies like me lol, it could get tedious to go up the list and disable a mod you don’t use for a certain quizzie or if two quizzies use two hairs that replace the same mesh so what I do to keep them organized is I make separate folders for each quizzie with the mods they use like this:

So when you want to switch characters, just load that character’s folder in the mod path for DAI Mod Manager and it’s all there. 

Now the downside of using DAI Mod Manager is that the mods usually don’t work in DLCs. So you will have to disable them when entering Trespasser, Jaws of Hakkon and The Descent.

There’s a few workarounds, though they aren’t perfect. For Trespasser there are a list of hairs that will work and which certain races they’ll work for here. Complexions in that don’t mess too much with the specular could work in Trespasser, so this means complexions that don’t take away the shine will have a better chance of working (unfortunately if you dislike the shine your quizzie will have to look sweaty in Trespasser lmao). A lot of mod makers have included Trespasser friendly versions of their complexions.

For The Descent I found that if you turn mods off when you enter, then save at the first camp, exit the game, then turn the mods on, they’ll work for the rest of the DLC. 

I don’t know much about Jaws of Hakkon, that DLC tends to be testy with mods, but do know for a fact that the Tight Curls hair mesh works there (for female elves anyway). 

Using Frosty Mod Manager

Frosty loads fbmod files. There’s less mods for Frosty but it tends to be more DLC-friendly and Frosty Mod Maker can do more things.

So download Frosty Mod Manager and when it’s done, load it up. It will ask for a configuration and you just select the game again from the installation path like with DAI Mod Manager:

Just like with DAI Mod Manager, download your fbmods and make a folder for them just to keep them organized. As always the description will let you know if it’s for Frosty specifically.

 When you have them ready open up Frosty Mod Manager and hit import mods:

Select the mods you want and they’ll show up on the left side:

To apply a mod, select it and click apply mod:

And you can see on the right side that there’s a conflicts tab so you can click it and check to see if what you’re using will conflict with a mod!

Then hit launch and the game will load through Frosty. So if you want to use the Frosty mods, you have to load the game through it or else it won’t show up.

One thing I like about Frosty is that you can make multiple profiles on the program itself, so it’d be easier if you have multiple quizzies:

You can load daimods using Frosty as well. I personally have not tried it yet but my sister has and it’s worked for her - especially when it comes to hair meshes and I think it’ll have them work in DLCs too for the most part. However, I won’t recommend loading daimod complexions through Frosty because it tends to glitch for some reason and gives your quizzie this weird pixelated skin tone.

Using Both Frosty and DAI Mod Manager

Since there’s both pros and cons with each methods so I use them together. This method can be tedious but it’s not as complicated as it seems it’s just an extra step or two.

So if you want to use both, you start with DAI Mod Manager. Load your mods and merge as usual. When it’s done go to the game’s installation path (usually Program Files > Origin Games > Dragon Age Inquisition). Then, click the update folder.

These two folders are what you’re going to be working with:

What you do is you take the Patch folder and rename it into something. I usually rename it as “Patch do not delete” so I remember that it’s the original patch folder. Then you rename the Patch_ModManagerMerge as just “Patch”.

So it should look like this:

Then you load up Frosty, apply your mods and launch! If you did it right everything should load successfully. If not there could be some conflicts and unfortunately you just have to turn mods on and off to see what’s causing it.

The reason why I advise to name the original folder as “Patch do not delete” is because if you want to change mods you have to re-do the whole process again (which lol, I know blaaah). And before you open up DAI Mod Manager again you have to delete the Patch folder and rename “Patch do not delete” to Patch again (I know this is confusing ;-; lol if you need more clarification please let me know).

Then you go back up to the main Dragon Age Inquisition folder and find the ModData folder and delete it:

And finally you can load up DAI Mod Maker and switch out your mods then do the process again. 

It can be daunting and it requires a little getting used to, but once you get the hang of it and get a feel for what will work and what won’t it shouldn’t be too hard. 

And I highly recommend learning how to use Frosty because there’s been some awesome developments with what you can do. With making hair you can’t really add or delete faces/vertices so custom hair is usually just people editing what’s already there and working with what they have (and there are a lot of talented people who made it work SO WELL and made beautiful creations.)

But now there’s a beta tool for the newest version of Frosty Mod Maker (currently Patreon release only) and it allows you to load meshes, so people who have this have been able to port hair from Sims as well as make hair from scratch so there’s going to be more hair options in the future! (Although we still can’t load new meshes we have to replace existing ones).

Here are some of the gorgeous hair your can now use through Frosty (I use one for my Imryll too):

https://www.nexusmods.com/dragonageinquisition/mods/2808 https://www.nexusmods.com/dragonageinquisition/mods/2839 https://www.nexusmods.com/dragonageinquisition/mods/2835 https://www.nexusmods.com/dragonageinquisition/mods/2844 https://www.nexusmods.com/dragonageinquisition/mods/2800

I hope this helped! If there’s anything unclear or something that needs more clarification feel free to DM me or send me an ask!

[johnmarstoned]

Can I request Arthur Morganxf!reader where she is Dutch's sister and is same age as Arthur if not a year younger and she falls for him, but Arthur always shoots her down, not because he doesnt like her but because of Dutch? But she's a sassy bitch and doesnt care about what anyone says, not Dutch, Hosea, or Arthur himself? She knows what she wants and goes for it.

:D - Did you reach into my soul and pull this request out? Because I fucking love this. 

Dutch has a habit for treating everyone like he’s their father, and I suppose that’s part of his appeal, to most everyone else in the gang. To me, though, it’s mostly an annoyance, because there’s nothing quite like being the ‘baby’ sister of the leader of an outlaw gang to make you feel like folks are walking on eggshells around you, especially when he acts like more of a father than a brother to me as well.

I love him, I do, but he’s made it so on those nights where everyone’s drunk and jolly, arms around shoulders, ladies on laps, I’m treated like a leper, because everyone knows what happened to Sean that time he’d been caught with his hand on my ass: ear ringing for a week, imprint of Dutch’s ring on his cheek.

It’s annoying that he quite forgets how alike we are: we know what we want, we know our own minds, and yet he’s perfectly happy to parade around with every woman he takes a shine to, and I have to keep a friendly distance from every feller in camp lest I become a Van der Linde despoiled.

And it’d be less of a problem, if it was just Sean and Javier flirting a little when they think they can get away with it - I have no problem shutting them down.

No, Dutch’s unspoken rule about the men in the gang steering clear of me as any kind of romantic prospect bothers me only when it comes to Arthur.

I know, from talking to them, that most every woman in the camp has felt a little something for him at one time or another, and it’s not just because he’s so damn handsome, (he is). He’s got this way about him, something that’s hard to put my finger on.

He’s kind, sure, but lots of men are kind, and respectful, but lots of men are that way too. No, Arthur just has something, maybe it’s that promise of more hiding under that tough, broad-chested surface that nobody gets to see, maybe it’s seeing him chew on the end of his pen while thinking of just the right words to put in his journal, maybe it’s something more primal than that, the basic fact that there is nothing and no one he couldn’t protect me from if need be.

“Miss.” Arthur tips his hat at me when he walks by, and I’m staring at him, embarrassingly, and smile and nod at him before getting back to patching a hole in one of my blouses. But I have to glance up when he walks away - he is some kind of man.

“Careful, there, don’t think Dutch hasn’t been noticing your quiet conversations with him, and those glances.” I hadn’t seen Hosea had been looking at me, sat on the other side of the table in the middle of camp, until he speaks. I don’t like feeling annoyed with him, he’s been more of a father to me than even Dutch, at times, but it’s rather irritating to be made to feel like some blushing virgin flower to be protected when I’ve been as involved in the outlaw lifestyle as the rest of them. When I’ve had my share of men they outside this group. 

I sigh, and set down my darning needle, tuck some curly black hairs behind my ear that are making my nose itch.

“Dutch notices everything.” I say. “‘Cept that his little sister is a grown woman who can make her own decisions.”

“Ain’t just about you.” Hosea says. “Arthur’s his right hand man, practically his son, what do you think it would do to the gang if you and he…” He trails off, and I fight the urge to just say the work ‘fuck.’ “Were intimate.”

“Well, I would hope that he would be pleased of me spending my time with a good man that he knows he can trust, but that would be wishful thinking now, wouldn’t it?” I stand, because I’ve no desire to fight with Hosea, and look over at where Arthur is saddling up his horse. “We’ll speak later, Hosea.” And I leave a small tap on his shoulder so he knows I’m not too angry.

If there’s anything that makes me want to do something, it’s being told that I can’t. So I cross the camp to Arthur.

“Whereabouts are you going?” I ask, conversationally. He looks up at me a little surprised, like I’ve crept up on him, but recovers quick.

“Just into town for a few things. Something you need? ‘Cause Pearson’s already given me a list as long as my arm I’m sure I could add to.” He says, and shoves a piece of paper into his satchel.

“You want some company?” I ask, and purse my lips, hoping I don’t sound too over-eager, which I rather am. It’s easier to talk to Arthur when we’re alone, when he’s not worried about doing the wrong thing or attracting too much attention.

“Sure,” he says quickly, and clears his throat as if to cover it, “assumin’ you ain’t got nothin’ on round here.”

“No, I-”

“She has actually.” Dutch’s voice always cuts through deep, and can make her feel like a child with her hand in the cookie jar. “Got some planning to do for a job I’ve got ruminatin’ on.”

I turn around, and suspect he’s crept up on me as soon as he saw where I was headed, arms crossed and looking serious. Goddamn omniscient, I swear.

“Now, Dutch?” I say, skeptically, crossing my arms myself. People have said we look like twins when we face each other down like this, even though he has a good few years on me.

“Yes, now.” He says, and that would be enough for anyone else to follow him on his heels and do as told. But I’m not anyone, I’m not his subordinate, I’m his sister.

“Not to worry, miss.” Arthur says lightly, clearly not wanting to get in the middle of it, and climbing up onto his horse. “Perfectly fine on my own.”

“That’s as may be.” I say, in a tone that tells him he should not set off just yet. “But I’ve been stuck in camp since we arrived and I want to get out for a little bit, can’t scope out the town if I’ve never been, can I, Dutch?”

He’s looking at me with a deep frown, but I know he won’t come right out and say what he’s worried about, that he doesn’t want Arthur and I alone.

“We ain’t gonna be long, Dutch.” Arthur says from behind me, and I’m surprised at him somewhat backing me up for once.

He sighs and looks at me. “Fine, I suppose it can wait.”

“Good.” I say with an overly sweet smile. “Kieran, fetch me my horse would ya?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He says brightly and I watch Dutch look at me firmly a long moment before walking away.

“Phew, you two.” Arthur chuckles nervously, tapping the neck of his horse gently.

“He’s a demanding ass.” I say, and thank Kieran when he hands me the reins, conspicuously pretending he hadn’t heard what I’d just said.

Arthur chuckles roughly, and we set off after I’ve mounted up. “Only person round here with the gall to call Dutch van der Linde an ass.”

“Well, I’m allowed, and he is.” I smile, and we head out at a steady pace, arriving in Valentine in no time.

We get what we need from the general store, load it up on our horses, and I try and fail to convince him to stop at the saloon for a drink or two. It hurts a little bit, to be kept at an arms length like that, but I can’t blame him too much. He’s loyal to the end, and loyalty apparently includes doing nothing untoward with your mentor’s sister.

To save their legs, we walk the laden horses back for a bit, it’s a nice day, and we have the luxury of taking our time. Arthur has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and has draped his jacket over his horse. He runs a hand through his hair to keep it off his face.

Lord, he is going to kill me, and I don’t even know if he looks at me like that at all.

“Do you think I’m pretty, Arthur?” I ask, it tumbles out of my mouth before I can even consider it. I swear he blushes, and he rubs the back of his neck and stumbles over his words, seeming to have trouble looking at me.

“Of course… Any man would look at you and say - not that I been lookin’ at you - just…”

“Ah, forget it.” I grumble, and shake my head a little. “I’m sorry I asked, I’m not trying to embarrass you.”

“No, I know.” He lets out a long breath and looks at me then. “I do think you’re pretty, you’re very pretty.”

“Okay.” I nod, almost wanting to drop the subject because I’m a little red in the cheeks now. But I don’t think I can, because I have to at least know if he even could think about me the way I do about him.

“Sorry if I’ve given you the impression you ain’t.” He says, as we trudge on. “It’s just, you know Dutch…”

“Dutch, Dutch, Dutch.” I repeat, a little bitterly. “Always Dutch, isn’t it?”

“You what?” Arthur looks up at me, confused.

Frustrated, I stop walking.

“I’m my own person, you know? I’m not just a part of Dutch. I have my own thoughts and feelings and wants.”

“I know that.” He says, looking taken aback at this sudden outpouring from me, steadying his horse to stop too.

“No, you don’t, none of you do.” I say. “I’m not even a woman to any of you I’m just a girl.”

“That ain’t true.” Arthur says firmly, and shakes his head, putting his hands on his hips and looking at the ground. “You’re a woman, alright, a whole lot of woman. That’s the problem.”

My heart starts to race a little bit and I put my hands on my hips myself, I am not backing down from this conversation now - even if we are in the middle of a road anyone could come riding down at any moment.

“Why’s that a problem?”

He scratches the back of his neck again. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t.” I say, stubbornly, crossing my arms.

He sighs and takes his cigarettes from his back pocket. “Let’s get off the damn road if we’re gonna talk, shall we?” He says, and puts one his mouth before offering me one, which I take.

We pull our horses just off to the road side, next to a couple of trees, and Arthur leans against one, lighting his cigarette then gesturing me forward to light mine.

“You know how difficult it’s been to be around you all day for years and keep ahold of myself?” He says. “You ain’t just pretty, you’re goddamn gorgeous, you’re the only woman ‘round there I’d even think about touchin’, and I can’t.”

My throat dries at his confession, my neck feels hot. But there’s still that holding back, and I can’t stand it.

“Oh, please.” I say impatiently, and he looks at me in surprise. “I know you, Arthur Morgan, there isn’t any ‘can’t’ with you. You can do anything you damn well please.”

He’s looking at me, looking like he wants to say something but isn’t really sure what.

“So, it’s fine if you don’t want me, but don’t give me this ‘can’t’ horseshit, you could have had me any time you wanted.” I say, and lord knows I’m glad my mother isn’t around anymore to hear me talking like this. The cigarette goes wasted, I don’t really want it, I throw it down and crush it.

His own cigarette hangs out of his mouth, he looks the definition of dumbstruck.

“I could?” He says, and I sigh and look up to the heavens, almost laughing, looking for some kind of deity to help me with this fool.

“Of course you could have, you big idiot, you don’t see me looking at you? Making any excuse to be around you? You rebuff me every time.” I hold out my hands like it’s obvious.

“Only ‘cause it weren’t a good idea for me to be around you so much, not ‘cause I thought you was… Interested, in me.”

And that was something I had never considered, that he didn’t even know I wanted him, I thought it had been obvious as the nose on my face, it was plain to everyone else. My heart is beating hard, and I feel a little rush, like I’ve just ridden away from a back heist on my horse.

“Well, ya know now.” I say simply, with a shrug. “So?”

“So… what?” He looks at me with trepidation, hands on his belt.

“So, what are you going to do about it?” It’s a challenge, the way I say it - I mean it to be.

Arthur just looks at me for a long moment, like he’s trying to figure something out, and I worry, just for a moment, that he’s going to get on his horse and ride full tilt back to camp. But I should know him better than that by now, to think he’d be scared away by a woman being perfectly clear with him about how she feels.

That’s why I like him so much. 

He clears the distance between us in a couple of strides and gathers me up by the waist, kisses me breathless. I have to stand on my tiptoes, I hold onto his broad shoulders like I’m going to fall over if I don’t. I might fall over if I don’t.

“Christ.” He sets me down so I’m flat on my feet but doesn’t let me go. “I am a dead man walking.”

“I won’t tell anyone.” I kiss him again, and I enjoy the little sound he hums into my mouth, and the way his big hands circle my hips and pull me tight.

“He’s gonna find out.” He mumbles when we pull apart again, but he doesn’t sound like he cares about that too terribly much.

“I can handle him, don’t worry.” I push my hands into the back of his hair, because I can’t resist feeling if it’s as soft between my fingers as I’ve always imagined.

“Good, ‘cause I don’t think I can go back to self-restraint now I’ve kissed ya.” He smiles at me a little shyly, and I fight the urge to drag him into some thicker trees and do a lot more than kissing. “Fool as I may be for it.”

I peck his lips again. “We’re outlaws, Arthur, save self-restraint for proper gentlemen.”

[imnotcameraready]

chivalry is dead (5)

A/N: idk what to write here for this chapter, to be Fuckin Honest — this didn’t feel like a lot to write, and then i checked my wordcount and was like “woah! that’s the longest chapter” and i didn’t wanna cut it so here’s A Lot!!

WARNINGS: sympathetic deceit, threats, minor character death, knives, swords, descriptions of blood, blood, cursing, panic, chaos, Getting Lost in the woods, crowds, arguing, a chase, mentions of a bear, loneliness, — if i’ve forgotten any, please let me know!!!

Words: 5465

Pairings: nothing yet!!! slight hints of the good Royality™ and some Soft Loceit™ and some i guess hard-stop platonic Anxciet — DLAMP is still endgame but i told y’all this would be a fuckin slow burn

Part 1 (chivalry is dead) — Part 2 (i’m wishing) — Part 3 (the bells of notre dame) — Part 4 (honor to us all) — Part 5 (i’ve got no strings)

AO3 link!

@starlightvirgil @forrestwyrm @daflangstlairde @marshmallow-the-panda​ @askthesnake @k9cat

enjoy!! <3 <3

“I’ve got no strings, so I have fun….I’m not tied up to anyone….They’ve got strings but—”

“Would you shut up already? Of all the songs for you to be singing, too. Singing won’t get rid of me.”

“I can dream, can’t I?”

“Ppft. I don’t know, Dickhead in Distress, can you?”

“What’re you doing here, Dragon Bitch. Go kiss a mirror.”

“Just paying you a little visit. Excited to see you so vulnerable. Once I find the others, I’m gonna take a lot of pleasure in cutting your head off in front of them. Maybe we’ll even get a crowd.”

“I hope you never find them.”

“Then I’ll just kill you alone. Or maybe I’ll guillotine you! Oh, I’ll set up the most beautiful blade — cold steel, perfectly manicured and sharpened. Maybe that’ll actually draw them out of hiding, rolling your head along the main road, watching the blood paint the cobblestone red.”

“That’d….that’d hurt Thomas. Holy shit. You’re insane.”

“And you sicken me, what’s your point? You know I wouldn’t do that. Not with all your little lover boys in town.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you feel it? They finally checked in on us. Nerd Declassified Creativity Survival Guide let them in. It’ll be the coup of a century. And, if I find them....”

“Don’t hurt them.”

“They’ve got strings—”

“—No, no come back here. Don’t!—”

“—but you can see—”

“—Please, you can’t—”

“—there are no strings on me!”

As Anxiety, Virgil has a running mental list of all the things Thomas perceived as dangers. Ergo, these were things Virgil didn’t want happening to him. He doesn’t like not knowing what’s at the bottom of the ocean. A drink left unattended at party was a potential danger. He doesn’t like being caught in a lie and doesn’t like having to be out socializing for unexpectedly extended periods of time.

Waking up in on the ground in a forest was pretty high on that list. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the blue sky, dotted with small clouds, through an opening of tree branches.

He sat up, blinking his eyes more and trying to take in their surroundings. Dirt and leaves were stuck to his hair and the cloak he’d wrapped himself in. To his left was Patton, laying face down in a pile of leaves, and to his right was Deceit and Logan similarly splayed on the ground.

Immediately Virgil thought the worst, but his worries alleviated when Deceit groaned, and Logan’s arms pinched in to push himself up. Patton sat upright as well, arms stretching around himself.

“Well,” Patton hummed, “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”

The forest around them was thick, tall trees in every direction and stretching as far as they could see. They seemed to have landed in a small clearing, on a patch of grass and leaves and flowers, but still very much in the middle of the forest.

“Here I thought the Playwright’d be helping us,” Deceit said, picking the leaves off of his coat, “This is ridiculous. We’re in a forest.”

“This isn’t good. Oh my God, this isn’t good — Logan, what do we know about edible berries?” Virgil asked, turning around in a few circles.

Logan looked around, mouth open as he assessed the situation. Then, he patted the inside of his coat, mumbling to himself.

After standing up, Patton went to grab Virgil’s shoulders, stopping his spinning. “Don’t look around too much, kiddo, you’re gonna make yourself dizzy. And–And it’s okay! We’re in the Imagination now, and we’re gonna find Roman.”

“How’re we supposed to find Roman when I can’t even find the treeline?!” Virgil asked, grabbing Patton’s arms back, “And we just FELL. From the SKY.”

“Yeah, well….that can happen! It’s the Imagination, it’s okay. Besides, we survived! Roman wouldn’t let the Imagination hurt us,” Patton pulled him a little closer, patting his arm twice.

Virgil grabbed Patton’s hand and yanked him closer to his chest, causing the moral side to let out a small “Woop!” and open his arms as well. There had to be a number of panic attacks in one day that the anxious side could take, some sort of pain threshold, and he was certainly on his way to reaching it. Deceit watched them hug for only a few seconds before turning around and looking for Logan. And, by proxy, the book.

If the Playwright handed them a book saying that it’d help, calling it “deus ex machina,” then it likely had some sort of answer. Right?

It seemed Logan himself had the same thought, because he was sitting on the small stump, pressing his finger to it. Deceit approached and sat besides him. Logan had opened to a new page, one not indicated to earlier by the Table of Contents. “Imaginary Map” was the clever name, and the map itself stretched both pages. It didn’t indicate where they were, but there was a forest, a mountain range, and a lake, all forming a jagged triangle around what looked like a town. A small river ran through the town, between the mountains and lake. There was a compass in the bottom left corner as well, cardinal directions written in the Playwright’s neat but floppy handwriting.

“It’s a safe assumption that we’re somewhere here,” Logan circled the forest area, “But I cannot tell where the sun is.”

“If it follows a pattern. Roman’s been known to keep it on daytime for much longer than just one day,” Deceit said.

Logan shrugged. His foot was tapping on the ground, rubbing the corner of the page between his fingers. There were a lot of questions he had and a lot of feelings he didn’t understand. Why had Roman done this? It was excessive, to break oneself into pieces like he had allegedly done.

And he hadn’t ruled out the possibility that Roman had just dressed up different, was putting them through this story for god knows what reason. That Roman was upset about something or other, and thus had set up a narrative that held the other Sides at fault, with him sitting in his room safe and sound. Did Logan find that easier to explain? Perhaps. Did he want that? He was merely thinking of all the potentially logical explanations for Roman’s behavior.

He blinked when Deceit put a hand on his. “You’re gonna tear the page,” he said, voice quiet.

Slowly, Logan nodded, though he didn’t remove his hand from Deceit’s. The comfort was welcome at this time. “Thank you.”

They both examined the map, opening the book further when Patton and Virgil approached to see, the later having calmed down.

Virgil immediately pointed to a small gap between the tree drawings, then pointed to biggest tree drawing in the forest — it looked like the other trees, just slightly bigger. “I think we’re in this gap thing. And we gotta head to that tree,” he stood up straight, cupping his hands around his eyes and looking at the sky.

Logan glanced at him, then back at the map. “What makes you say that?”

“Big tree. First checkpoint, like in a video game,” Virgil said, jerking a thumb back toward the clearing’s center, “Wanna stare at the sun with me?”

Deceit carefully took the book from Logan’s hands, and Patton slid into Logan’s seat as he vacated it. He went to stand besides Virgil, lifting his glasses to the top of his head and watching the sun as well. Well, they weren’t staring straight at the sun, because that was dangerous. More like they were trying to figure out where it was in the sky through the thick tree coverage. Either way, it looked like they knew what they were doing, so he looked away. Patton hoped they knew what they were doing.

“Patton,” Patton glanced up from where he was fiddling with his shirt’s drawstrings, “You’ve been quiet.”

Deceit was watching him with a raised eyebrow beneath the bycocket hat that had replaced the bowler. Though, his hair was falling out of place beneath it. Patton leaned forward as he answered. “Oh, you know. Just worried’s all.”

Deceit stiffened when Patton cupped his cheek and slid the hair back into the hat, but he just kept talking. “I mean. It feels bad. Roman didn’t even tell us how he’d been feeling. And does that mean he’s been doubting himself this whole time? He thinks we don’t like him, and I know for a fact that that’s wrong.”

Patton sat back, crossed his legs, and nodded to himself. “We love Roman. I,” he trailed off, and then chuckled quietly, “I know I love Roman, a lot. We–We’re best friends!”

“And yet, he didn’t disclose his feelings.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what hurts about this all. But that just means we have to make sure he knows we love him! We’ve just gotta sure he knows so well that he doesn’t question it anymore!”

Deceit raised an eyebrow at Patton’s explicit and tunnel-visioned optimism. Judging by the shine in the moral side’s eyes, though, there was nothing Deceit could say to convince him otherwise.

Ah, curse them all and their stubborness. Deceit would have to find a good time to address that with Patton, to be honest. It always hurt, a little, when he caught Patton beating himself up over failing to emotionally connect with the other Sides. Nothing that a cuddle and some cookies wouldn’t stave off, but Deceit was….well, this whole endeavor with Roman was showing him that he couldn’t keep “staving off” the other Sides’ problems.

He shook his head, clearing it, and both him and Patton looked up to the sound of crunching leaves as Logan and Virgil made their way closer.

“East, right?” Virgil stuffed his hands into his pockets, pulling his thick cloak tighter around himself as he did so.

“Very much so. At least that will give us nearly a full day to find the forest’s edge. From there, we will be able to discern the distances between objects,” Logan said.

“It better not be too far. I don’t wanna be spending the night in the woods.”

“Well, sleeping in a forest is not ideal, though I have enough of an idea on how to arrange a lean-to that we may be able to survive one night.”

Virgil tutted, shaking his head. “What if some animals find us? Like a really big bear or something?”

Logan paused and, for a second, Virgil was worried that he’d respond with some statistic about what kinds of bears live in forests with trees like this. What Logan said, though, was “We’ll throw Deceit at the bear and run,” just as they stopped in front of Patton and Deceit.

Virgil and Patton both snorted at the offended gasp Deceit gave. “How dare!”

“Awh, Deceit, don’t worry! Logan’s just joking,” Logan opened his mouth to clarify that, yes, he was posing a hypothetical suggestion to alleviate Virgil’s worries, “We just couldn’t bear that!”

Logan rolled his eyes, pointedly ignoring Patton’s grin. Well, alright then. He clapped, drawing attention back to himself. “Okay. The sun is still rising, in that direction,” he pointed with one arm, “And, compared to the map, Virgil’s supposed first checkpoint is in that direction,” he shifted his arm.

“Although we don’t know distances comparatively to this map, I can only assume that if we walk continuously in that direction, we will soon find the large tree. That will also help us figure out the comparative distances on the map.”

After a round of agreements, the four Sides gathered themselves and began their trek, Logan leading the way with the book’s map open in front of himself. Some woodland creatures were about. Patton pointed out a squirrel, two squirrels, a bird (a swallow, according to Logan) and they’d even seen a deer in the distance.

There were still some loose ends to tie before this supposed quest, Deceit thought. He slowed his walk so he was in line with Virgil, who was bringing up the rear.

“Sssso.”

Virgil glanced at him from the corner of his eye, quick, before starring forward again. “What?”

“Truce,” Deceit was watching Virgil, lips pinched in thought.

Virgil stopped, as did Deceit. He turned to fully face him, brow pinched tight and mouth open in a small O. It looked like he was trying to weigh his options, or, Deceit considered, weigh a new insult.

“We have had our differences, Virgil. And I cannot say that I fully trust you either. But I think, for right now, we….should work together. I plan on working with you,” Deceit’s eyes narrowed when Virgil’s scowl deepened. “For Roman’s sake. At least.”

Virgil kept glaring at him. Deceit wasn’t sure if Logan and Patton had stopped walking, he wasn’t keen on taking his eyes off of Virgil. Since their steady falling out, he’d regarded Virgil as more of a live wire than anything else. He was a leading factor in stifling Thomas’ interactivity, after all, and that was detrimental to Thomas’ development as a human being. They very much had their historic differences. But, given Virgil’s display of protection in the Mind Palace….while Deceit wasn’t a fan of being immediately attacked, he understood the reasoning behind the decision. Fight or flight.

They held their stare-off for only a moment longer, until Virgil blinked, looking away towards the other two Sides. “You’re right. For Roman’s sake,” he added the last part softer, regret laced through his voice.

That was good enough, Deceit supposed. He started after Logan and Patton — they hadn’t stopped, and were two blue dots in the distance — when Virgil called after him. “Hey, Deceit?”

“Yes,” he looked at Virgil, who was tugging at his cloak’s sleeves, jaw set.

“I’m sorry. For attacking you earlier,” he said, quiet and strained.

Deceit’s eyebrow raised. That was unexpected, Virgil apologizing for a reaction. “It was understandable. I entered where I shouldn’t have, without forewarning. And you were already tightly wound from Roman’s extended disappearance.”

“Maybe it was valid, yeah, but still,” Virgil followed after him, steps slow and eyes trained not on Deceit’s face but his chin. “‘M sorry.”

Virgil felt a hand brush his and looked down to see Deceit holding his hand out, open for Virgil. “It’s okay, Virgil,” the other’s voice was so soft now, “Just some steps backward, and more steps forward to come.”

There were about a million things Virgil thought to say. Something about how that was just mumbo jumbo, something about hanging out with Patton too much, something else about how untrue that could be.

But something about the way Deceit’s hand was shaking, the way his snake eye twitched, like he was fighting an impulse, drove home that he honestly believed it. And, for Virgil, that was all he needed to take his hand and keep walking.

They’d been walking for maybe fifteen minutes total before coming across another clearing, this one much wider, with a thick oak tree in the center. Was it oak? The bark was reminiscent of an oak, but the tree itself was so big that it seemed more like a redwood.

Patton began walking around the tree, looking it over, while Virgil and Deceit followed behind Logan. He was the first to approach, drawing his hand down the bark as though feeling every etching.

“Well. This is your checkpoint,” Logan said.

“I don’t see how it’s so significant that it had to be marked on a map,” Deceit said, tilting his head upward, squinting into the light to see how tall the tree was.

“Just a hunch. I don’t really, either, other than….it’s big.”

“Maybe it’s just a big tree? Does Roman usually just make things like this?”

“I don’t know. I try not to interact with Roman’s creative process, especially his pet projects, similar to how he does not interact with mine,” Logan looked around, “We should walk the perimeter. There may be something different.”

Deceit and Virgil both nodded, and then turned in opposite directions. Logan followed after Virgil, one hand touching the tree still, and they found Patton first.

The moral side was on his tip-toes, examining something on the tree’s trunk. “What’d you find, Pat?” Virgil’s voice surprised Patton enough that he stumbled back a little.

“Ah, sorry!” Virgil checked on him, but Patton waved him off.

“It’s okay! I just got a little spooked — that’s a door.” Logan and Virgil looked at where Patton’d been inspecting.

Sure enough, there was a light circled outlined on the bark in black chalk. Logan moved closer immediately, taking a knee to inspect. There was a door-sized circle drawn on the bark, as well as a fully-blacked out circle where one would expect a handle, and a small keyhole drawn in just beneath.

In the center of the door was Roman’s crest, also drawn in with black chalk. Written beneath the crest was “A place for solitude.”

Logan squinted at the words, mouthing them quietly. He ran a thumb over the words and, finding them unchanged, rubbed a little harder. None of the chalk was coming off. Curious.

One could expect Roman to have magic in his world, given the present fantasy elements. This seemed to Logan like it could be the first indication of magic.

“What do you think that means?” Logan turned around, finding Deceit, Virgil, and Patton all standing behind him.

Logan looked back at the door and stood up slowly. “....I’m not sure. I don’t know how this world works,  so trying to predict what it might mean could lead to the wrong assumptions, but it feels like something outside of reality.”

Patton nodded, and rubbed his own arms. They were lonely words indeed, and while it was a tree trunk, Patton was sure it led to something else. “Do you mean like magic?”

“It looks like we’re not getting in, if this is even a door,” Deceit stepped back as he spoke, “I don’t know how we’d even try to open it. We should try to find the road to town.”

“But this door’s got Roman’s crest on it. Another Roman’s probably in there,” Virgil said.

“There’s no way for us to get in, and it’s unconfirmed that this even a doorway. Plus, if it is another Roman, he probably heard us by now. He might not want to see us.”

“How would he have heard us?”

Deceit pointed up to a few feet above the door’s drawing. There was a circular window, seemingly without any glass.

“Hey L, has the map updated or anything?” Virgil asked, still looking at the window.

Logan frowned, pulling the book from his jacket. He flicked open the Table of Contents with emphasis, but stopped and spread out the page. There was a new section that had been scratched out, beneath “The Playwright,” and Logan couldn’t make out the words. Hm.

He opened the Imaginary Map, at the back of the book. The tree that they were at had been colored in with a dark brown trunk and bright green leaves, and had been labeled.

“The Playwright has named this tree ‘The Thief’s Nest,’” Logan said as he scanned the page, “Beyond that, nothing has changed.”

“Alrighty, so the Thief lives here! We’ll have to check back when he’s home and maybe he’ll let us in?” Patton nudged Logan, gesturing for him to follow.

“I find it unlikely that someone who describes their home as ‘a location for solitude’ would allow us entrance,” Logan stood up, looking at the Book again, “But I suppose we don’t have any other option. We should start in that direction.”

Patton nodded, a smile on his face. “Maybe we’ll be able to steal him away from his loneliness!”

His pun was met with an angry huff.

“Wow, it looks like Patton stole the air from your lungs,” Deceit quipped, “And here I thought thievery was wrong.”

He and Virgil had already started in the direction Logan had pointed to, a few steps away from them. Logan groaned at the pun, walking past Patton and ignoring Virgil’s snickering as he continued to lead their way out of the forest.

Finding the edge of the forest was simple — the map had shown that the distance between the Thief’s tree and the clearing that they’d landed in was actually shorter than the distance from the tree to the forest’s edge, confirming that the distances on the map were precise, to a comparative extent.

Once they got through the treeline, Virgil pointed out the road, only a short distance away, and they were soon on the path. On the horizon was a large castle, looking nearly as tall as the mountains behind it. The Sides could make out some buildings below it, sprawling and larger as they grew closer. This must be the town on the map. It was surrounded by a wall but there was a gate on their path, its doors open.

There was probably no harm in entering an unguarded door, Deceit had reasoned. They went in.

The town was certainly bustling, more people walking around as they walked along the road. Windows were open, store-fronts had crowds standing before them. Upon first entering, there were only one or two shop stalls between the streets, the more they walked but the deeper they got, the more stalls and stores there were; there were more people scattered around, talking in hushed voices or mulling around doorways. The buildings grew taller, too, the closer to the castle they got. Still semi-in the distance though much closer now was the castle, a towering figure with light-grey walls and red

The group held each others’ clothing ends as they slowly pushed into a large market-place area, such like a town square. Virgil was looking around, arms tucked in close and body pressing even closer to Logan as the crowd densified around them. Someone in the crowd caught his eye, though, and he squinted.

Slowly, he pointed his hand out in front of Logan and Patton. “Isn’t that the Dominos delivery guy?”

“Maybe — hey, that kinda reminds me of that one thing we saw on Tumblr, about how every face we see in a dream’s a face we’ve seen in real life,” Patton tapped his lip thoughtfully.

Virgil saw the gleam of getting to explain something in Logan’s eyes. As soon as Patton said “that one thing,” he frantically signaled from Logan’s left, waving his hand across his neck to call ‘cut.’ But the deed was done.

“Actually, that would imply that the human mind is unable to create new faces, but that hasn’t been proven in a way that can be measured. According to a media article published by Stanford University’s Neuroscience Department, there are many ways that the human dreamlike state’s facial recognition cannot be calculated in an adequate way, including that such a test would involve precise knowledge of every face that a person has seen throughout their lifetime, including passing strangers. Though it’s heavily implied, due to how humans use REM sleep to store memories—”

“Hang on, hang on,” Deceit waved a hand at them, drawing immediate silence, “Listen.”

They both stopped, Virgil flicking his hood off so he could better hear. Patton was already looking around, trying to find where it was coming from.

“A dream is a wish your heart makes”

“Yep, that’s him,” Virgil murmured.

Patton pointed to the left and Deceit nodded. “Let’s go,” Deceit said, before Patton grabbed his arm and tugged him down the road.

They both immediately picked up a brisk fast-walk, jogging after the music, with Logan and Virgil right on their heels.

“When you’re fast asleep~”

“Is this going to be a trend, do you think? Following music?” Logan huffed quietly, “It seems to be a motif.”

“Motif?” Virgil asked.

“Yes. Given how the Playwright was discussing this whole scenario, it seems that some literary devices will be used to aid us in finding Roman. The use of music, specifically Disney music , may be a way to lead us, the protagonists, towards the next plot point.”

“In dreams you lose your heartaches~”

Virgil pursed his lips. “You know, I don’t know if we get to be meta here.”

“Why wouldn’t we? We’ve done so in multiple episodes, for comedic relief,” Logan said. Patton and Deceit rounded around a corner, and there seemed to be a soft ukulele accompaniment to the singing.

“Well,” Virgil said, as he and Logan jogged after them, “I don’t know if we’re allowed to break the fourth wall in fan—”

Deceit and Patton had stopped just around the corner, and Virgil slammed into Patton’s back, making him stumble forward a few steps. Logan stopped himself, tripping on his feet but being caught by Deceit and held steady.

“Oh, shoot, sorry,” Patton helped Virgil upright, “We just found him.”

“Whatever you wish for, you keep~”

There was a small crowd, only about twenty people, gathered around a set of five barrels. And Roman.

Well. One of the Romans, they all reminded themselves, because this certainly wasn’t their prince. He was wearing a loose white tunic shirt and a red vest trimmed with gold, all of which was tucked into a bright red waist-sash. Beneath the sash was a pair of puffy pants tucked into knee-high black boots with golden heels. His hair was messy, swept up and blowing around in nonexistent wind.

“Didn’t the Playwright say something about every Roman having part of his crest?” Patton asked, tilting his head.

“He said that the book’s cover would update with parts of his crest as we talked to more of the Romans, not that they each would be adorned with the crest,” Logan looked at the book’s cover, then flipped it open to the Table of Contents.

“Have faith in your dreams, and someday~” the Roman’s voice rang clear as day over the hushed crowd, even over the bustling sounds of people walking past.

A new section appeared, a sub-section of “The Playwright” called “Authors Notes.” That definitely hadn’t been there prior. Logan squinted and began flipping to it, but was interrupted by Virgil nudging him and pointing.

“He is wearing the crest, I think. Look at his pants.”

The Roman’s pants had a jagged designs on them, red pants with golden stitching in a zig-zag and with small gold circles around it. “Doesn’t it look like his crest’s mountains and swirly whatever’s?”

….He supposed Virgil had a point.

The Roman stood up on the barrel and struck a pose while strumming on the ukulele. He was watching someone in the crowd, smile broad as the sky.

Then, he hopped from one barrel to another, making a pose as he did so. “Your rainbow will come shining through~” he spun on the barrel on the word “rainbow,” and Virgil stiffened.

“He has good balance and coordination,” Logan placed a hand on Virgil’s shoulder, rubbing gently, “He didn’t fall off the ladder, and he’s will not fall off the barrels.”

“....What if you’re wrong,” Virgil hissed.

Logan raised his eyebrow at Virgil, as though daring him to repeat that sentiment. Virgil just rolled his eyes and glowered back at the Roman.

“So,” Patton turned around and whispered to the group, “We….probably have to talk to him.”

“No matter how your heart is grieving~”

“We definitely need to talk to him,” Deceit said, turning his head towards Patton, “But to do so we’re also gonna have to interrupt his performance.”

“Do you think we can just wait until he’s done?” Virgil tugged at his sleeves, watching the Roman do a twirl after another jump, one leg kicked into the air, “Maybe he’s got good coordination, but if we interrupt him, and he gets really shocked, and he falls over—”

“Then one of us can catch him. I do agree, though, that intervening is not the best course of action. It may upset this iteration of Roman.”

“Alright, then, how about we wait until the song’s over?”

“If you keep on believing~”

“It’s almost over, right?”

“I think this verse repeats?”

“How….how do you not know how this song goes? Isn’t this Princey’s ringtone?”

“I don’t know. I don’t typically retain the memory of lyrics, that is overseen by Roman, and I don’t listen to his ringtone. I just retain facts, schedules, and our internal clock, among my other duties.”

“And yet you’ve memorized the Rainforest Rap?”

“Let’s not hound Logan for his music tastes, Black Parade.”

“The dream that you wish will come true!”

All four of them were startled by the uproarious applause that broke out. They looked up to see the figure laughing, leaning forward from the front-most barrel to high five someone in the crowd. As he leaned in, he acted like he was listening to something, ukulele held high and away in the gesture. His movements were was comical and exaggerated, hand cupping his ear, legs in a bent splits over the barrel.

“....D’you think they all have names like, ‘the position-name’?” Virgil asked, watching the Roman lean back up, do a backflip onto another barrel,“Because I think this one’s a clown.”

“Perhaps he’s the performer,” Logan suggested.

“Oh! Maybe he’s the thespian!” Patton clapped.

“We just missed his mid-song break,” Deceit said, pinching the bridge of his nose as the Roman began strumming his ukulele again,  “Oh my God, we missed his song break.”

Virgil nudged him with his elbow. “It’s not like he’s going—”

“STOP! THIEF!”

The four Sides, along with most of the civilians who’d been watching the performance, all turned around around. Behind them were some taller buildings, fluctuating between three and four floors of height. After craning their necks, trying to find the source of the yell, Virgil tapped Logan’s chest and pointed.

Four buildings down, running along the building’s rooftop, was a man. He had a large black cloak, covered with deep red patches, that billowed after him. That was all they could see from this distance.

Fortunately, they weren’t the only ones who had spotted the man on the roof.

“Hey, Aladdin!” the performing Roman shouted, cutting himself off by waving his ukulele into the air, “Stealing from the dragon’s hoard again?”

“Aw, shut up and get running, Sir Talks-a-lot!” came the reply.

The Roman laughed, loud and brash, but only Patton turned toward him. He saw the performing Roman jump off of the barrel he’d been standing on, into the crowd and disappearing from Patton’s sight.

“One jump! Ahead of the breadline!” he sang, strumming the ukulele once, harshly, before the crowd around him dissolved into shouting, running, and chaos, “One swing! Ahead of a sword!”

Patton looked back up at the running figure. The cloaked man jumped off of one of the roofs, pirouetting mid-jump and throwing something at the guards. Two of them dodged, but one was struck, falling over. Virgil flinched as he noticed the fallen guard had been hit with a throwing knife, the handle wrapped with a bright red fabric.

He tugged Deceit’s arm, hissing at the other two, “We’ve gotta follow him.”

“Do you think that’s another Roman,” Logan asked. He glanced at Virgil, who nodded before immediately running in the direction of the cloaked figure and guards.

Deceit opened his mouth, but was shoved to the side by another person in passing. “Hey, watch it!” he snapped, looking around to see who’d pushed him.

Laughter, childish laughter. He looked down to see a young boy with messy light brown hair and a black cloak. The boy turned to him, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Sorry, mister Deceit! I’ve gotta run!” the golden brooch that pinned the child’s cloak together glistened in the light.

Logan and Deceit heard Patton’s breathing hitch when he saw it was the sun from Roman’s crest. Another one.

“You know, the Playwright implied it’d be hard to find them all,” Deceit mumbled.

A guard shouted, something indecipherable, but the child took is cue. He turned and kept running, away from them all.

“Wait,” Patton shoved Logan to the side and ran after the child, “He’s–He’s just a kid—!”

“God damnit,” Deceit hissed, pressing shoulders with Logan as they both turned in opposite directions.

They looked at each other, then the stage. The crowd had completely cleared now, chaotic as people ran away from the multiple groups of guards. The Roman they’d seen performing earlier was nowhere in sight, barrels kicked over, though….they could hear faint singing from beyond the wall.

“We should regroup later,” Deceit said, “Right here. Tomorrow morning, if need be.”

“After sunrise. You follow Virgil, I will follow Patton,” Logan responded.

He patted Deceit’s back and they pushed off of each other, taking off in their own respective directions.